He jumped out of his seat and rushed at me. You cheap Ivy League sonofabitch! he shouted. I’ve tolerated your arrogance long enough! He pushed me toward the door. You’re fired! he screamed. Get out of the building before I have you locked up! He gave me a shove into the newsroom, then went back in his office and slammed the door.
I wandered over to my desk and started laughing when Sala asked me what happened. He went off his nut, I replied. I told him I was quitting and he snapped.
Well, said Sala, it’s all over anyway. He promised me a month’s salary if I’d tell people that he fired Segarra because he was queer — said he’d pay it out of his own pocket if Stein didn’t come through.
The cheap bastard, I said. He didn’t offer me a dime. I laughed. Of course he talked like he was ready to give me Segarra’s job — until Monday.
Yeah, Monday’s D-Day, said Sala. He’ll have to pay us if he wants to put out a paper. He shook his head. But I don’t think he does — I think he sold out to Stein.
He snorted. So what? If he can’t pay the staff, he’s finished, no matter what he wants. I know one damn thing — he’ll be running the greyest paper in the Western Hemisphere if I don’t get my check on Monday. I’m coming in here tomorrow morning and clean out the whole photo library — about 99 percent of that stuff is mine.
Hell yes, I said. Hold it for ransom. Then I grinned. Of course they’d get you for grand larceny if he pressed it — he might even remember about your thousand-dollar bail.
He shook his head. Jesus, I keep forgetting about that — you think he really paid it?
I don’t know, I said. Probably a pretty good chance he got it back, but I’d hate to count on it.
Ah, to hell with it, he replied. Let’s go up to Al’s.
It was a hot, muggy night and I felt like getting drunk as a loon.
We had been there about an hour, swilling rum at top speed, when Donovan came roaring in. He had been out at the golf tournament all afternoon and had just heard the news. Holy mother of jack-bastards! he yelled. I went back to the paper and there was nobody there but Schwartz, working his ass off! He fell down in a chair. What happened — are we done in?
Yes, I said. You’re finished.
He nodded gravely. I still have a deadline, he said. I must finish my sports section. He started for the street. I’ll be back in an hour, he assured us. All I have to do is this golf story. To hell with the rest of it — I’ll run a full-page cartoon.
Sala and I kept drinking, and when Donovan came back we stepped up the pace. By midnight we were all pretty wild and I began thinking about Chenault. I thought about it for another hour or so, and then I got up and said I was going home.
On the way back, I stopped in Condado and got a bottle of rum. When I got to the apartment she was sitting on the bed, reading Heart of Darkness and still wearing the same shirt
I slammed the door behind me and went to the kitchen to mix a drink. Wake up and ponder the future, I said over my shoulder. I quit tonight and got fired about two minutes later.
She looked up and smiled. No more money?
No more nothing, I replied, filling two glasses with rum. I’m clearing out. I’m tired of it.
Tired of what? she asked.
I took one of the drinks over to the bed. Here, I said. Here’s one of the things I’m tired of. I shoved it into her hand, then walked over to the window and looked down at the street. Mainly, I said, I’m tired of being a punk — a human suckfish. I chuckled. You know about suckfish? She shook her head.
They have little suction cups on their bellies, I said. And they attach themselves to sharks — when the shark gets a big meal, the suckfish eats the leftovers.