Sanderson came in after I'd been there about an hour. With him was a man who claimed to be the brother of a famous trumpet player. We made fresh drinks and Sanderson read my article and said it was excellent. “I hope you don't need the money right now,” he said. “It might take a week or so.” He shrugged. “It won't be much anyway -- say fifty dollars.”
“Fine with me,” I said, settling back in the chair.
“I'll see what else I can shove off on you,” he said. “We're overloaded right now. Stop in when you get back from St Thomas.”
“Good deal,” I said. “Things are looking pretty bleak at the paper -- I may have to depend on this stuff pretty soon.”
He nodded. “Bleak is right. You'll find out on Monday just how bad it is.”
“What's going to happen on Monday?” I asked.
“I can't say,” he replied. Then he smiled. “It wouldn't help if you knew, anyway. Just relax -- you won't starve.”
The man with the famous brother had been staring out at the beach, saying nothing. His name was Ted. Now he turned to Sanderson and asked in a bored voice: “How's the diving out there?”
“Not much,” Sanderson replied. “Pretty well fished out”
We talked for a while about diving. Sanderson spoke with authority about “rapture of the deep” and diving on Palancar Reef. Ted had been living in southern France for two years, and had once worked for Jacques Cousteau.
Sometime after midnight I realized I was getting drunk, so I got up to go. “Well,” I said. “I have a date with Zimburger at the crack of dawn, I better get some sleep.”
I got up late the next morning. There was no time for breakfast, so I dressed hurriedly and grabbed an orange to eat on the way to the airport. Zimburger was waiting outside a small hangar at the far end of the runway. He nodded as I got out of the car and I walked over to where he was standing with two other men. “This is Kemp,” he told them. “He's our writer -- works for the New York Times .” He grinned and watched us shake hands.
One of them was a restaurant man and the other was an architect. We'd be back by mid-afternoon, Zimburger told me, because Mr. Robbis, the restaurant man, had to go to a cocktail party.
We flew over in a small Apache, with a pilot who looked like a refugee from the Flying Tigers. He said nothing the whole time and seemed totally unaware of our presence. After a dull, thirty-minute ride above the clouds, we nosed down toward Vieques and went hurtling into a small cow pasture that served as an airport. I gripped my seat, certain we were going to flip, but after several violent bounces we came to a stop.
We climbed out and Zimburger introduced us to a huge man named Martin, who looked like a professional shark-hunter. He wore a crisp khaki outfit and motorcycle sunglasses, and his hair was bleached almost white from the sun. Zimburger referred to him as “my man here on the island.”
The general plan was to pick up some beer and sandwiches at Martin's bar, then drive to the other side of the island to see the property. Martin drove us into town in his Volkswagen bus, but the native who was supposed to make the sandwiches had disappeared. Martin had to make them himself; he left us on the empty dance floor and went back to the kitchen in a rage.
It took about an hour. Zimburger was talking earnestly to the restaurant man, so I decided to go out and look for some coffee. The architect said he knew of a drugstore up the street.
He'd been drinking steadily since five a.m., when Zimburger had unaccountably roused him out of bed. His name was Lazard and he sounded bitter.
“This Zimburger's a real screwball,” he told me. “He's had me running in circles for six months.”
“What the hell,” I said. “As long as he pays.”
He looked over at me. “Is this the first time you've worked with him?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Why? Does he welsh?”
Lazard looked unhappy. “I'm not sure. He's a fine one for free drinks and all that, but sometimes I wonder.”
I shrugged. “Well, Adelante's paying me. I don't have to deal with him -- probably a good thing.”
He nodded and we went into the drugstore. The menu was a strip of Coca-Cola signs on the wall. There were red leatherette stools, a Formica-top counter, and thick tan mugs for the coffee. The woman who ran it was sloppy white, with a heavy southern accent.
“Come right on in,” she said. “What'll it be, fellas?”
Great mother of God, I thought What town are we in?
Lazard bought a copy of the News for twenty cents and immediately noticed my byline on the front page. “I thought you worked for the New York Times, ” he said, pointing to my name above the article on the waterfront strike.
“Just gave 'em a hand,” I said. “They're short-staffed right now -- asked me to help out until they can hire some more people.”
He nodded and smiled. “Man, that's the life, you know. What do you have -- a roving assignment?”
“More or less,” I said.
“That's a terrific deal,” he replied. “Go anywhere you want. . . steady salary. . . no worries. . .”
“Hell,” I said, “you've got a pretty good thing yourself.” I smiled. “Here we're both sitting on this godforsaken island, and being paid for it.”
“Not me,” he replied. “Oh, I'm getting my expenses, but if this thing falls through it could set me back two years.” He nodded gravely. “I'm not that well established. I can't afford to have my name associated with any botched jobs -- even if they're not my fault.” He finished his coffee and set the mug on the counter. “That's where you're in the clear,” he said. “All you have to do is write your story. With me, it's sink or swim on every job.”
I felt sorry for Lazard. He obviously didn't like the smell of what he'd got into, but he couldn't afford to be cautious. He was not much older than I was, and a thing like this would be a fine break for him if it came through. And if it didn't, it would be a bad break -- but even then he'd be in no worse shape than I'd been in for the past five years. I was tempted to tell him so, but I knew it wouldn't make him feel any better. Then he'd start feeling sorry for me too, and I didn't need that.
“Yeah,” I said. “A man wants many chestnuts in the fire.”
“Right,” he replied, getting up to go. “That's why I envy you -- you've got all kinds of things going.”
I was beginning to believe him. The more he talked, the better I felt. On the way back to Martin's bar I looked at the town. It was almost deserted. The streets were wide and the buildings were low; most of them were built of concrete blocks and painted light pastel colors, but they all seemed empty.
We turned the corner toward Martin's place and started down a hill toward the waterfront. There were scraggy palms on both sides of the street, and at the bottom of the hill a long pier poked into the harbor. At the end of it were four fishing boats, rolling lazily in the groundswell that came in from Vieques Sound.
The bar was called The Ringfish. It had a tin roof and a bamboo fence around the entrance. The Volkswagen bus was parked outside the door. Inside, Zimburger and Robbis were still talking. Martin was packing the beer and the sandwiches in a big cooler.
I asked him why the town looked so deserted.
“No maneuvers this month,” he replied. “You ought to see this place when five thousand U.S. Marines come in -- it's a madhouse.”
I shook my head, remembering that Sanderson had told me how two-thirds of the island was a Marine target range. A strange place to build a luxury resort, unless you wanted to fill it with retired Marines for cannon fodder.
It was after ten when we finally started for the other side of the island. It was only four miles wide, a good drive through tall fields of sugar cane and along narrow roads lined with flamboyan trees. Finally we came over a rise and looked down on the Caribbean. The minute I saw it I felt that here was the place I'd been looking for. We drove across another cane field and then through a grove of palms. Martin parked the bus, and we walked out to look at the beach.
&n
bsp; My first feeling was a wild desire to drive a stake in the sand and claim the place for myself. The beach was white as salt, and cut off from the world by a ring of steep hills that faced the sea. We were on the edge of a large bay and the water was that clear, turquoise color that you get with a white sand bottom. I had never seen such a place. I wanted to take off all my clothes and never wear them again.
Then I heard Zimburger's voice, an ugly chattering that brought me back to reality. I had not come here to admire this place, but to write a thing that would sell it. Zimburger called me over and pointed up at a hill where he planned to put the hotel. Then he pointed to other hills where the houses would be. This went on for almost an hour -- walking up and down the beach, staring at swamps that would blossom into shopping centers, lonely green hills that would soon be laced with sewer pipes, a clean white beach where cabana lots were already cleared and staked off. I took notes until I could stand no more of it, then I went back to the bus and found Martin drinking a beer.
“Progress marches on,” I muttered, plunging my hand into the cooler.
He smiled. “Yeah, this is gonna be some place.”
I opened the beer and swilled it down, then reached for another. We talked for a while, and Martin told me he'd first come to Vieques as a Marine. He knew a good thing when he saw one, he said, so instead of staying for twenty, as he'd planned, he got out after ten and came back to Vieques to set up a bar. Now, in addition to The Kingfish, he owned a laundry, five houses in Isabel Segunda, the only newspaper concession, and he was setting up a car rental agency to handle Zimburger's influx. On top of everything else, he was “general overseer” for Zimburger's property, which put him in on the ground floor. He smiled and sipped his beer. “You might say this place has been good to me. If I'd stayed in the States I'd be just another ex-jarhead.”
“Where you from?” I asked.
“Norfolk,” he said. “But I'm not too homesick. San Juan's as far as I've been from this place in six years.” He paused, looking around at the little green island that had been so good to him. “Yeah, I grew up in Norfolk, but I don't remember it much -- seems too long ago.”
We had another beer, then Zimburger and Robbis and Lazard came back from the beach. Lazard was sweating and Robbis looked very impatient
Zimburger gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Well,” he said with a grin, “you ready to write that article? Didn't I tell you this site was a beaut?”
“Sure,” I said. “I'm all set.”
He shook his head with mock disappointment “Ah, you writers -- never a good word for anything.” He laughed nervously. “Goddamn writers -- no telling what they'll do.”
All the way back to town Zimburger talked incessantly about his plans for Vieques. Finally Martin broke in to say that we were all going to eat lunch at his club -- he'd sent the boys out for some fresh lobster.
“You mean langosta,” said Zimburger.
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.”
I knew he was lying, but it didn't matter. Martin was like an auto mechanic who'd just discovered the insurance company, or a punk gone mad on his first expense account. I looked forward to the day when he and Zimburger would find each other out.
The best room in the Carmen cost three dollars, and had a balcony overlooking the town and the harbor. I was very full and half drunk, and when I got in the room I went to sleep immediately.
Two hours later I was awakened by someone tapping on the door. “Senor,” the voice said. “You have dinner with Senor Kingfish, no?”
“I'm not hungry,” I said. “I just ate lunch.”
“Si,” the voice replied, and I heard quick footsteps on the stairs going down to the street. It was still light and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went out to get a bottle of rum and some ice. In the same building with the hotel was what appeared to be a storage bin full of liquor. A grinning Puerto Rican sold me a bottle of rum for a dollar, and a bag of ice for two dollars. I paid and went back upstairs to my room.
I mixed a drink and went out on the balcony to sit down. The town still looked deserted. Far out on the horizon I could see the neighboring island of Culebra, and from somewhere in that direction ca
me the shuddering thump of explosions. I recalled Sanderson telling me that Culebra was an aerial bombing range for the U.S. Navy. Once it had been a magic place, but no longer.
I had been there about twenty minutes when a Negro came down the street on a small grey horse. The hoofbeats rang through the town like pistol shots. I watched him clatter up the street and disappear over a small rise. The hoofbeats carried back to me long after he was out of sight.
Then I heard another sound, the muted rhythm of a steel band. It was getting dark now, and I couldn't tell what direction the music was coming from. It was a soft, compelling sound, and I sat there and drank and listened to it, feeling at peace with myself and the world, as the hills behind me turned a red-gold color in the last slanting rays of the sun.
Then it was night A few lights came on in the town. The music came in long bursts, as if someone was explaining something between choruses, and then it would start again. I heard voices below me on the street, and now and then the hoofbeats of another horse.
Isabel Segunda seemed more active at night than it had been during the long, hot day.
It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with a balcony overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something happened. I felt a tremendous distance between me and everything real. Here I was on Vieques island, a place so insignificant that I had never heard of it until I'd been told to come here -- delivered by one nut, and waiting to be taken off by another.
It was almost May. I knew that New York was getting warm now, that London was wet, that Rome was hot -- and I was on Vieques, where it was always hot and where New York and London and Rome were just names on a map.
Then I remembered the Marines -- no maneuvers this month -- and I remembered why I was here. Zimburger wants a brochure. . . aimed at investors. . . your job is to sell the place. . . don't be late or he'll. . .
I was being paid twenty-five dollars a day to ruin the only place I'd seen in ten years where I'd felt a sense of peace. Paid to piss in my own bed, as it were, and I was only here because I'd got drunk and been arrested and had thereby become a pawn in some high-level face-saving bullshit.