Hunter S. Thompson Read online

  I went over and opened the door, thinking she would have the curtain pulled. She didn't, and greeted me with a big smile. “I feel human again,” she exclaimed. “Aren't I beautiful?” She stepped out of the stream of water and faced me, lifting her arms like a model demonstrating some new and unusual soap. There was such a weird, nymphet egotism about her stance that I had to laugh.

  “Come on in,” she said happily. “This is wonderful!”

  I stopped laughing and there was an odd silence. I heard a gong somewhere in the back of my brain, and then a melodramatic voice saying, “And this concludes The Adventures of Paul Kemp, the Drunken Journalist. He read the signs and saw it coming, but he was too much of a lecher to step out of the way.” Then there was organ music, a sort of feverish dirge, and then I was stepping out of my shorts and into the shower with Chenault. I remember the feel of those soapy little hands washing my back, keeping my eyes tightly shut while my soul fought a hopeless battle with my groin, then giving up like a drowning man and soaking the bed with our bodies.

  She was stretched out with a peaceful smile on her face, still wet from the shower, when I finally left for work. All the way into San Juan I drove blindly, muttering and shaking my head like a man who has finally been tracked down.

  When I got to the office there were two things on my desk: one was a small book titled 72 Sure-Fire Ways to Have Fun, and the other was a note saying Sanderson wanted me to call him.

  I checked with Schwartz to see if there were any assignments. There weren't, so I went out for some coffee, walking several blocks down the waterfront to avoid any possibility of meeting Sala. I also expected Yeamon to come bounding into the office at any moment. It took me a while to compose myself, but finally I decided that the morning had never happened. Nothing had changed. I would see Yeamon and get her off my hands. If he didn't come into town, I would drive out there after work.

  When I felt myself under control I went back to the office. At two-thirty I had to go to the Caribe to talk to one of the Congressmen who had come down for the anti-communist investigation. I drove over there and talked to the man for two hours. We sat on the terrace and drank rum punch, and when I left he thanked me for the “valuable information” I had given him.

  “Okay, Senator,” I said. “Thanks for the story -- it's a hot one.” Back at the office I was hard-pressed to get four paragraphs out of the entire conversation.

  Then I called Sanderson. “How're you coming on that brochure?” he asked.

  “Oh Jesus,” I muttered.

  “Damnit, Paul, you promised me a first draft this week. You're worse than this fellow Yeamon.”

  “All right,” I said wearily. “I'm going nuts right now, Hal. I'll get it to you this weekend, maybe Monday.”

  “What's wrong?” he said.

  “Never mind,” I replied. “I'll be rid of it tonight -- then I'll do the brochure, okay?”

  Just as I hung up Schwartz motioned me over to the desk. “Big wreck on Bayamon Road,” he said, handing me a page of scribbled notes. “Sala's not around -- can you handle a camera?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I'll get a few Nikons from the darkroom.”

  “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.

  I went to the door. “Take it easy!” I yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  He came out with a suitcase and threw it toward the car. “Get the hell out of here!” he shouted. “You and that whore make a good pair!”

  The clothes were all in a heap and I loaded them into the back of my car while he watched. When I got it all packed in I opened the door and sat down. “Call me at the paper,” I said. “But wait till you calm down. I have enough trouble as it is.”

  He glared at me and I quickly backed the car out to the road. It had been just about as bad as I'd thought it was going to be, and I wanted to get away before it got any worse. I pushed the accelerator to the floor and the little car bounced over the ruts like a jeep, throwing up a huge trail of dust. It was almost noon and the sun was glaring hot. The sea rolled in on the dunes and the swamp sent up a steamy mist that burned my eyes and blotted out the sun. I drove past the Colmado de Jesus Lopo and saw the old man leaning on his counter
and staring out at me as if he knew the whole story, and was not at all surprised.

  When I got back to the apartment Chenault was washing the dishes. She looked over her shoulder and smiled as I came in. “You're back,” she said. “I wasn't sure you'd make it.”

  “He wasn't happy,” I said, dumping a load of her clothes on the bed.

  She laughed, but it was a sad sound and it made me feel even worse. “Poor Fritz,” she said. “He'll never grow up.”

  “Yeah,” I said. Then I went back down to the car for more clothes.

  The Rum Diary

  Eighteen

  On my way to work the next morning I stopped by Al's and found Sala on the patio. He was drinking a beer and thumbing through a new issue of Life en Espanol. I got a jar of iced rum from the kitchen and went out to his table.

  “Are they in there?” I asked, nodding at the magazine.

  “Hell no,” he grumbled. “They'll never use 'em -- Sanderson told me they were scheduled last fall.”

  “What the hell?” I said. “You got paid.”

  He tossed the magazine aside and leaned back in the chair. “That's only half of it,” he said. “I can get paid anytime.”

  We sat for a while in silence, then he looked up. “Ah, this is a shitty place, Kemp -- the shittiest place I've ever seen.” He reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. “Yep, I think the time has come for old Robert to put his ass on the road.” I smiled.

  “No, it won't be long now,” he said. “Lotterman gets back today and I won't be surprised if he folds the paper by midnight” He nodded. “The minute they hand out those checks I'm going to run like hell for the bank and get mine cashed.”

  “I don't know,” I said. “Schwartz said he got some money.”

  He shook his head. “Poor Schwartz, he'll still be showing up for work when they turn the place into a bowling alley.” He chuckled. “What else? El Headline Bowling Palace, with Moberg tending the bar. Maybe they'll hire Schwartz to do publicity.” He shouted toward the kitchen for two beers, then looked at me. I nodded. “Four,” he yelled. “And turn on the goddamn air conditioning.”

  He fell back in the chair again. “I have to get off this rock. I know some people in Mexico City -- I may give it a try.” He grinned. “I know they have women there, anyway.”

  “Hell,” I said. “Plenty of women around if you'd get off your ass.”

  He looked up. “Kemp, I believe you're a whorehopper.”

  I laughed. “Why?”

  “Why!” he exclaimed. “I'm onto your sneaky ways, Kemp. I suspected it all along -- and now you've lured that girl away from Yeamon.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “Don't deny it,” he said. “He was in here earlier -- told me the whole sleazy story.”

  “You bastard!” I said. “Chenault just showed up at my apartment. She didn't have anywhere else to go.”

  He grinned. “She could have moved in with me -- at least I'm decent.”

  I snorted. “Christ, you'd have finished her off!”

  “I suppose you're sleeping on the floor,” he replied. “I know that apartment, Kemp. I know there's only one bed. Don't give me this Christian crap.”

  “Christian hell!” I said. “You're such a sex-crazy sonofabitch that there's no sense telling you anything.”

  He laughed. “Calm down, Kemp, you're getting hysterical -- I know you wouldn't touch the girl, you're not that way.” He laughed again and ordered four more beers.

  “Just for the record,” I said, “I'm sending her back to New York.”

  “Probably the best thing,” he replied. “Any girl that runs off with a pack of bushmen is bad news.”

  “I told you what happened over there,” I said. “She didn't run off with anybody.”

  He shook his head. “Forget it,” he said wearily. “I couldn't care less. Do whatever you want. I have my own problems.”

  The beers arrived and I glanced down at my watch. “It's almost noon,” I said. “You don't figure on going to work?”

  “I'll go when I'm drunk enough,” he replied. “Have another beer -- we'll all be gone by Monday.”

  We drank steadily for three hours, then we drove down to the office. Lotterman was back, but he'd gone out somewhere. He finally came in about five and called us all together in the middle of the room. Then he climbed up on a desk.

  “Men,” he said. “You'll be happy to know that that goddamn worthless Segarra finally quit. He was the worst goldbricker we've ever had in this place and on top of that he was queer -- now that he's gone I think we'll be all right.”

  There were a few snickers, then silence.

  “That's only part of the good news,” he said with a big smile. “I suppose you all know the paper hasn't been making much money lately -- well by God we don't have to worry about that anymore!” He paused and looked around. “You've all heard of Daniel Stein, I guess -- well he's an old friend of mine, and as of Monday morning he's half-owner of this newspaper.” He smiled. “I walked into his office and I said, 'Dan, I want to keep my paper alive,' and he said, 'Ed, how much do you need?' That's all there was to it His lawyers are fixing up the papers and they'll be here on Monday for me to sign.” He shifted nervously on the desk and smiled again. “Now I know you boys were expecting to get paid today, and I hate to cramp your style for the weekend, but under my agreement with Dan I can't give out any paychecks until I sign those papers -- so you won't get paid until Monday.” He nodded quickly. “Of course anybody who needs a few bucks to get by until then can hit me up for a loan -- I don't want you boys getting thirsty and blaming it on me.” There was a ripple of laughter, then I heard Sala's voice from somewhere on the other side of the room. “I know about this guy, Stein,” he said. “Are you sure he'll come through?”

  Lotterman banished the question with a wave of his hand. “Of course I'm sure, Bob. Dan and I are old friends.”

  “Well,” Sala replied. “I have a pretty big weekend coming up, and if it's all the same to you I'd just as soon borrow my whole pay-check right now, then you won't have to give me anything on Monday.”

  Lotterman stared down at him. “What are you trying to say, Bob?”

  “I don't talk in swirls,” Sala replied. “I just want you to lend me a hundred and twenty-five bucks until Monday.”

  “That's ridiculous!” Lotterman shouted.

  “Ridiculous, hell,” said Sala. “I worked in Miami, remember? I know Stein. He's a convicted embezzler.” He lit a cigarette. “And besides, I might not be here on Monday.”

  “What do you mean?” Lotterman shouted. “You're not quitting?”

  “I didn't say that,” Sala replied.

  “Now listen, Bob!” Lotterman shouted. “I don't know what you're trying to do here, telling me you might quit and you might not -- who in hell do you think you are?”

  Sala smiled faintly. “Don't shout, Ed. It makes us all nervous. I just asked for a loan, that's all.”

  Lotterman jumped down off the desk. “You can see me in my office,” he said over his shoulder. “Kemp, I want to see you next.” He waved his hand in the air. “That's all boys, let's get back to work.”

  Sala followed him into his office. I stood there and heard Schwartz saying: “This is a terrible thing -- I don't know what to believe.”

  “The worst,” I replied.

  Moberg came running over to us. “He can't do this!” he screamed. “No salary, no severance pay -- we can't stand it!”

  Lotterman's door opened and Sala came out looking very unhappy. Lotterman appeared right behind him and called to me. He waited until I got inside, then closed the door behind us.

  “Paul,” he said. “What can I do with these guys?”

  I looked at him, not sure what he meant.

  “I'm on the ropes,” he said. “You're the only one here I can talk to -- the others are vultures.”

  “Why me?” I said. “I'm a hell of a vulture.”

  “No you're not,” he said quic
kly. “You're lazy, but you're not a vulture -- not like that stinking Sala!” He sputtered angrily. “Did you hear that crap he was giving me? Have you ever heard anything like it?”

  I shrugged. “Well --”

  “That's why I want to talk to you,” he said. “I have to handle these guys. We're in real trouble -- this guy Stein has me pinned to the wall.” He looked up at me and nodded. “If I can't get this paper going, he'll close it and sell it for junk. I'll go to debtor's prison.”

  “Sounds pretty bleak,” I said.

  He laughed humorlessly. “You don't know the half of it!” Then his voice became hearty and full of purpose. “Now what I want you to do is get these guys on the ball. I want you to tell 'em that we all have to pull together, or we'll sink!”

  “Sink?” I said.

  He nodded emphatically. “You're damn tootin'.”

  “Well,” I said slowly. “That's sort of a hairy proposition, what do you figure Sala would say if I went out there and told him it was sink or swim with the Daily News?” I hesitated. “Or Schwartz, or Vanderwitz -- even Moberg.”

  He stared down at his desk. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess they can all run -- like Segarra.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “That greasy little pervert! He didn't just quit -- he broadcast it all over San Juan! People kept telling me they'd heard the paper was bankrupt. That's why I had to go to Miami -- I can't borrow a dime in this town. That mealy-mouthed lizard is out there screwing me.”

  I was tempted to ask him why he'd hired Segarra in the first place, or why he had put out a fifth-rate paper when he might have at least tried to put out a good one. Suddenly I was tired of Lotterman; he was a phony and he didn't even know it. He was forever yapping about Freedom of the Press and Keeping the Paper Going, but if he'd had a million dollars and all the freedom in the world he'd still put out a worthless newspaper because he wasn't smart enough to put out a good one. He was just another noisy little punk in the great legion of punks who march between the banners of bigger and better men. Freedom, Truth, Honor -- you could rattle off a hundred such words and behind every one of them would gather a thousand punks, pompous little farts, waving the banner with one hand and reaching under the table with the other.