Knowing I had a place of my own cheered me immensely. Even if I was fired I had enough in the bank to rest for a while, and with Sanderson shelling out twenty-five bills a day I would have no worries at all.
I walked out to Avenida Ashford and took a bus to the office. Halfway there, I remembered that this was my day off, but I wanted to check my mail so I went in. As I crossed the newsroom toward the mail slots, Sala called me from the darkroom.
Man, he said, you should have been here earlier. Lotterman found out about Moberg signing that check for our bail-tried to croak him with a pair of scissors, chased him all the way down to the street. He nodded. It was hell. I thought Moberg was a goner.
Good God, I muttered. What about the check — is it still good?
I guess so, he replied. He’ll lose face if it bounces.
I nodded doubtfully. This screwed my plan to get a car. I was going to borrow money from Lotterman and pay it back out of my salary at ten or fifteen a week. I was standing there by the darkroom, racking my brain for alternatives, when Lotterman popped out of his office and called me.
I want to see you, he barked. You too, Sala — don’t try to duck back in there.
Sala ignored him and went into the darkroom. Seconds later he appeared with a pack of cigarettes. Duck, hell! he snorted, loud enough for Lotterman and everybody else to hear. The day I have to duck a punk like that I’ll toss in the towel.
As it happened, Lotterman heard nothing. I had never seen him in such a state. He tried to sound angry, but he seemed more confused than anything else, and after listening to him for a few moments I had the impression that he was on the verge of dissolving into some kind of apoplexy.
He started off by telling us what a terrible thing it was for that goddamn crazy Yeamon to get us into trouble. And then Moberg, he said with a groan. Moberg, that crazy worthless sot, he’s been stealing from me. He whacked the desk with his fist. That sleazy drunken cockroach of a man who goes out and puts the slam on me for twenty-three hundred dollars! He stared up at us. Can you boys understand what that does to my bank balance? Do you have any idea what it costs to keep this paper going? He fell back in the chair. Good Lord, I’ve put my life savings on the line for the simple reason that I believe in journalism — and here this odious, pus-filled roach goes out and tries to destroy me with one blow.
And Yeamon! he shouted. I knew it the minute I saw him! I said to myself, Christ, get rid of this guy quick — he’s pure trouble. He shook a warning finger at us. I want you to stay away from him, understand? What the hell is he doing here anyway? Why doesn’t he go back where he came from? What’s he living on?
We both shrugged. I think he has a trust fund, I said. He’s been talking about investing some money.
God almighty! Lotterman exclaimed. That’s just the kind we don’t want here! He shook his head. And he had the nerve to tell me he was broke — borrowed a hundred dollars and threw it away on a motorcycle — can you beat that?
I couldn’t beat it and neither could Sala.
Now he’s hounding me for blood money, Lotterman went on. By God, we’ll see. He slumped back in the chair again. It’s almost too horrible to believe, he said. I’ve just paid a thousand dollars to get him out of jail — a dangerous nut who threatened to twist my head. And Moberg, he muttered. Where did he come from? He shook his head and waved us out of the office. Go on, he said. Tell Moberg I’m going to have him locked up.
As we started to go he remembered something else. Wait a minute, he called. I don’t want you boys to think I wouldn’t have got you out of jail. Of course I would — you know that, don’t you?