I decided that when I got a little more money I would look for a place like this for myself. The one I had now was good for a start, but it didn’t have a porch or a garden or a beach, and I saw no reason why I shouldn’t have those things.
Sanderson came in after I’d been there about an hour. With him was a man who claimed to be the brother of a famous trumpet player. We made fresh drinks and Sanderson read my article and said it was excellent. I hope you don’t need the money right now, he said. It might take a week or so. He shrugged. It won’t be much anyway — say fifty dollars.
Fine with me, I said, settling back in the chair.
I’ll see what else I can shove off on you, he said. We’re overloaded right now. Stop in when you get back from St Thomas.
Good deal, I said. Things are looking pretty bleak at the paper — I may have to depend on this stuff pretty soon.
He nodded. Bleak is right. You’ll find out on Monday just how bad it is.
What’s going to happen on Monday? I asked.
I can’t say, he replied. Then he smiled. It wouldn’t help if you knew, anyway. Just relax — you won’t starve.
The man with the famous brother had been staring out at the beach, saying nothing. His name was Ted. Now he turned to Sanderson and asked in a bored voice: How’s the diving out there?
Not much, Sanderson replied. Pretty well fished out
We talked for a while about diving. Sanderson spoke with authority about rapture of the deep and diving on Palancar Reef. Ted had been living in southern France for two years, and had once worked for Jacques Cousteau.
Sometime after midnight I realized I was getting drunk, so I got up to go. Well, I said. I have a date with Zimburger at the crack of dawn, I better get some sleep.
I got up late the next morning. There was no time for breakfast, so I dressed hurriedly and grabbed an orange to eat on the way to the airport. Zimburger was waiting outside a small hangar at the far end of the runway. He nodded as I got out of the car and I walked over to where he was standing with two other men. This is Kemp, he told them. He’s our writer — works for the New York Times. He grinned and watched us shake hands.
One of them was a restaurant man and the other was an architect. We’d be back by mid-afternoon, Zimburger told me, because Mr. Robbis, the restaurant man, had to go to a cocktail party.
We flew over in a small Apache, with a pilot who looked like a refugee from the Flying Tigers. He said nothing the whole time and seemed totally unaware of our presence. After a dull, thirty-minute ride above the clouds, we nosed down toward Vieques and went hurtling into a small cow pasture that served as an airport. I gripped my seat, certain we were going to flip, but after several violent bounces we came to a stop.
We climbed out and Zimburger introduced us to a huge man named Martin, who looked like a professional shark-hunter. He wore a crisp khaki outfit and motorcycle sunglasses, and his hair was bleached almost white from the sun. Zimburger referred to him as my man here on the island.
The general plan was to pick up some beer and sandwiches at Martin’s bar, then drive to the other side of the island to see the property. Martin drove us into town in his Volkswagen bus, but the native who was supposed to make the sandwiches had disappeared. Martin had to make them himself; he left us on the empty dance floor and went back to the kitchen in a rage.
It took about an hour. Zimburger was talking earnestly to the restaurant man, so I decided to go out and look for some coffee. The architect said he knew of a drugstore up the street.
He’d been drinking steadily since five a.m., when Zimburger had unaccountably roused him out of bed. His name was Lazard and he sounded bitter.