We assured him that we did, and left him mumbling at his desk. I went back to the library and sat down to think. I was going to have a car, regardless of what I had to do to get it. I’d seen a Volkswagen convertible for five hundred and it seemed in pretty good shape. Considering the fantastic price of cars in San Juan, it would be a real bargain if I could get it for four hundred.
I called Sanderson. Say, I said casually, what’s the least I’ll get out of this Zimburger deal?
Why? he asked.
I want an advance. I need a car.
He laughed. You don’t need a car — you want a car. How much do you need?
About a thousand, I said. I’m not greedy.
You must be out of your mind, he replied. The best I could do under any circumstances would be two fifty.
Okay, I said. It’s a drop in the bucket, but it might help. When can I get it?
Tomorrow morning, he said. Zimburger’s coming in and I think we should get together and set this thing up. I don’t want to do it at home. He paused. Can you come in around ten?
Okay, I said. See you then.
When I put down the phone I realized I was preparing to make the plunge. I would move into my own apartment at the end of the week, and now I was about to buy a car. San Juan was getting a grip on me. I hadn’t had a car in five years — not since the old Citroen I bought in Paris for twenty-five dollars, and sold a year later for ten, after driving it all over Europe. Now I was ready to shoot four hundred on a Volkswagen. If nothing else, it gave me a sense of moving up in the world, for good or ill.
On my way to Sanderson’s the next day I stopped at the lot where I’d seen the car. The office was empty, and on a wall above one of the desks was a sign saying SELL — NOTHING HAPPENS UNTIL SOMEBODY SELLS SOMETHING.
I found the dealer outside. Get this one ready to go, I said, pointing to the convertible. I’ll give you four hundred for it at noon.
He shook his head. Five hundred dollars, he said, lifting the sign on the windshield as if I’d overlooked it.
Nonsense, I replied. You know the rules — nothing happens until somebody sells something.
He looked surprised, but the slogan had registered.
The fat is in the fire, I said, turning to go. I’ll be back at noon to pick it up.
He stared after me as I hurried out to the street
Zimburger was already there when I got to Sanderson’s office. He was wearing a bright blue suit and a red shirt with no tie. At a glance, he looked like a wax dummy in the window of some moldy PX. After twenty years in The Corps, Zimburger felt uneasy in civilian clothes. Too damn baggy, he explained. Cheap workmanship, flimsy material.
He nodded emphatically. Nobody keeps an eye on things anymore. It’s the law of the tooth and the fang.
Sanderson came in from the outer office. He was dressed, as usual, like the resident governor of Pago Pago. This time he was wearing a black silk suit with a bow tie.
Zimburger looked like an off-duty prison guard, a sweating potbellied vet who had somehow scraped up a wad of money.
All right, he said. Let’s get down to business. Is this guy the writer? He pointed at me.
This is Paul Kemp, said Sanderson. You’ve seen him at the house.
Zimburger nodded. Yeah, I know.
Mr. Kemp writes for the New York Times, said Sanderson. We’re lucky to have him with us on this.
Zimburger looked at me with renewed interest. A real writer, eh? I guess that means trouble. He laughed. I knew writers in the Marines — they were all trouble. Hell, I used to be one myself. They had me writing training manuals for six months — dullest damn work I ever did.
Sanderson leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.