The moment I got inside I felt better. There was a friendly messiness about the place, a steady clatter of typewriters and wire machines, even the smell was familiar. The room was so big that it looked empty, although I could see at least ten people. The only one not working was a small, black-haired man at a desk beside the door. He was tilted back in a chair, staring at the ceiling.
I walked over and as I started to speak he jerked around in the chair. All right! he snapped. What the fuck are you after?
I glared down at him. I start work here tomorrow, I said. My name’s Kemp, Paul Kemp.
He smiled faintly. Sorry — thought you were after my film.
What? I said.
He grumbled something about being robbed blind, and watching it like a hawk.
I glanced around the room. They look normal.
He snorted. Thieves — packrats. He stood up and held out his hand. Bob Sala, staff photographer, he said. What brings you in tonight?
I’m looking for a place to eat.
He smiled. You broke?
No, I’m rich — I just can’t find a restaurant
He dropped back in his chair. You’re lucky. The first thing you learn here is to avoid restaurants.
Why? I said. Dysentery?
He laughed. Dysentery, crabs, gout, Hutchinson’s Disease — you can get anything here, anything at all. He looked at his watch. Wait about ten minutes and I’ll take you up to Al’s.
I moved a camera out of the way and sat down on his desk. He leaned back and stared again at the ceiling, scratching his wiry head from time to time and apparently drifting off to some happier land where there were good restaurants and no thieves. He looked out of place here — more like a ticket-taker at some Indiana carnival. His teeth were bad, he needed a shave, his shirt was filthy, and his shoes looked like they’d come from the Goodwill.
We sat there in silence until two men came out of an office on the other side of the room. One was the tall American I’d seen fighting in the street. The other was short and bald, talking excitedly and gesturing with both hands.
Who’s that? I asked Sala, pointing at the tall one.
He looked. The guy with Lotterman?
I nodded, presuming the short one to be Lotterman.
His name’s Yeamon, said Sala, turning back to the desk. He’s new — got here a few weeks ago.
I saw him fighting outside, I said. A bunch of Puerto Ricans jumped him right in front of the building.
Sala shook his head. That figures — he’s a nut He nodded. Probably mouthed off at those union goons. It’s some kind of a wildcat strike — nobody knows what it means.
Just then Lotterman called across the room: What are you doing, Sala?
Sala didn’t look up. Nothing — I’m off in three minutes.
Who’s that with you? Lotterman asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
Judge Crater, Sala replied. Might be a story.
Judge who? said Lotterman, advancing on the desk.
Never mind, said Sala. His name is Kemp and he claims you hired him.
Lotterman looked puzzled. Judge Kemp? he muttered. Then he smiled broadly and held out both hands. Oh yes — Kemp! Good to see you, boy. When did you get in?
This morning, I said, getting off the desk to shake hands. I slept most of the day.
Good! he said. That’s very smart. He nodded emphatically. Well, I hope you’re ready to go.
Not right now, I said. I have to eat.
He laughed. Oh no — tomorrow. I wouldn’t put you to work tonight. He laughed again. No, I want you boys to eat. He smiled down at Sala. I suppose Bob’s going to show you the town, eh?
Sure I am, said Sala. Do it on the old expense account, eh? Lotterman laughed nervously. You know what I mean, Bob — let’s try to be civil. He turned and waved at Yeamon, who was standing in the middle of the room, examining a rip in the armpit of his coat
Yeamon came toward us with a long bow-legged stride, smiling politely when Lotterman introduced me. He was tall, with a face that was either arrogant or something else that I couldn’t quite place.