Thompson, Hunter S (9 page)

It was terribly sad -- not the music itself, but the fact that it was the best they could
do. Most of the tunes were translated versions of American rock-and-roll, with all the
energy gone. I recognized one as “Maybellene.” The original version had been a hit when I
was in high school. I recalled it as a wild and racy tune, but the Puerto Ricans had made
it a repetitious dirge, as hollow and hopeless as the faces of the men who sang it now in
this lonely wreck of a roadhouse. They were not hired musicians, but I had a feeling they
were putting on a performance, and any moment I expected them to fall silent and pass the
hat. Then they would finish their drinks and file quietly into the night, like a troupe of
clowns at the end of a laughless day.

Suddenly the music stopped and several men rushed for the jukebox. A quarrel broke out, a
flurry of insults -- and then, from somewhere far in the distance, like a national anthem
played to calm a frenzied crowd, came the slow tinkling of Brahms' Lullaby. The quarrel
ceased, there was a moment of silence, several coins fell into the bowels of the jukebox,
and then it broke into a whimpering yell. The men returned to the bar, laughing and
slapping each other on the back.

We ordered three more rums and the waiter brought them over. We'd decided to drink a
while, putting off dinner till later, and by the time we got around to ordering food the
waiter told us the kitchen was closed.

“Never in hell!” Yeamon exclaimed. “That sign says midnight.” He pointed to a sign above
the bar.

The waiter shook his head.

Sala looked up at him. “Please,” he said, “you're my friend. I can't stand this anymore.
I'm hungry.”

The waiter shook his head again, staring at the green order pad in his hand.

Suddenly Yeamon banged his fist on the table. The waiter looked fearful, then scurried
behind the bar. Everyone in the place turned to look at us.

“Let's have some meat!” Yeamon shouted. “And more rum!”

A fat little man wearing a white short-sleeve shirt came running out of the kitchen. He
patted Yeamon on the shoulder. “Good fellows,” he said with a nervous smile. “Good
customers -- no trouble, okay?”

Yeamon looked at him. “All we want is meat,” he said pleasantly, “and another round of
drinks.”

The little man shook his head. “No dinner after ten,” he said. “See?” He jabbed his
finger at the clock. It was ten-twenty.

“That sign says midnight,” Yeamon replied.

The man shook his head.

“What's the problem?” Sala asked. “The steaks won't take five minutes. Hell, forget the
potatoes.”

Yeamon held up his glass. “Let's get three drinks,” he said, waving three fingers at the
bartender.

The bartender looked at our man, who seemed to be the manager. He nodded quickly, then
walked away. I thought the crisis had passed.

In a moment he was back, bringing a little green check that said $11.50. He put it on the
table in front of Yeamon.

“Don't worry about it,” Yeamon told him.

The manager clapped his hands. “Okay,” he said angrily. “You pay.” He held out his hand.

Yeamon brushed the check off the table. “I said don't worry about it.”

The manager snatched the check off the floor. “You pay!” he screamed. “Pay now!”

Yeamon's face turned red and he rose half out of his chair. “I'll pay it like I paid the
others,” he yelled. “Now get the hell away from here and bring us our goddamn meat.”

The manager hesitated, then leaped forward and slapped the check on the table. “Pay now!”
he shouted. “Pay now and get outer I call police.”

He had barely got the words out of his mouth when Yeamon grabbed him by the front of his
shirt. “You cheap little bastard!” he snarled. “You keep yelling and you'll never get
paid.”

I watched the men at the bar. They were bug-eyed and tense as dogs. The bartender stood
poised at the door, ready to either flee or run outside and get a machete -- I wasn't sure.

The manager, out of control by this time, shook his fist at us and screeched, “Pay, you
goddamn Yankees! Pay and get out!” He glared at us, then ran over to the bartender and
whispered something in his ear.

Yeamon got up and put on his coat. “Let's go,” he said. “I'll deal with this bastard
later.”

The manager seemed terrified at the prospect of welshers walking out on him. He followed
us into the parking lot, cursing and pleading by turns. “Pay now!” he howled. “When will
you pay?. . . you'll see, the police will come. . . no police, just pay!”

I thought the man was crazy and my only desire was to get him off our backs. “Christ,” I
said. “Let's pay it.”

“Yeah,” said Sala, bringing out his wallet. “This place is sick.”

“Don't worry,” said Yeamon. “He knows I'll pay.” He tossed his coat in the car, then
turned to the manager. “You rotten little creep, get a grip on yourself!”

We got in the car. As soon as Yeamon started his scooter the manager ran back and began
shouting to the men inside the bar. His screams filled the air as we pulled off, following
Yeamon out the long driveway. He refused to hurry, idling along like a man intrigued with
the scenery, and in a matter of seconds two carloads of screaming Puerto Ricans were right
behind us. I thought they might run us down. They were driving big American cars and could
have squashed the Fiat like a roach.

“Holy shit,” Sala kept saying, “we're going to be killed.”

When we came to the paved road, Yeamon pulled over and let us pass. We stopped a few
yards ahead of him and I called back, “Come on, damnit! Let's get out of here.”

The other cars came up beside him and I saw him throw up his hands as if he'd been hit.
He jumped off the scooter, letting it fall, and grabbed a man whose head was outside the
window. Almost at the same moment I saw the police drive up. Four of them leaped out of a
little blue Volkswagen, waving their billy clubs. The Puerto Ricans cheered wildly and
scrambled out of their cars. I was tempted to run, but we were instantly surrounded. One
of the cops ran up to Yeamon and pushed him backward. “Thief!” he shouted. “You think
gringos drink free in Puerto Rico?”

At the same time, both doors of the Fiat were jerked open and Sala and I were pulled out
I tried to break loose, but several people were holding my arms. Somewhere beside me I
could hear Yeamon saying over and over: “Well, the man spit on me, the man spit on me. .
.”

Suddenly everybody stopped shouting and the scene boiled down to an argument between
Yeamon, the manager and a man who appeared to be the cop in charge. Nobody was holding me
now, so I moved up to hear what was going on.

“Look,” Yeamon was saying. “I paid the other bills -- what makes him think I won't pay
this one?”

The manager said something about drunk, arrogant Yankees.

Before Yeamon could reply, one of the cops stepped up behind him and slammed him on the
shoulder with his billy. He shouted and lurched to one side, onto one of the men who had
come after us in the cars. The man swung wildly with a beer bottle, hitting him in the
ribs. The last thing I saw before I went down was Yeamon's savage rush on the man with the
bottle. I heard several swacks of bone against bone, and then, out of the corner of my
eye, I saw something come at my head. I ducked just in time to take the main force of the
blow on my back. It buckled my spine and I fell to the ground.

Sala was screaming somewhere above me and I was thrashing around on my back, trying to
avoid the feet that were pounding me like hammers. I covered my head with my arms and
lashed out with my feet, but the awful hammering continued. There was not much pain, but
even through the numbness I knew they were hurting me and I was suddenly sure I was going
to die. I was still conscious, and the knowledge that I was being kicked to death in a
Puerto Rican jungle for eleven dollars and fifty cents filled me with such terror that I
began to scream like an animal. Finally, just as I thought I was passing out, I felt
myself being shoved into a car.

I was half-unconscious during the ride, and when the car finally stopped I looked out and
saw an angry mob howling on the sidewalk. I knew I couldn't stand another beating; when
they tried to haul me out I clung desperately to the back of the seat until one of the
cops hit me on the arm with his club.

To my surprise, the crowd made no move to attack us. We were pushed up the steps, past a
group of sullen cops at the door, and led into a small, windowless room where they told us
to sit on a bench. Then they closed the door and left us alone.

“Jesus Christ,” said Yeamon. “This is incredible. We have to get hold of somebody.”

“We're headed for La Princesa,” Sala groaned. “The bastards have us now -- this is the
end.”

“They have to let us use the phone,” I said. “I'll call Lotterman.”

Yeamon snorted. “He won't do a damn thing for
me.
Hell, he wants me locked up.”

“He won't have any choice,” I replied. “He can't afford to abandon me and Sala.”

Yeamon looked doubtful. “Well. . . I can't think of anybody else to call.”

Sala groaned again and rubbed his head. “Christ, we'll be lucky to get out of here alive.”

“We got off easy,” said Yeamon, gently feeling his teeth. “I thought we were done for
when it started.”

Sala shook his head. “These people are vicious,” he muttered. “I was dodging that cop and
somebody hit me from behind with a coconut -- nearly broke my neck.”

The door opened and the boss cop appeared, smiling as if nothing had happened. “Okay?”
he said, watching us curiously.

Yeamon looked up at him. “We'd like to use the phone,” he said.

The cop shook his head. “Your names?” he said, pulling out a small notebook.

“If you don't mind,” said Yeamon. “I think we have a right to make a phone call.”

The cop made a menacing gesture with his fist. “I said NO!” he shouted. “Give me your
names!”

We gave our names.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“Goddamnit, we live here!” Sala snapped. “I work for the
Daily News
and I've lived on this stinking rock for more than a year!” He was trembling with rage and
the cop looked startled. “My address is 409 Calle Tetuan,” Sala continued, “and I want a
lawyer immediately.”

The cop thought for a moment “You work for the
Daily News?”

“You're damn right,” Sala replied.

The cop looked down at us and smiled wickedly. “Tough guys,” he said. “Tough Yankee
journalists.”

No one said anything for a moment, then Yeamon asked again to use the phone. “Look,” he
said. “Nobody's trying to be tough. You just beat the hell out of us and now we want a
lawyer -- is that too much to ask?”

The cop smiled again. “Okay, tough guys.”

“What the hell is this 'tough guy' business?” Sala exclaimed. “Where the Christ is a
phone?”

He started to get up and he was still in a crouch, halfway off the bench, when the cop
stepped forward and gave him a savage rabbit punch on the neck. Sala dropped to his knees
and the cop kicked him in the ribs. Three more cops burst into the room as if they'd been
waiting for the signal. Two of them grabbed Yeamon, twisting his arms behind his back, and
the other one knocked me off the bench and stood over me with his stick. I knew he wanted
to hit me and I didn't move, trying not to give him an excuse. After a long moment, the
boss cop yelled, “Okay, tough guys, let's go.” I was jerked off the floor and we were
forced down the hall at a half-trot, our arms twisted painfully behind our backs.

At the end of the hall we came into a big room full of people and cops and a lot of desks
-- and there, sitting on a table in the middle of the room, was Moberg. He was writing in
a notebook.

“Moberg!” I yelled, not caring if I was hit as long as I attracted his attention. “Call
Lotterman! Get a lawyer!”

At the sound of Moberg's name, Sala looked up and screamed with rage and pain: “Swede!
For Christ's sake call somebody! We're being killed!”

We were pushed through the room at high speed and I had no more than a glimpse of Moberg
before we were in another hallway. The cops paid no attention to our shouts; apparently
they were used to people screaming desperately as they were led away to wherever we were
being taken. My only hope was that Moberg had not been too drunk to recognize us.

We spent the next six hours in a tiny concrete cell with about twenty Puerto Ricans. We
couldn't sit down because they had pissed all over the floor, so we stood in the middle of
the room, giving out cigarettes like representatives of the Red Cross. They were a
dangerous-looking lot Some were drunk and others seemed crazy. I felt safe as long as we
could supply them with cigarettes, but I wondered what would happen when we ran out.

The guard solved this problem for us, at a nickel a cigarette. Each time we wanted one
for ourselves we had to buy twenty-one for every man in the cell. After two rounds, the
guard sent out for a new carton. We figured out later that our stay in the cell cost us
more than fifteen dollars, which Sala and I paid, since Yeamon had no money.

It seemed like we had been there for six years when the guard finally opened the door
and beckoned us out. Sala could hardly walk and Yeamon and I were so tired that we had
trouble supporting him. I had no idea where we were going. Probably to the dungeon, I
thought. This is the way people disappear.

We went back through the building, along several hallways, and finally into a large
courtroom. As we were shoved through the door, looking as dirty and disheveled as the most
horrible bums in the cell we had just left, I looked around anxiously for some familiar
face.

The courtroom was jammed and I looked for several minutes before I saw Moberg and
Sanderson standing solemnly in one corner. I nodded to them and Moberg held up his
fingers in a circle.

“Thank God,” said Sala. “We've made contact.”

“Is that Sanderson?” Yeamon asked.

“Looks like it,” I said, not having the faintest idea what it meant.

“What's that prick doing here?” Sala mumbled.

“We could do a hell of a lot worse,” I said. “We're damn lucky anybody's here.”

It was almost an hour before they called our case. The boss cop was the first to speak
and his testimony was delivered in Spanish. Sala, who understood parts of what he was
saying, kept muttering: “That lying bastard. . . claims we threatened to tear the place
up. . . attacked the manager. . . ran out on our bill. . . hit a cop. . . Christ Jesus!. .
. started a fight when we got to headquarters. . . God, this is too much! We're done for!”

When the boss cop had finished, Yeamon asked for a translation of the testimony, but the
judge ignored him.

The manager testified next, sweating and gesturing with excitement, his voice rising to
an hysterical pitch as he swung his arms and shook his fists and pointed at us as if we
had killed his entire family.

We understood nothing of what he said, but it was obvious that things were going against
us. When it finally came our turn to speak, Yeamon got up and demanded a translation of
all the testimony against us.

“You heard it,” said the judge in perfect English.

Yeamon explained that none of us spoke Spanish well enough to understand what had been
said. “These people spoke English before,” he said, pointing at the cop and the manager.
“Why can't they speak it now?”

The judge smiled contemptuously. “You forget where you are,” he said. “What right do you
have to come here and cause trouble, and then tell us to speak your language?”

I could see that Yeamon was losing his temper and I motioned to Sanderson to do
something. Just then I heard Yeamon say he “would expect fairer treatment under Batista.”

A dead silence fell on the courtroom. The judge stared at Yeamon, his eyes bright with
anger. I could almost feel the axe descending.

Sanderson called from the back of the room: “Your Honor, could I have a word?”

The judge looked up. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sanderson. I'm with Adelante.”

A man I had never seen stepped quickly up to the judge and whispered in his ear. The
judge nodded, then looked back at Sanderson. “Go ahead,” he said.

Sanderson's voice seemed out of place after the wild denunciations of the cop and the
manager. “These men are American journalists,” he said. “Mr. Kemp is with the
New York Times,
Mr. Yeamon represents the American Travel Writers' Association, and Mr. Sala works for
Life
magazine.” He paused, and I wondered just how much good this kind of thing was going to
do. Our earlier identification as Yankee journalists had been disastrous.

“Perhaps I'm wrong,” Sanderson continued, “but I think this testimony has been a little
confusing, and I'd hate to see it result in any unnecessary embarrassment.” He glanced at
the boss cop, then back to the judge.

“Jesus,” Yeamon whispered. “I hope he knows what he's doing.”

I nodded, watching the judge's face. Sanderson's last comment had been delivered in a
tone of definite warning, and it crossed my mind that he might be drunk. For all I knew,
he had come straight from some party where he'd been drinking steadily since early
afternoon.

“Well, Mr. Sanderson,” said the judge in an even voice. “What do you suggest?”

Sanderson smiled politely. “I think it might be wise to continue this hearing when the
atmosphere is a little less strained.”

The same man who had spoken to the judge earlier was back at the bench. There was a quick
exchange of words, then the judge spoke to Sanderson.

“You have a point,” he said, “but these men have behaved in an arrogant way -- they have
no respect for our laws.”

Sanderson's face darkened. “Well, Your Honor, if the case is going to be tried tonight,
I'll have to ask for a recess until I can contact Adolfo Quinones.” He nodded. “I'll have
to wake him up, of course, get Senor Quinones out of bed, but I don't feel qualified to
act any further as an attorney.”

There was another hurried conference at the bench. I could see that the name Quinones had
given the court some pause. He was the
News'
attorney, an ex-senator, and one of the most prominent men on the island.

We all watched nervously as the conference continued. Finally the judge looked over and
told us to stand. “You will be released on bail,” he said. “Or you may wait in jail -- as
you like.” He jotted something down on a piece of paper.

“Robert Sala,” he said. Sala looked up. “You are charged with public drunkenness,
disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. Bail is set at one thousand dollars.”

Sala grumbled and looked away.

“Addison Yeamon,” said the judge. “You are charged with public drunkenness, disorderly
conduct and resisting arrest. Bail is set at one thousand dollars.”

Yeamon said nothing.

“Paul Kemp,” said the judge. “You are charged with public drunkenness, disorderly conduct
and resisting arrest. Bail is set at three hundred dollars.”

This was almost as much of a shock as anything that had happened all night I felt as if
I'd committed a treachery of some kind. It seemed to me that I'd resisted well enough --
had it been my screaming? Was the judge taking pity on me because he knew I'd been
stomped? I was still pondering it as we were led out of the courtroom and into the hall.

“What now?” said Yeamon. “Can Sanderson afford that kind of bail?”

“Don't worry,” I said. “He'll handle it.” As I said it I felt like a fool. If worst came
to worst, I could cover my bail out of my own pocket.

And I knew somebody would post Sala's, but Yeamon was a different matter. Nobody was
going to make sure he came to work on Monday. The more I thought about it, the more
certain I was that in a few minutes we were going to go free and he would go back to that
cell, because there wasn't a soul on the island with a thousand dollars who had even the
slightest interest in keeping Yeamon out of jail.

Suddenly Moberg appeared, followed by Sanderson and the man who'd been huddling with the
judge. Moberg laughed drunkenly as he approached us. “I thought they were going to kill
you,” he said.

“They almost did,” I replied. “What about this bail? Can we get that much money?”

He laughed again. “It's paid. Segarra told me to sign a check.” He lowered his voice. “He
said to pay the fines if they weren't more than a hundred dollars. He's lucky -- there
weren't any fines.”

“You mean we're out?” said Sala.

Moberg grinned. “Of course. I signed for it”

“Me too?” said Yeamon.

“Certainly,” Moberg replied. “The deed is done -- you're all free.”

As we started for the door, Sanderson shook hands with the man he'd been talking with,
and hurried after us. It was almost dawn and the sky was a light grey. Except for a few
people around the police station, the streets were calm and empty. A few big freighters
stood at anchor in the bay, waiting for morning and the tugboats that would bring them in.

By the time we got to the street, I could see the first rays of the sun, a cool pink glow
in the eastern sky. The fact that I'd spent all night in a cell and a courtroom made that
morning one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. There was a peace and a brightness about
it, a chilly Caribbean dawn after a night in a filthy jail. I looked out at the ships and
the sea beyond them, and I felt crazy to be free with a whole day ahead of me.

Then I realized I would sleep most of the day, and my excitement disappeared. Sanderson
agreed to drop us at the apartment and we said good night to Moberg, who was going off to
look for his car. He'd forgotten where he'd left it, but he assured us it was no problem.
“I'll find it by the smell,” he said. “I can smell it for blocks.” And he shuffled off
down the street, a small figure in a dirty grey suit, sniffing for his car.

Sanderson later explained that Moberg had first called Lotterman, who was not home, then
Quinones, who was in Miami. Then he had called Segarra, who told him to sign a check for
what he assumed would be small fines. Sanderson had been at Segarra's house, just ready
to leave when Moberg called, and he had stopped by the court on his way home.