Mind your own fucking business! Sala snapped. I don’t see that kind of logic in the way you live — you get straight with yourself, then I’ll pay you for professional counsel, okay?
For God’s sake, I said. Let’s forget this crap.
Suits me, said Sala. We’re all fuck-ups anyway — except that I’m a pro.
Sweep brought a tray of hamburgers.
When are you taking off? I asked Yeamon.
Depends on the money, he replied. I thought I’d check out St. Thomas this weekend, see if we can get a hop on one of those boats going south. He looked up. You still coming with us?
Ah, Christ, I exclaimed. I told him about Zimburger and Vieques. I could have put it off, I said, but all I could think about was getting that money and the car.
Hell, he said. Vieques is halfway between here and St. Thomas. There’s a ferry every day.
We finally agreed that I’d meet them there on Friday. They were flying over in the morning and planned to come back sometime Sunday night.
Stay away from St Thomas, said Sala. Bad things happen to people in St. Thomas. I can tell you some incredibly horrible stories.
So what? said Yeamon. It’s a good drunk. You should come with us.
No thanks, Sala replied. We had our good drunk, remember? I can do without those beatings.
We finished our food and ordered more drinks. Yeamon started talking about South America and I felt a reluctant excitement flicker somewhere inside me. Even Sala got excited. Christ, I’d like to go there, he kept saying. No reason why I can’t. Hell, I can make a living anywhere.
I listened and didn’t say much, because I remembered how I’d felt that morning. And besides, I had a car in the street and an apartment in Condado and a golden tap on Zimburger. I thought about that. The car and the apartment didn’t bother me at all, but the fact that I was working for Zimburger gave me the creeps. Yeamon’s talk made it seem even worse. They were going to South America, and I was going to Zimburger. It gave me a strange feeling, and the rest of that night I didn’t say much, but merely sat there and drank, trying to decide if I was getting older and wiser, or just plain old.
The thing that disturbed me most was that I really didn’t want to go to South America. I didn’t want to go anywhere. Yet, when Yeamon talked about moving on, I felt the excitement anyway. I could see myself getting off a boat in Martinique and ambling into town to look for a cheap hotel. I could see myself in Caracas and Bogota and Rio, wheeling and dealing through a world I had never seen but knew I could handle because I was a champ.
But it was pure masturbation, because down in my gut I wanted nothing more than a clean bed and a bright room and something solid to call my own at least until I got tired of it. There was an awful suspicion in my mind that I’d finally gone over the hump, and the worst thing about it was that I didn’t feel tragic at all, but only weary, and sort of comfortably detached.
Twelve
The next morning I drove down to Fajardo at top speed. I was covering a real estate deal, but it turned into an ugly experience and I was forced to abandon it. On the way back I stopped at a roadside stand and bought a pineapple, which the man cut up into little cubes for me. I ate them as I labored through traffic, driving slowly now, with one hand, reveling in the luxury of being master of my own movements for a change.
Next weekend, I decided, I would drive over to Ponce on the south coast. When I got to the News building, Moberg was just getting out of his car.
I trust you’re armed, I said. Old daddio may run off his nut when he sees you.
He laughed. We compromised. He made me sign a note, saying I’d give him my car if anybody skipped.