Martin shrugged. Hell, every time I say that I have to go through a long explanation — so I just call it lobster.
It’s the Caribbean lobster, Zimburger said to Robbis. Bigger and better than the other kind, and it doesn’t have claws. He grinned. Old God sure was in a good mood when he made this place.
Robbis stared out the window, then turned and spoke to Martin. I’ll have to take a raincheck on that, he said stiffly. I have an appointment in San Juan, it’s getting late.
Hell’s bells, said Zimburger. We got time to kill. It’s only about one.
I’m not in the habit of killing time, said Robbis, turning again to stare out the window.
I could tell by his tone that something had gone wrong out there on the beach. From the morning conversation, I’d gathered that Robbis represented some chain of restaurants whose name I was supposed to recognize. Apparently Zimburger was counting on adding a Vieques branch to that chain.
Out of the corner of my eye I looked at Lazard. He seemed in a worse mood than Robbis. It gave me a definite pleasure, which bordered on euphoria when Zimburger announced, in a surly tone, that we would fly back to San Juan immediately.
I think I’ll stay overnight, I said. I have to be in St Thomas tomorrow to cover that carnival. I looked at Martin: What time does the ferry leave?
We were coming into town now, and Martin shifted quickly into second to climb a steep hill. The ferry was yesterday, he said. But we got a boat going over. Hell, I may take you myself.
Good enough, I said. No sense in me going back to San Juan. You can drop me at the hotel.
Later, he replied with a grin. We’ll eat first — can’t let all that. . . ah. . . langosta go to waste.
We drove Zimburger and Robbis and Lazard out to the airport, where the pilot was sleeping peacefully in the shadow of the plane. Zimburger yelled at him and he slowly got up, never changing his weary expression. Obviously, this man gave a damn for nothing at all; I felt like nudging Lazard and telling him that we had both missed the boat.
But Lazard was brooding and all I said to him was, See you around. He nodded and climbed into the plane. Robbis followed, and then Zimburger, who sat next to the stony-faced pilot. They were all staring straight ahead when the plane bucked off down the runway and skimmed over the trees toward Puerto Rico.
I spent the next few hours at Martin’s bar. A friend of his ate lunch with us; he was another ex-Marine, who owned a bar on a hill outside of town. Drink up, Martin kept telling me. It’s all on the house. He grinned maliciously. Or maybe I should say it’s all on Mister Zimburger — you’re his guest, right?
Right, I replied, and accepted another glass of rum.
Finally we had the lobster. I could tell it had been thawing all day, but Martin proudly said his boys had just brought it in. I had a vision of Martin ordering his lobsters from Maine, then tearing the claws off and sticking them in the freezer until he could palm them off on Zimburger’s guests — and then etching it very carefully on the expense sheet. One journalist — forty dollars a day, labor and entertainment
After I’d eaten two langostas, swilled countless drinks, and grown extremely weary of their babbling, I got up to go. Which way is the hotel? I asked, stooping to pick up my leather bag.
Come on, said Martin, heading for the door. I’ll take you up to the Carmen.
I followed him out to the bus. We drove up the hill about three blocks to a low pink building, with a sign that said Hotel Carmen. The place was empty, and Martin told the woman to give me the best room in the house; it was on him.
Before leaving, he said he’d take me over to St Thomas tomorrow in the launch. We’ll have to take off about ten, he said. I have to be there at noon to meet a friend.