I looked at Yeamon.
There’s some kind of a ceremony going on at the big cathedral, he said wearily. God only knows what it is, but she has to see it.
I smiled and shook my head.
He nodded. Yeah, it’s hell. I’m damned if I know what to do with her.
Do with her? I said.
Yeah, I’ve about decided this place is rotten to the core and I should get out.
Oh, I said. That reminds me. Sanderson has some kind of work for you — writing travel articles. His integrity demands that he justify what he said about us the other night.
He groaned. Christ, travel articles. How low can a man fall?
Figure that out with Sanderson, I said. He wants you to call him.
He leaned back and stared at the wall, saying nothing for several moments. His integrity, he said finally, as if he’d been dissecting the word. It seems to me that a guy like Sanderson has about as much integrity as a Judas Goat.
I sipped my drink.
What makes you deal with a guy like that? he asked. You’re always going over there — is there something to him that I can’t see?
I don’t know, I said. What do you see?
Not much, he replied. I know what Sala says — he claims he’s queer — and of course he’s a phony and a prick and God knows what else. He paused. But Sala just tosses words around: Phony, Prick, Queer — so what? I’m curious as to what the hell you see in the guy.
Now I understood Sala’s crack at breakfast the other day. And I felt that whatever I said about Sanderson now would be crucial — not for Sanderson, but for me. Because I knew why I dealt with him and most of my reasons were pretty small — he was in and I was out, and he looked like a pretty good pipeline to a lot of things I wanted. On the other hand, there was something about him that I liked. Perhaps it was Sanderson’s struggle with himself that fascinated me — the hardnose man of the world, gradually blotting out the boy from Kansas. I remembered him telling me that the Hal Sanderson from Kansas had died when his train got to New York — and any man who can say a thing like that, and attempt to say it with pride, is worth listening to unless you have something a hell of a lot better to do with your time.
Yeamon’s voice snapped me out of my pondering. Okay, he said with a wave of his hand, if you give it that much thought there’s bound to be something to it, but I still think he’s rotten.
You think too much, I said.
Got to think all the time, he muttered. That’s my trouble — I take vacations from thinking. He nodded. It works out the same way as all the other vacations — you relax for two weeks, then spend fifty weeks making up for it.
I don’t quite follow you, I said.
He smiled. You interrupted me. We were talking about Chenault — and all of a sudden you brought up the Judas Goat.
Okay, I said. What about her? Is this your way of saying you’re going to leave her with me?
He tapped the table with his fingers. Kemp, I’d rather you wouldn’t say things like that. I’m pretty square when it comes to trading girls around, especially a girl I like. He said it calmly, but I could hear the edge in his voice.
I shook my head. You’re an inconsistent bastard — that’s the last thing I’d expect to hear from you.
I’m not much on consistency, he said, talking easily again. No, I was just thinking out loud — I don’t do that very often.
I know, I said.
He sipped his drink. I spent all day yesterday thinking, he said. I should leave this place, and I don’t know what to do about Chenault.
Where do you figure on going? I asked.
He shrugged. I don’t know — maybe down the islands, maybe Europe.
Europe’s not bad, I said. If you have a job.