The Rum Diary

by Hunter S. Thompson

  As it happened, Lotterman heard nothing. I had never seen him in such a state. He tried to sound angry, but he seemed more confused than anything else, and after listening to him for a few moments I had the impression that he was on the verge of dissolving into some kind of apoplexy.

  He started off by telling us what a terrible thing it was for “that goddamn crazy Yeamon” to get us into trouble. “And then Moberg,” he said with a groan. “Moberg, that crazy worthless sot, he's been stealing from me.” He whacked the desk with his fist. “That sleazy drunken cockroach of a man who goes out and puts the slam on me for twenty-three hundred dollars!” He stared up at us. “Can you boys understand what that does to my bank balance? Do you have any idea what it costs to keep this paper going?” He fell back in the chair. "Good Lord, I've put my life savings on the line for the simple reason that I believe in journalism -- and here this odious, pus-filled roach goes out and tries to destroy me with one blow.

  “And Yeamon!” he shouted. “I knew it the minute I saw him! I said to myself, Christ, get rid of this guy quick -- he's pure trouble.” He shook a warning finger at us. “I want you to stay away from him, understand? What the hell is he doing here anyway? Why doesn't he go back where he came from? What's he living on?”

  We both shrugged. “I think he has a trust fund,” I said. “He's been talking about investing some money.”

  “God almighty!” Lotterman exclaimed. “That's just the kind we don't want here!” He shook his head. “And he had the nerve to tell me he was broke -- borrowed a hundred dollars and threw it away on a motorcycle -- can you beat that?”

  I couldn't beat it and neither could Sala.

  “Now he's hounding me for blood money,” Lotterman went on. “By God, we'll see.” He slumped back in the chair again. “It's almost too horrible to believe,” he said. “I've just paid a thousand dollars to get him out of jail -- a dangerous nut who threatened to twist my head. And Moberg,” he muttered. “Where did he come from?” He shook his head and waved us out of the office. “Go on,” he said. “Tell Moberg I'm going to have him locked up.”

  As we started to go he remembered something else. “Wait a minute,” he called. “I don't want you boys to think I wouldn't have got you out of jail. Of course I would -- you know that, don't you?”

  We assured him that we did, and left him mumbling at his desk. I went back to the library and sat down to think. I was going to have a car, regardless of what I had to do to get it. I'd seen a Volkswagen convertible for five hundred and it seemed in pretty good shape. Considering the fantastic price of cars in San Juan, it would be a real bargain if I could get it for four hundred.

  I called Sanderson. “Say,” I said casually, “what's the least I'll get out of this Zimburger deal?”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I want an advance. I need a car.”

  He laughed. “You don't need a car -- you want a car. How much do you need?”

  “About a thousand,” I said. “I'm not greedy.”

  “You must be out of your mind,” he replied. “The best I could do under any circumstances would be two fifty.”

  “Okay,” I said. “It's a drop in the bucket, but it might help. When can I get it?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Zimburger's coming in and I think we should get together and set this thing up. I don't want to do it at home.” He paused. “Can you come in around ten?”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you then.”

  When I put down the phone I realized I was preparing to make the plunge. I would move into my own apartment at the end of the week, and now I was about to buy a car. San Juan was getting a grip on me. I hadn't had a car in five years -- not since the old Citroen I bought in Paris for twenty-five dollars, and sold a year later for ten, after driving it all over Europe. Now I was ready to shoot four hundred on a Volkswagen. If nothing else, it gave me a sense of moving up in the world, for good or ill.

  On my way to Sanderson's the next day I stopped at the lot where I'd seen the car. The office was empty, and on a wall above one of the desks was a sign saying “SELL -- NOTHING HAPPENS UNTIL SOMEBODY SELLS SOMETHING.”

  I found the dealer outside. “Get this one ready to go,” I said, pointing to the convertible. “I'll give you four hundred for it at noon.”

  He shook his head. “Five hundred dollars,” he said, lifting the sign on the windshield as if I'd overlooked it.

  “Nonsense,” I replied. “You know the rules -- nothing happens until somebody sells something.”

  He looked surprised, but the slogan had registered.

  “The fat is in the fire,” I said, turning to go. “I'll be back at noon to pick it up.”

  He stared after me as I hurried out to the street

  Zimburger was already there when I got to Sanderson's office. He was wearing a bright blue suit and a red shirt with no tie. At a glance, he looked like a wax dummy in the window of some moldy PX. After twenty years in The Corps, Zimburger felt uneasy in civilian clothes. “Too damn baggy,” he explained. “Cheap workmanship, flimsy material.”

  He nodded emphatically. “Nobody keeps an eye on things anymore. It's the law of the tooth and the fang.”

  Sanderson came in from the outer office. He was dressed, as usual, like the resident governor of Pago Pago. This time he was wearing a black silk suit with a bow tie.

  Zimburger looked like an off-duty prison guard, a sweating potbellied vet who had somehow scraped up a wad of money.

  “All right,” he said. “Let's get down to business. Is this guy the writer?” He pointed at me.

  “This is Paul Kemp,” said Sanderson. “You've seen him at the house.”

  Zimburger nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Mr. Kemp writes for the New York Times,” said Sanderson. “We're lucky to have him with us on this.”

  Zimburger looked at me with renewed interest. “A real writer, eh? I guess that means trouble.” He laughed. “I knew writers in the Marines -- they were all trouble. Hell, I used to be one myself. They had me writing training manuals for six months -- dullest damn work I ever did.”

  Sanderson leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.

  “Kemp will go over to Vieques with you whenever it's convenient,” he said. “He wants to look at the site.”

  “Hell yes!” Zimburger replied. “It'll knock his eyes out-not a better beach in the Caribbean.” He turned to me. “You'll get some real material out of this place. Nobody's ever done a story on Vieques -- especially the New York Times.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “When do you want to go?”

  “How about tomorrow?” he said quickly.

  “Too soon,” Sanderson told him. “Kemp is doing a job for the News right now. Why not make it this weekend?”

  “Fine with me,” Zimburger replied. “I'll line up a plane for Thursday.” He looked at his watch and stood up. “I'm off,” he said. “Hell, it's almost noon and I haven't made any money -- wasted half the day.” He looked at me and gave me a snappy salute, grinning as he hurried out the door.

  I took a crowded elevator down to the street and hailed a cab. At the car lot the salesman was waiting for me. I greeted him cordially and paid him in cash for the car and quickly drove it away. It was yellow, with a black top and good tires and an AM/FM radio.

  It was almost one, so I went straight to the paper instead of stopping at Al's for lunch.

  I spent all afternoon at police headquarters, talking to a man who had killed his daughter.

  “Why?” I asked him, as several cops looked on and Sala snapped his picture.

  He yelled something in Spanish and the cops told me he thought his daughter was “no good.” She wanted to go to New York. She was only thirteen, but he claimed she'd been whoring for the price of a plane ticket

  “Okay,” I said. “Muchas gracias.” I had enough for a story and the cops took him away. I wondered how long he would stay in jail before the trial. Probably two or three years, cons
idering he'd already confessed. Hell, what was the sense of a trial; the docket was crowded enough.

  And a damn good thing it is, I thought. All afternoon I had a feeling that cops were giving us the eye, but I couldn't be sure.

  We went up to Al's for dinner. Yeamon was there in the patio and I told him about Lotterman's outburst

  “Yeah,” he said. “I thought about that on the way in to see the lawyer.” He shook his head. “Hell, I didn't even go. He has me now -- did he say anything about canceling my bail?”

  “He won't,” said Sala. “It would make him look bad -- unless he figures you're about to skip out”

  “I am,” said Yeamon. “We're going to South America.”

  “Both of you?” I said.

  He nodded. “We may have to wait awhile now,” he said. “I was counting on that severance money.”

  “Did you call Sanderson?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Call him,” I said. “He has green money. I bought a new car today.”

  He laughed. “I'll be damned. Is it here?”

  “Hell yes,” I said. We went out to the street to look at the car. Yeamon agreed that it had a fine, sporting appearance.

  “But you know what it means,” he said with a grin. “You're hooked. First a job, then a car -- pretty soon you'll get married and settle in for good.” He laughed. “You'll get like old Robert -- always going to take off manana.”

  “Don't worry,” Sala replied. “I'll know when to take off. When you get to be a working pro, then come back and tell me how to manage my life.”

  We started back inside. “What's a working pro, Robert?” Yeamon asked. “Somebody who has a job?”

  “Somebody who can get a job,” Sala replied. “Because he knows what he's doing.”

  Yeamon thought for a minute. “You mean because he knows what somebody else wants done?”

  Sala shrugged. “Say it however you want.”

  “I did,” said Yeamon. “And I don't mean to knock your talents. But if you're as good as you say you are, and if you hate San Juan as much as you claim to, it seems to me like you'd put two and two together, and be a working pro in a place you liked.”

  “Mind your own fucking business!” Sala snapped. “I don't see that kind of logic in the way you live -- you get straight with yourself, then I'll pay you for professional counsel, okay?”

  “For God's sake,” I said. “Let's forget this crap.”

  “Suits me,” said Sala. “We're all fuck-ups anyway -- except that I'm a pro.”

  Sweep brought a tray of hamburgers.

  “When are you taking off?” I asked Yeamon.

  “Depends on the money,” he replied. “I thought I'd check out St. Thomas this weekend, see if we can get a hop on one of those boats going south.” He looked up. “You still coming with us?”

  “Ah, Christ,” I exclaimed. I told him about Zimburger and Vieques. “I could have put it off,” I said, “but all I could think about was getting that money and the car.”

  “Hell,” he said. “Vieques is halfway between here and St. Thomas. There's a ferry every day.”

  We finally agreed that I'd meet them there on Friday. They were flying over in the morning and planned to come back sometime Sunday night.

  “Stay away from St Thomas,” said Sala. “Bad things happen to people in St. Thomas. I can tell you some incredibly horrible stories.”

  “So what?” said Yeamon. “It's a good drunk. You should come with us.”

  “No thanks,” Sala replied. “We had our good drunk, remember? I can do without those beatings.”

  We finished our food and ordered more drinks. Yeamon started talking about South America and I felt a reluctant excitement flicker somewhere inside me. Even Sala got excited. “Christ, I'd like to go there,” he kept saying. “No reason why I can't. Hell, I can make a living anywhere.”

  I listened and didn't say much, because I remembered how I'd felt that morning. And besides, I had a car in the street and an apartment in Condado and a golden tap on Zimburger. I thought about that. The car and the apartment didn't bother me at all, but the fact that I was working for Zimburger gave me the creeps. Yeamon's talk made it seem even worse. They were going to South America, and I was going to Zimburger. It gave me a strange feeling, and the rest of that night I didn't say much, but merely sat there and drank, trying to decide if I was getting older and wiser, or just plain old.

  The thing that disturbed me most was that I really didn't want to go to South America. I didn't want to go anywhere. Yet, when Yeamon talked about moving on, I felt the excitement anyway. I could see myself getting off a boat in Martinique and ambling into town to look for a cheap hotel. I could see myself in Caracas and Bogota and Rio, wheeling and dealing through a world I had never seen but knew I could handle because I was a champ.

  But it was pure masturbation, because down in my gut I wanted nothing more than a clean bed and a bright room and something solid to call my own at least until I got tired of it. There was an awful suspicion in my mind that I'd finally gone over the hump, and the worst thing about it was that I didn't feel tragic at all, but only weary, and sort of comfortably detached.

  The Rum Diary

  Twelve

  The next morning I drove down to Fajardo at top speed. I was covering a real estate deal, but it turned into an ugly experience and I was forced to abandon it. On the way back I stopped at a roadside stand and bought a pineapple, which the man cut up into little cubes for me. I ate them as I labored through traffic, driving slowly now, with one hand, reveling in the luxury of being master of my own movements for a change.

  Next weekend, I decided, I would drive over to Ponce on the south coast. When I got to the News building, Moberg was just getting out of his car.

  “I trust you're armed,” I said. “Old daddio may run off his nut when he sees you.”

  He laughed. “We compromised. He made me sign a note, saying I'd give him my car if anybody skipped.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “Yeamon's already talking about leaving.”

  He laughed again. “I don't care. Fuck him. I'll sign anything. It's the right thing to do.”

  “Ah, Moberg,” I said, “you're a nutty bastard.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I'm about as nutty as they come.”

  Lotterman didn't show up all afternoon. Sala claimed he was making the rounds of the banks, trying to float a loan to keep the paper going. It was only a rumor, but everyone in the office was talking as if the end had come.

  About three, Yeamon called to say he'd been to see Sanderson. “He gave me a few shitty articles to do,” he said. “Says he'll get me about thirty bucks apiece for them -- wouldn't give me an advance, though.”

  “That's not bad,” I said. “Do a good job on those and demand something bigger -- he has more money than God.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “I guess so. If I could get one thing worth about five hundred, I'd have enough to take off.”

  Sanderson called an hour or so later. “Can you be at the airport by seven on Thursday morning?” he asked.

  “Good God,” I said. “I suppose so.”

  “You'll have to be,” he said. “Figure on staying most of the day. Zimburger wants to get back before dark.”

  “I'm not coming back,” I said. “I'm going over to St. Thomas for the carnival.”

  He laughed. “I should have known you'd be attracted to something like that I'd stay out of town if I were you. The locals get a little wild. The best parties are on the boats -- the yachting set has a carnival of their own.”

  “I'm not making any plans,” I replied. “I'm just going over there and plunge into it -- a good relaxing drunk.”

  After work I stopped by Sala's place and picked up my clothes, then drove out to my new apartment I had no gear to speak of, so all I had to do was hang a few things in the closet and put some beer in the refrigerator. Everything else was furnished -- sheets, towels, kitchen tools, everything but food.
>
  It was my place, and I liked it. I slept for a while, then I drove down to a little colmado and bought some eggs and bacon for breakfast.

  I had already cooked the bacon the next morning when I realized I'd forgotten to buy coffee. So I drove down to the Condado Beach Hotel and had breakfast there. I bought a Times and ate by myself at a small table on the lawn. It was a fairly expensive place and no one from the News was likely to be there. The hacks who weren't at Al's would be at The Holiday, a crowded outdoor restaurant on the beach near the edge of town.

  I spent all afternoon on the waterfront, trying to find out if the paper was going to be shut down by a strike. Just before I got off I told Schwartz I wouldn't be in the next day; I felt a sickness coming on.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You guys are getting like rats on a sinking ship. Sala tied up the darkroom all afternoon with his own work, and I caught Vanderwitz making a long-distance call to Washington.” He shook his head. “We can't have a panic here; why don't you guys calm down?”

  “I'm calm,” I replied. “I just need a day to straighten out my affairs.”

  “Okay,” he said wearily. “It's none of my business. Do whatever you want.”

  I drove up to Al's and ate dinner by myself, then I went home and wrote the article that Sanderson wanted to send to the Times. It was a simple thing and I wrote it mostly from the material he'd given me -- prices going down for the summer, more young people on vacations, various outlying spots to visit. It took me about two hours and when I finished I decided to take it on over to him and have a few drinks before going to bed. I had to get up at six the next morning, but it was still early and I wasn't sleepy.

  There was nobody there when I arrived, so I went in and made a drink, then went out to the porch and sat down in one of the long chairs. I turned on the fan and put an album of show tunes on the phonograph.

  I decided that when I got a little more money I would look for a place like this for myself. The one I had now was good for a start, but it didn't have a porch or a garden or a beach, and I saw no reason why I shouldn't have those things.