Kemp will go over to Vieques with you whenever it’s convenient, he said. He wants to look at the site.
Hell yes! Zimburger replied. It’ll knock his eyes out-not a better beach in the Caribbean. He turned to me. You’ll get some real material out of this place. Nobody’s ever done a story on Vieques — especially the New York Times.
Sounds good, I said. When do you want to go?
How about tomorrow? he said quickly.
Too soon, Sanderson told him. Kemp is doing a job for the News right now. Why not make it this weekend?
Fine with me, Zimburger replied. I’ll line up a plane for Thursday. He looked at his watch and stood up. I’m off, he said. Hell, it’s almost noon and I haven’t made any money — wasted half the day. He looked at me and gave me a snappy salute, grinning as he hurried out the door.
I took a crowded elevator down to the street and hailed a cab. At the car lot the salesman was waiting for me. I greeted him cordially and paid him in cash for the car and quickly drove it away. It was yellow, with a black top and good tires and an AM/FM radio.
It was almost one, so I went straight to the paper instead of stopping at Al’s for lunch.
I spent all afternoon at police headquarters, talking to a man who had killed his daughter.
Why? I asked him, as several cops looked on and Sala snapped his picture.
He yelled something in Spanish and the cops told me he thought his daughter was no good. She wanted to go to New York. She was only thirteen, but he claimed she’d been whoring for the price of a plane ticket
Okay, I said. Muchas gracias. I had enough for a story and the cops took him away. I wondered how long he would stay in jail before the trial. Probably two or three years, considering he’d already confessed. Hell, what was the sense of a trial; the docket was crowded enough.
And a damn good thing it is, I thought. All afternoon I had a feeling that cops were giving us the eye, but I couldn’t be sure.
We went up to Al’s for dinner. Yeamon was there in the patio and I told him about Lotterman’s outburst
Yeah, he said. I thought about that on the way in to see the lawyer. He shook his head. Hell, I didn’t even go. He has me now — did he say anything about canceling my bail?
He won’t, said Sala. It would make him look bad — unless he figures you’re about to skip out
I am, said Yeamon. We’re going to South America.
Both of you? I said.
He nodded. We may have to wait awhile now, he said. I was counting on that severance money.
Did you call Sanderson? I asked.
He shook his head.
Call him, I said. He has green money. I bought a new car today.
He laughed. I’ll be damned. Is it here?
Hell yes, I said. We went out to the street to look at the car. Yeamon agreed that it had a fine, sporting appearance.
But you know what it means, he said with a grin. You’re hooked. First a job, then a car — pretty soon you’ll get married and settle in for good. He laughed. You’ll get like old Robert — always going to take off manana.
Don’t worry, Sala replied. I’ll know when to take off. When you get to be a working pro, then come back and tell me how to manage my life.
We started back inside. What’s a working pro, Robert? Yeamon asked. Somebody who has a job?
Somebody who can get a job, Sala replied. Because he knows what he’s doing.
Yeamon thought for a minute. You mean because he knows what somebody else wants done?
Sala shrugged. Say it however you want.
I did, said Yeamon. And I don’t mean to knock your talents. But if you’re as good as you say you are, and if you hate San Juan as much as you claim to, it seems to me like you’d put two and two together, and be a working pro in a place you liked.