Get a Load of This

The sunlight came through the slots in the shutter and burnt his feet. He scratched his head, yawning, then reached under the bed for his heelless slippers. He sat there, staring at the wall, feeling lousy. It must have been the rum he’d belted the previous night. That guy Morecombre certainly could shift liquor. He might have known what kind of a party he was sitting down to. These press photographers spent most of their time on the booze. He pressed fingers tenderly to his head and then wandered over to the chest of drawers and found a bottle of Scotch. He put a little ice water in a glass and three fingers of Scotch to colour it, then he went back and sat on his bed.

The drink was swell, and he dawdled over it while he considered what he had to do that day. There wasn’t much he could do, he decided, except just sit around and wait. Well, he was used to that. He could do that fine.

He reached out with his foot and kicked the shutter open. From where he sat he could see the harbour and a little of the bay. By leaning forward he could see the old Morro Castle. He drew a deep breath. The place was pretty good, he decided. Very, very nice to look at. He got up and wandered to the open window. Below him the hotel grounds stretched away to the waterfront—flowers, trees, palms, everything that grew so richly in the tropical heat spread out before him. He hunched his muscles and yawned. Not bad, he thought, not bad at all. The Foreign Correspondent of the New York Post staying in the dump that millionaires condescend to be seen in. He finished the Scotch. All the same, he wouldn’t mind betting there was no one in the hotel except Morecombre and himself and the General. He grinned a little sourly. From where he stood he could see the waterfront, which looked ominously deserted. The hotel grounds were deserted too. “The word’s got round all right,” he thought; “rats leaving the sinking ship.”

He wandered over and rang the bell, then went on into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stood watching the water hiss down, still holding the empty glass in his hand. He eyed it thoughtfully, decided he wouldn’t have any more, put the glass down and slid out of his pyjamas.

The shower was fine. The water pricked and tingled on his skin. Raising his head, he began to sing, very low and rather mournfully.

When he came back to the bedroom he found Anita standing looking out of the window.

Anita was the maid in charge of the third floor. She was very dark, small, very well built. Her breasts rode high, firm… audacious breasts. They looked like they were proud of themselves, and Quentin himself thought they were pretty good.

“Hello,” he said, wrapping a towel round his waist, “don’t you ever knock?”

She smiled at him. She had a nice smile, glistening white teeth and sparkling eyes. “The water,” she said, lifting her hands, “it makes so much noise. You did not hear me knock, so I come in.”

“One of these days,” Quentin said, pulling on a silk dressing-gown and sliding the towel off, “you’re going to get an unpleasant shock when you walk in like that.”

She shook her head. “This morning I had it—it was not so bad.”

Quentin looked at her severely. “You’re not such a nice little girl as you look. You know too much.”

“It was Mr. Morecombre,” she said, her eyes opening. “He is a beautiful man—yes?”

“Suppose you get me some breakfast, and stop chattering,” Quentin said. “Get me a lotta food, I’m hungry.”

She made a little face. “There is nothing,” she said. “Coffee… yes, but the food … it is all gone.”

Quentin paused, his shaving-brush suspended halfway to his face. “I don’t get it, baby,” he said. “This is a hotel, ain’t it? This is the hotel, ain’t it?”

She smiled again. That smile certainly had a load of come-hither hanging to it. “But the strike,” she explained, “it is the strike. No food for four days. All out of the icebox. Now the ice-box is empty.”

Quentin resumed his shaving. “So I’m going to pay a small fortune to stay in this joint and starve—is that it?”

“But, senor, everyone has gone away. There is only you and Senor Morecombre left.”

“And the General,” Quentin reminded her. “Don’t forget the General.”

Anita pulled a face. “I don’t forget him,” she said, “he is a bad man. He has everything; he has food. He knew what was going to happen.”

“Maybe he’ll consider sharing his breakfast with me,” Quentin said. “Suppose you run along and ask him. Tell him George Quentin of the New York Post would like to breakfast with him. See what happens.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I do not ask favours from such a man; he is bad. Soon someone will kill him, you see.

Quentin put down his shaving-brush. “Then get me some coffee. Now beat it, baby; you’re in the way. I want to dress.” He put his hand under her elbow and took her to the door. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “Senor is a very fine man, yes?” she said. She offered him her lips, but Quentin shook his head. “Go on, dust,” he said a little irritably, and drove her out with a smack on her behind.

When he was half dressed, Bill Morecombre came in. He was a tall, loosely built guy, a soft hat worn carelessly at the back of his head, and a cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth. He draped himself up against the door-post and waved a languid hand. “Hyah, pal,” he said, “anythin’ happenin’?”

Quentin shook his head. “Not a thing except there’s no breakfast.”

Morecombre shrugged. “I expected that, didn’t you? Hell, the strike’s been on a week now. This joint’s going to be plenty tough before it gets better. I brought some stuff along with me. When you’re ready come on over. I guess the manager will be up too. I got plenty.”

“You guys certainly look after yourselves,” Quentin said, fixing his tie. “Sure I’ll be over.”

Morecombre was in no hurry to leave. “See Anita this morning?” he asked, flicking ash on the floor.

“I have,” Quentin returned grimly. “That baby’s wearing a pair of very hot pants.”

“You’re right, but what else has she got to do? I’m sorry for that judy.”

Quentin slipped on his jacket. “The trouble with you,” he said dryly, “is that you’re always sorry for dames. Then, eventually, they get sorry for themselves.”

They crossed the corridor into Morecombre’s room. “Do you seriously think anything’s going to happen?” Morecombre asked, diving under his bed and dragging out a large suit-case. “I mean big enough to justify all this fuss and expense?”

Quentin sat on the bed and eyed the suit-case with interest. “I don’t know,” he said, “but when you get into a country as hot as this, packed with people who’ve been pushed around and treated as these people have been, it’s a safe bet that the lid will come off sometime. And when it comes off a lotta guys are going to be hurt.”

Morecombre opened the suitcase and sat back on his heels. “Looks good,” he said, examining a big array of brightly labelled tins. “What shall we have?”

A discreet knock sounded. Morecombre looked at Quentin with a grin. “Vulture number one,” he said, going across and opening the door.

The hotel manager was a short, rather pathetic-looking little Cuban. He bowed very stiffly at the waist. “I’ve come to present my apologies—” he began, looking at the tinned food with a sparkle in his eye.

“Forget it,” Morecombre said, stepping to one side. “Come on in and have a spot of something. You can take it off the bill.”

The manager came into the room very quickly, a smile lighting his face. “That is generous,” he said. “American gentlemen are always very generous.”

Quentin looked up. He was busy opening a tin. “You know why we are here, don’t you?” he asked abruptly.

The manager looked confused. “You come to see our beautiful city… yes?” he said, fidgeting with his small white hands.

“We are here to report and obtain photographs of a coming revolution,” Quentin said impressively. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait before it begins?”

The manager looked helplessly at the tin in Quentin’s hands. “I could not say,” he said. “I know nothing about a revolution.”

Quentin glanced across at Morecombre and shrugged. “They’re all alike,” he said a little bitterly. “I guess we’ve just got to be patient and wait.”

Another knock sounded on the door and Anita came in with a tray. She, too, regarded the tins with