“Okay, Adolfo,” Wand said. “I’ll see what I can dig up. Is he fit enough for work?”
“I think so.”
“How can I contact him?”
Creel gave him Cade’s telephone number.
“You can leave it with me.”
But Creel wasn’t happy. He had alerted his servant, Maria to keep an eye on Cade and she reported that a boy had arrived soon after Cade had moved into the room, carrying three bottles of Tequila. The food she had left outside Cade’s door had been scarcely touched.
The following morning, Creel, taking a newspaper with him as an excuse, knocked on Cade’s door.
There was silence. He knocked again.
“What is it?” Cade’s voice sounded sharp and impatient.
“The newspaper, senor,” Creel said.
“I don’t want it! Leave me alone!”
“Is there anything you want? Cigarettes perhaps?”
“Oh, go to hell and leave me alone!”
Creel lifted his fat shoulders in a gesture of despair and went away. During the afternoon, he visited Cade’s house where he found some mail. He drove back to his apartment and again knocked on Cade’s door.
“There are letters for you, senor.”
There was a pause, then the door jerked open.
Cade had removed the bandage around his shaven head. His hair was beginning to grow again. He hadn’t shaved, and Creel could see he was pretty drunk. He glared at the fat man, his face stony, his eyes glazed.
“Give them to me!”
He snatched the letters out of Creel’s hand and flicked through them with a desperate urgency that made Creel unhappy. He guessed Cade was hoping for a letter from Juana.
“Leave me alone!” Cade said and he slammed the door in Creel’s face.
Sitting on the bed, he ripped open the envelopes. A brief glance told him they were all bills. Among them was a letter from the Car Insurance people acknowledging Juana’s receipt for three thousand dollars as settlement for the Thunderbird. There was also a Diner’s Club statement for six hundred dollars.
Cade tossed the bills on the floor. He walked unsteadily to his dressing-table where the remaining full bottle of Tequila stood. He poured a drink, then flopped down on the bed.
He knew he was destroying himself, but he was past caring. As he was raising the glass to his lips, the telephone bell rang. The sound startled him and he slopped his drink. For a moment, he hesitated, then he put down the glass and lifted the telephone receiver.
It was Sam Wand.
“How are you, Val?” Wand boomed. “You feel fit for a day’s work?”
Cade closed his eyes. His head was swimming and he felt sick.
“You there, Val?”
With an effort Cade said, “Hello there, Sam. I’m fine. Look, I’ve got a flock of bills just arrived. I want you to settle them. Sell Stock. I must get these goddamn debts fixed.”
“That’s okay. Send them to me. I have work for you. Are you fit enough?”
“I keep telling you... I’m more than fine. What’s the job?”
“General de Gaulle will be arriving in Mexico City tomorrow. He’s returning captured flags or some damn thing. You’ve got the French exclusive of this, Val. I’ve bust a gut landing this one for you. It’s big: Paris Match. Jours de France... the lot. Get those pictures and you won’t have to worry about debts. Adolfo will set it all up for you. You have just to get the pictures.”
Cade wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. The Tequila he had drunk was making his head ache again.
“Can do... will do,” he said. “Thanks, Sam. You’ll get them,” and he hung up.
This was the first of the disasters to come from Cade’s camera.
Although Creel did the field work well, arranging for passes, getting Cade an exclusive interview with the General, getting Cade to his allotted place at the Palace well before time, Cade had drunk too much Tequila to bolster up his sagging nerves to make successful photography possible.
He wasn’t even in a fit enough state to process his own films. He had to hire Tomas Olmedo to do it for him. He and Creel sat in Olmedo’s office waiting to see the prints. Both men were silent with a premonition of disaster hanging over them. When Olmedo came out of the dark room, the expression on his face sent a chill up Cade’s spine.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t understand,” Olmedo said, looking bewildered. “These are useless. They are all out of focus. There’s not one that’s any good. Something bad must have happened to the camera.”
Cade knew it wasn’t the camera, but that was his excuse to Wand.
“What the hell do you mean?” Wand shouted furiously when he heard the news. “It’s your business to check your goddamn camera! What’s the matter with you? What am I going to say to Paris Match? You mean you haven’t one goddamn picture for me?”
“This is a once in a lifetime thing, Sam,” Cade said, lying frantically. “The automatic pre-set wasn’t working. It had me fooled. It’s just one of those things.”
“Is that what you think? Let me tell you something! You’ve fixed me in France! Those boys don’t listen to excuses. Judas! Cade... how could you do a thing like this to me?”
“Oh, shut up!” Cade shouted. “This could have happened to anyone. Forget it! Find me something else! I want money! I’m cleaned out! Right now, I’m borrowing from Creel. Find me something! Do you hear?”
“Pull another stunt like this, and you and me are through,” Wand said. “It’s all right for you to talk this way, but I have to do the explaining. This fiasco is going to cost me plenty!”
“Stop whining!” Cade reached for the ever ready glass of Tequila and drank. “I’ve got to have work!”
“I’ll call you,” Wand said and banged down the receiver.
Two days later, Cade received a statement of accounts from Wand. All his bills had been settled, including Dr. Pinto’s account and the hospital charges. He no longer owned any Stock and he saw with a sinking heart that the account included his half year’s royalty. He realised he wasn’t worth a dollar now since he already owed Creel seven hundred dollars and his credit balance with Wand was six hundred and fifty dollars.
But he was beyond caring. He was hooked by alcohol. Without the deadening effects of Tequila his mind immediately began to dwell on Juana, and this was something he couldn’t bear.
Wand got him the assignment to cover the Duke of Edinburgh’s visit to Mexico for Look Now, a new, but up-and-coming magazine that circulated in California. They were offering six hundred dollars for exclusive pictures.
“Can’t you do better than that?” Cade demanded furiously over the telephone. “Edinburgh is a big story, damn it! This should be a syndicate job!”
“So it is, but Lucas has got that,” Wand said. “The words got around about the General. You’ve only yourself to blame. I’m sorry, Val, take it or leave it. It’s up to you, but if you do the job, for God’s sake, give me pictures!”
“You’ll get them,” Cade said.
It cost him a lot physically and mentally to get the pictures. Half the time he was drunk, the rest of the time he wished he were drunk. When the films were processed, Olmedo silently handed him the prints. He didn’t even bother to look at them. He knew they were the ordinary run-of-the-mill stuff any third rate press man would take, but at least they were in focus and could be reproduced, but they weren’t Cade.
The following afternoon Wand came through on the telephone. Cade was lying on his bed with the now inevitable glass of Tequila in his hand. He guessed it was Wand and for some moments, he let the bell ring, afraid to hear what Wand would say. Then he sat up, put down his drink and lifted the receiver.
He was expecting a blast from Wand, but this time Wand was quiet, but nonetheless lethal.