This Zimburger’s a real screwball, he told me. He’s had me running in circles for six months.
What the hell, I said. As long as he pays.
He looked over at me. Is this the first time you’ve worked with him?
Yeah, I said. Why? Does he welsh?
Lazard looked unhappy. I’m not sure. He’s a fine one for free drinks and all that, but sometimes I wonder.
I shrugged. Well, Adelante’s paying me. I don’t have to deal with him — probably a good thing.
He nodded and we went into the drugstore. The menu was a strip of Coca-Cola signs on the wall. There were red leatherette stools, a Formica-top counter, and thick tan mugs for the coffee. The woman who ran it was sloppy white, with a heavy southern accent.
Come right on in, she said. What’ll it be, fellas?
Great mother of God, I thought What town are we in?
Lazard bought a copy of the News for twenty cents and immediately noticed my byline on the front page. I thought you worked for the New York Times, he said, pointing to my name above the article on the waterfront strike.
Just gave ’em a hand, I said. They’re short-staffed right now — asked me to help out until they can hire some more people.
He nodded and smiled. Man, that’s the life, you know. What do you have — a roving assignment?
More or less, I said.
That’s a terrific deal, he replied. Go anywhere you want. . . steady salary. . . no worries. . .
Hell, I said, you’ve got a pretty good thing yourself. I smiled. Here we’re both sitting on this godforsaken island, and being paid for it.
Not me, he replied. Oh, I’m getting my expenses, but if this thing falls through it could set me back two years. He nodded gravely. I’m not that well established. I can’t afford to have my name associated with any botched jobs — even if they’re not my fault. He finished his coffee and set the mug on the counter. That’s where you’re in the clear, he said. All you have to do is write your story. With me, it’s sink or swim on every job.
I felt sorry for Lazard. He obviously didn’t like the smell of what he’d got into, but he couldn’t afford to be cautious. He was not much older than I was, and a thing like this would be a fine break for him if it came through. And if it didn’t, it would be a bad break — but even then he’d be in no worse shape than I’d been in for the past five years. I was tempted to tell him so, but I knew it wouldn’t make him feel any better. Then he’d start feeling sorry for me too, and I didn’t need that.
Yeah, I said. A man wants many chestnuts in the fire.
Right, he replied, getting up to go. That’s why I envy you — you’ve got all kinds of things going.
I was beginning to believe him. The more he talked, the better I felt. On the way back to Martin’s bar I looked at the town. It was almost deserted. The streets were wide and the buildings were low; most of them were built of concrete blocks and painted light pastel colors, but they all seemed empty.
We turned the corner toward Martin’s place and started down a hill toward the waterfront. There were scraggy palms on both sides of the street, and at the bottom of the hill a long pier poked into the harbor. At the end of it were four fishing boats, rolling lazily in the groundswell that came in from Vieques Sound.
The bar was called The Ringfish. It had a tin roof and a bamboo fence around the entrance. The Volkswagen bus was parked outside the door. Inside, Zimburger and Robbis were still talking. Martin was packing the beer and the sandwiches in a big cooler.
I asked him why the town looked so deserted.
No maneuvers this month, he replied. You ought to see this place when five thousand U.S. Marines come in — it’s a madhouse.