I think he’s crazy as a loon, Sala exclaimed.
You’re right, I replied. God knows how he’ll end up. You can’t just go through life like that — never giving an inch, anytime, anywhere.
Just then Bill Donovan, the sports editor, came howling up to the table.
Here they are! he shouted. The gentlemen of the press — sneak drinkers! He laughed happily. You fuckers really tied one on last night, eh? Man, you’re lucky Lotterman went to Ponce! He sat down at the table. What happened? I hear you had it out with the cops.
Yeah, I said. Beat the piss out of ’em — real laughs.
Goddamnit, he said, Sorry I missed it. I love a good fight — especially with cops.
We talked for a while. I liked Donovan, but he was forever talking about getting back to San Francisco, where things are happening. He made it sound so good on the Coast that I knew he had to be lying, but I could never tell just where the truth ended and the lies began. If even half of what he said was true, then I wanted to go there immediately; but with Donovan I couldn’t even count on that necessary half, and listening to him was always frustrating.
We left about midnight and walked down the hill in silence. The night was muggy, and all around me I felt the same pressure, a sense of time rushing by while it seemed to be standing still. Whenever I thought of time in Puerto Rico, I was reminded of those old magnetic clocks that hung on the walls of my classrooms in high school. Every now and then a hand would not move for several minutes — and if I watched it long enough, wondering if it had finally broken down, the sudden click of the hand jumping three or four notches would startle me when it came.
Ten
Sanderson’s office was on the top floor of the tallest building in the Old City. I sat in a leather lounge chair, and below me I could see the entire waterfront, the Caribe Hilton and most of Condado. There was a definite feeling of being in a control tower.
Sanderson had his feet on the window sill. Two things, he was saying. This business with the Times won’t amount to much — a few articles a year — but Zimburger’s project is a big one.
Zimburger? I said.
He nodded. I didn’t want to mention it yesterday because he might have dropped in.
Wait a minute, I said. Are we talking about the same Zimburger — the General?
He looked annoyed. That’s right, he’s one of our clients.
Damn, I said. Business must be falling off. The man’s a jackass.
He rolled a pencil in his fingers. Kemp, he said slowly, Mister Zimburger is building a marina — a damn big one. He paused. He’s also going to build one of the finest hotels on the island.
I laughed and fell back in the chair.
Look, he said sharply, you’ve been here long enough to begin learning a few things, and one of the first things you should learn is that money comes in odd packages. He tapped his pencil on the desk. Zimburger — known to you as ‘the jackass’ — could buy and sell you thirty times. If you insist on going by appearances you’d be better off in some place like Texas.
I laughed again. You may be right. Now why don’t you tell me what you have in mind. I’m in a hurry.
One of these days, he said, this silly arrogance of yours is going to cost you a lot of money.
Goddamnit, I replied, I didn’t come here to be analyzed.
He smiled stiffly. All right. The Times wants a general article for their spring travel section. Mrs. Ludwig will get some material together for you — I’ll tell her what you need.
What do they want? I said. A thousand happy words?
More or less, he replied. We’ll handle the photos.
Okay, I said. That’s a back-breaker — now what about Zimburger?
Well, he said. Mister Zimburger wants a brochure. He’s building a marina on Vieques island, between here and St. Thomas. We’ll get the photos and do the layout — you write the text, about fifteen hundred words.