Lotterman rubbed his hands together. Yessir, Bob, he said with a grin. We’re getting a real team together, eh? He slapped Yeamon on the back. Old Yeamon just had a scrape with those communist bastards outside, he said. They’re savage — they should be locked up.
Sala nodded. They’ll kill one of us pretty soon.
Don’t say that, Bob, said Lotterman. Nobody’s going to be killed.
Sala shrugged.
I called Commissioner Rogan about it this morning, Lotterman explained. We can’t tolerate this sort of thing — it’s a menace.
Damn right it is, Sala replied. To hell with Commissioner Rogan — we need a few Lugers. He stood up and pulled his coat off the back of the chair. Well, time to go. He looked at Yeamon. We’re going up to Al’s — you hungry?
I’ll be up later on, Yeamon replied. I want to check by the apartment and see if Chenault’s still asleep.
Okay, said Sala. He waved me toward the door. Come on. We’ll go out the back way — I don’t feel like a fight.
Be careful, boys, Lotterman called after us. I nodded and followed Sala into the hall. At the rear of the building a stairway led down to a metal door. Sala poked at it with a pocket knife and it swung open. Can’t do it from outside, he explained as I followed him into the alley.
His car was a tiny Fiat convertible, half eaten away by rust. It wouldn’t start and I had to get out and push. Finally it kicked over and I jumped in. The engine roared painfully as we started up the hill. I didn’t think we’d make it, but the little car staggered manfully over the crest and started up another steep hill. Sala seemed unconcerned with the strain, riding the clutch whenever we threatened to stall.
We parked in front of Al’s and went back to the patio. I’m getting three hamburgers, said Sala. That’s all he serves.
I nodded. Anything — I need bulk.
He called to the cook and told him we wanted six hamburgers. And two beers, he added. Real quick.
I’ll have rum, I said.
Two beers and two rums, Sala shouted. Then he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. You a reporter?
Yeah, I said.
What brings you down here?
Why not? I replied. A man could do worse than the Caribbean.
He grunted. This isn’t the Caribbean — you should have kept on going south.
The cook shuffled across the patio with our drinks. Where were you before this? Sala asked, lifting his beers off the tray.
New York, I said. Before that, Europe.
Where in Europe?
All over — mainly Rome and London.
Daily American! he asked.
Yeah, I said. I had a fill-in job for six months.
You know a guy named Fred Ballinger? he asked.
I nodded.
He’s here, Sala said. He’s getting rich.
I groaned. Man, what a jackass.
You’ll see him, he said with a grin. He hangs around the office.
What the hell for? I snapped.
Sucks up to Donovan. He laughed. Claims he was sports editor of the Daily American.
He was a pimp! I said.
Sala laughed. Donovan threw him down the stairs one night — he hasn’t been around for a while.
Good, I said. Who’s Donovan — the sports editor?
He nodded. A drunkard — he’s about to quit
Why?
He laughed. Everybody quits — you’ll quit. Nobody worth a shit can work here. He shook his head. People dropping out like flies. I’ve been here longer than anybody — except Tyrrell, the city editor, and he’s going soon. Lotterman doesn’t know it yet — that’ll be it — Tyrrell’s the only good head left. He laughed quickly. Wait till you meet the managing editor — can’t even write a headline.
Who’s that? I said.
Segarra — Greasy Nick. He’s writing the governor’s biography. Any time of the day or night he’s writing the governor’s biography — can’t be disturbed.
I sipped my drink. How long have you been here? I asked him.
Too long, more than a year.
Couldn’t be too bad, I said.
He smiled. Hell, don’t let me throw you off. You may like it — there’s a type that does.