Good thinking, he said. Take them all.
I raced out Bayamon Road until I saw the flashing red lights of a parked ambulance. I got there just in time to get a shot of one of the bodies, lying in the dust beside an overturned farm truck. For some reason that nobody understood, it had swerved out of its lane and slammed head-on into a bus. I asked a few questions, talked awhile with the cops, then hurried back to the office to write the story. I typed feverishly so I could finish the damn thing and get out to. . .
Suddenly I realized I was not going to Yeamon’s. I was hurrying because I was anxious to get back to the apartment. I’d been anxious all day, and now, as the afternoon came to an end, I groaned inwardly as the truth slithered out in the open and stared me in the face.
I turned the story in and went down the stairs to my car, thinking I should probably check by Al’s to see if he might be there. But the thing that drew me toward the apartment was huge and powerful. I started up toward Al’s, then suddenly turned off toward Condado and tried not to think about anything until I pulled up in front of my apartment.
She was wearing one of my shirts and it hung on her like a short nightie. She smiled happily when I came in and got up off the bed to make me a drink. The shirt flapped lewdly around her thighs as she bounced into the kitchen.
I felt totally defeated. For a while I paced around the apartment, barely hearing her happy chatter, then I gave up entirely and went over to the bed and took off my clothes. I fell on her with such a violence that her smile quickly disappeared and it became a desperate business. She kicked her feet in the air and shrieked and arched her back and she was still trying when I exploded inside her and collapsed with total exhaustion. Finally she gave up and locked her legs around my hips and her arms around my neck, and started to cry.
I leaned on my elbows and looked down at her. What’s wrong? I asked.
She kept her eyes closed and shook her head. I can’t, she sobbed. I get so close, but I can’t.
I looked at her for a moment, wondering what I should say, then I put my head down on the bed and moaned. We stayed that way for a long time, and finally we got up and she cooked dinner while I read the Miami Herald.
The next morning I drove out to Yeamon’s. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to say to him, so I kept thinking about his bad points so I could lie without feeling guilty. But it was hard to see a bastard at the end of that drive. The hot, peaceful beauty of the ocean and the sand and the green-gold palms threw me completely off balance, and by the time I got to his house I felt like a decadent intruder.
He was sitting naked on the patio, drinking coffee and reading a book. I pulled up beside the house and got out. He turned and smiled. What’s the score?
Chenault’s back, I said. I have her at the apartment.
When? he said.
Yesterday — I meant to bring her out here last night, but I thought I’d check with you first.
What happened? he asked. Did she tell you?
Just fragments, I said. It didn’t sound good.
He kept staring at me. Well, what’s she going to do?
I don’t know, I said, feeling more and more nervous. You want me to bring her out here?
He looked out to sea for an instant, then back at me. Hell no, he snapped. She’s yours — with my compliments.
Don’t give me that, I said. She just showed up at my apartment — she was in pretty bad shape.
Who gives a damn? he said.
Well, I said slowly, she wants me to get her clothes.
Sure, he said, getting out of the chair. He went into the hut and began throwing things out the door. They were mostly clothes, but some of them were mirrors and little boxes and glass objects that broke on the patio.