Thompson, Hunter S (14 page)

“Progress marches on,” I muttered, plunging my hand into the cooler.

He smiled. “Yeah, this is gonna be some place.”

I opened the beer and swilled it down, then reached for another. We talked for a while,
and Martin told me he'd first come to Vieques as a Marine. He knew a good thing when he
saw one, he said, so instead of staying for twenty, as he'd planned, he got out after ten
and came back to Vieques to set up a bar. Now, in addition to The Kingfish, he owned a
laundry, five houses in Isabel Segunda, the only newspaper concession, and he was setting
up a car rental agency to handle Zimburger's influx. On top of everything else, he was
“general overseer” for Zimburger's property, which put him in on the ground floor. He
smiled and sipped his beer. “You might say this place has been good to me. If I'd stayed
in the States I'd be just another ex-jarhead.”

“Where you from?” I asked.

“Norfolk,” he said. “But I'm not too homesick. San Juan's as far as I've been from this
place in six years.” He paused, looking around at the little green island that had been so
good to him. “Yeah, I grew up in Norfolk, but I don't remember it much -- seems too long
ago.”

We had another beer, then Zimburger and Robbis and Lazard came back from the beach.
Lazard was sweating and Robbis looked very impatient

Zimburger gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Well,” he said with a grin, “you
ready to write that article? Didn't I tell you this site was a beaut?”

“Sure,” I said. “I'm all set.”

He shook his head with mock disappointment “Ah, you writers -- never a good word for
anything.” He laughed nervously. “Goddamn writers -- no telling what they'll do.”

All the way back to town Zimburger talked incessantly about his plans for Vieques.
Finally Martin broke in to say that we were all going to eat lunch at his club -- he'd
sent the boys out for some fresh lobster.

“You mean
langosta,”
said Zimburger.

Martin shrugged. “Hell, every time I say that I have to go through a long explanation --
so I just call it lobster.”

“It's the Caribbean lobster,” Zimburger said to Robbis. “Bigger and better than the other
kind, and it doesn't have claws.” He grinned. “Old God sure was in a good mood when he
made this place.”

Robbis stared out the window, then turned and spoke to Martin. “I'll have to take a
raincheck on that,” he said stiffly. “I have an appointment in San Juan, it's getting
late.”

“Hell's bells,” said Zimburger. “We got time to kill. It's only about one.”

“I'm not in the habit of killing time,” said Robbis, turning again to stare out the
window.

I could tell by his tone that something had gone wrong out there on the beach. From the
morning conversation, I'd gathered that Robbis represented some chain of restaurants whose
name I was supposed to recognize. Apparently Zimburger was counting on adding a Vieques
branch to that chain.

Out of the corner of my eye I looked at Lazard. He seemed in a worse mood than Robbis. It
gave me a definite pleasure, which bordered on euphoria when Zimburger announced, in a
surly tone, that we would fly back to San Juan immediately.

“I think I'll stay overnight,” I said. “I have to be in St Thomas tomorrow to cover that
carnival.” I looked at Martin: “What time does the ferry leave?”

We were coming into town now, and Martin shifted quickly into second to climb a steep
hill. “The ferry was yesterday,” he said. “But we got a boat going over. Hell, I may take
you myself.”

“Good enough,” I said. “No sense in me going back to San Juan. You can drop me at the
hotel.”

“Later,” he replied with a grin. “We'll eat first -- can't let all that. . . ah. . .
langosta go to waste.”

We drove Zimburger and Robbis and Lazard out to the airport, where the pilot was sleeping
peacefully in the shadow of the plane. Zimburger yelled at him and he slowly got up, never
changing his weary expression. Obviously, this man gave a damn for nothing at all; I felt
like nudging Lazard and telling him that we had both missed the boat.

But Lazard was brooding and all I said to him was, “See you around.” He nodded and
climbed into the plane. Robbis followed, and then Zimburger, who sat next to the
stony-faced pilot. They were all staring straight ahead when the plane bucked off down the
runway and skimmed over the trees toward Puerto Rico.

I spent the next few hours at Martin's bar. A friend of his ate lunch with us; he was
another ex-Marine, who owned a bar on a hill outside of town. “Drink up,” Martin kept
telling me. “It's all on the house.” He grinned maliciously. “Or maybe I should say it's
all on Mister Zimburger -- you're his guest, right?”

“Right,” I replied, and accepted another glass of rum.

Finally we had the lobster. I could tell it had been thawing all day, but Martin proudly
said his boys had just brought it in. I had a vision of Martin ordering his lobsters from
Maine, then tearing the claws off and sticking them in the freezer until he could palm
them off on Zimburger's guests -- and then etching it very carefully on the expense sheet.
One journalist -- forty dollars a day, labor and entertainment

After I'd eaten two langostas, swilled countless drinks, and grown extremely weary of
their babbling, I got up to go. “Which way is the hotel?” I asked, stooping to pick up my
leather bag.

“Come on,” said Martin, heading for the door. “I'll take you up to the Carmen.”

I followed him out to the bus. We drove up the hill about three blocks to a low pink
building, with a sign that said Hotel Carmen. The place was empty, and Martin told the
woman to give me the best room in the house; it was on him.

Before leaving, he said he'd take me over to St Thomas tomorrow in the launch. “We'll
have to take off about ten,” he said. “I have to be there at noon to meet a friend.”

I knew he was lying, but it didn't matter. Martin was like an auto mechanic who'd just
discovered the insurance company, or a punk gone mad on his first expense account. I
looked forward to the day when he and Zimburger would find each other out.

The best room in the Carmen cost three dollars, and had a balcony overlooking the town
and the harbor. I was very full and half drunk, and when I got in the room I went to sleep
immediately.

Two hours later I was awakened by someone tapping on the door. “Senor,” the voice said.
“You have dinner with Senor Kingfish, no?”

“I'm not hungry,” I said. “I just ate lunch.”

“Si,” the voice replied, and I heard quick footsteps on the stairs going down to the
street. It was still light and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went out to get a bottle
of rum and some ice. In the same building with the hotel was what appeared to be a storage
bin full of liquor. A grinning Puerto Rican sold me a bottle of rum for a dollar, and a
bag of ice for two dollars. I paid and went back upstairs to my room.

I mixed a drink and went out on the balcony to sit down. The town still looked deserted.
Far out on the horizon I could see the neighboring island of Culebra, and from somewhere
in that direction came the shuddering thump of explosions. I recalled Sanderson telling
me that Culebra was an aerial bombing range for the U.S. Navy. Once it had been a magic
place, but no longer.

I had been there about twenty minutes when a Negro came down the street on a small grey
horse. The hoofbeats rang through the town like pistol shots. I watched him clatter up the
street and disappear over a small rise. The hoofbeats carried back to me long after he was
out of sight.

Then I heard another sound, the muted rhythm of a steel band. It was getting dark now,
and I couldn't tell what direction the music was coming from. It was a soft, compelling
sound, and I sat there and drank and listened to it, feeling at peace with myself and the
world, as the hills behind me turned a red-gold color in the last slanting rays of the sun.

Then it was night A few lights came on in the town. The music came in long bursts, as if
someone was explaining something between choruses, and then it would start again. I heard
voices below me on the street, and now and then the hoofbeats of another horse.

Isabel Segunda seemed more active at night than it had been during the long, hot day.

It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy
little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with a balcony
overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something
happened. I felt a tremendous distance between me and everything real. Here I was on
Vieques island, a place so insignificant that I had never heard of it until I'd been told
to come here -- delivered by one nut, and waiting to be taken off by another.

It was almost May. I knew that New York was getting warm now, that London was wet, that
Rome was hot -- and I was on Vieques, where it was always hot and where New York and
London and Rome were just names on a map.

Then I remembered the Marines -- no maneuvers this month -- and I remembered why I was
here. Zimburger wants a brochure. . . aimed at investors. . . your job is to sell the
place. . . don't be late or he'll. . .

I was being paid twenty-five dollars a day to ruin the only place I'd seen in ten years
where I'd felt a sense of peace. Paid to piss in my own bed, as it were, and I was only
here because I'd got drunk and been arrested and had thereby become a pawn in some
high-level face-saving bullshit.

I sat there a long time, and thought about a lot of things. Foremost among them was the
suspicion that my strange and ungovernable instincts might do me in before I had a chance
to get rich. No matter how much I wanted all those things that I needed money to buy,
there was some devilish current pushing me off in another direction -- toward anarchy and
poverty and craziness. That maddening delusion that a man can lead a decent life without
hiring himself out as a Judas Goat.

Finally I got drunk and went to bed. Martin woke me up the next day and we had breakfast
in the drugstore before taking off for St Thomas. The day was bright and blue, and we had
a good crossing. By the time we came into the harbor of Charlotte Amalie I'd forgotten
Vieques and Zimburger and everything else.

We were still in open water when I heard the noise. The island loomed up like a big mound
of grass in the ocean, and from it came the melodious pounding of steel drums, a steady
roar of engines, and much shouting. It grew louder as we entered the harbor, and there was
still a half mile of blue water between us and the town when I heard the first explosion.
Then several more in rapid succession. I could hear people screaming, the wail of a
trumpet, and the steady rhythm of drums.

There were thirty or forty yachts in the harbor; Martin eased his launch among them,
heading for an empty spot at the pier. I grabbed my bag and hopped out, telling Martin I
was in a hurry to meet some people. He nodded and said he was in a hurry too; he had to go
over to St John to see a man about a boat.

I was glad to be rid of him. He was one of those people who could go to New York and be
“fascinating,” but here in his own world he was just a cheap functionary, and a dull one
at that.

As I walked toward the center of town the noise became deafening. The street
reverberated with the sound of roaring engines, and I pressed forward to see what it
meant. When I got to the corner the crowd was so thick I could barely move. Down the
middle of the street ran a bar, more than three blocks long, a series of wooden booths
full of rum and whiskey. In each one of them, several bartenders worked feverishly to
supply the mob with drink. I stopped in front of one that said “Rum 25 cents”. They served
the drinks in paper flagons, a chunk of ice and a violent slug of rum to each one.

Further down the street I came to the center of the crowd. I kept inching forward until I
found myself in an open space, ringed by thousands of people. It was a Go-Kart race,
little engines mounted on wooden chassis, driven by wild-eyed drunkards, screeching and
sliding around a course laid out in what appeared to be the town plaza.

At close range the noise was unbearable. People were shoving me from side to side and my
drink kept spilling down my shirt, but there was nothing I could do. Most of the faces
around me were black, but all through the crowd I could see American tourists, white and
sweating and most of them wearing carnival hats.

Across the square was a large building with a balcony that looked down on the race. I
decided to go there. It was only a hundred yards away, but it took me thirty minutes to
fight and slither through the mob, and by the time I sat down on the balcony I was weak
and soaked with sweat.

My drink had been knocked out of my hands somewhere below, so I went to the bar for
another. For fifty cents I got a dash of rum and a lot of water -- but it came in a glass,
with normal ice cubes, and I felt a confidence that I could drink it at my leisure. I was
in the Grand Hotel, an ancient grey structure with white pillars and ceiling fans and a
balcony that ran the length of the block.

I wondered how I was going to locate Yeamon. We'd arranged to meet at the post office at
noon, but I was already more than an hour late, and the post office was closed. I could
see it from the balcony, so I decided to stay there until I caught sight of him, then try
to get his attention. In the meantime, I would drink, rest, and ponder the meaning of this
mob.

The Go-Kart races were over now, and the crowd turned to the band for amusement. Another
band appeared, and then others at different corners of the square, each leading a train of
dancers. Four steel bands, playing the same wild tune, came together in the middle of the
square. The sound was incredible; people were singing and stomping and screaming. Here and
there I saw tourists trying to get out of it, but most of them were carried along in the
mob. The bands moved off together, heading down the main street. Behind them the crowd
linked arms, thirty abreast, blocking the street and both sidewalks -- chanting the music
as they jerked and staggered along.

I had been there a while when a man came up and stood by the railing in front of me. I
nodded hello, and he smiled. “My name's Ford,” he said, extending his hand. “I live here.
You down for the carnival?”

“I guess so,” I replied.

He looked over the railing again and shook his head. “A violent thing,” he said solemnly.
“Be careful, you never know what might happen.”

I nodded. “By the way, maybe you can tell me some other hotels in town. The bartender
says this one's full.”

He laughed. “Nope, not an empty room on the island.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Why worry?” he replied. “Sleep on the beach. Lots of people do -- better than most
hotels.”

“Where?” I said. “Are there any close to town?”

“Sure,” he replied, “but they'll all be full. Your best bet is Lindbergh Beach, out by
the airport. It's the nicest.”

I shrugged. “Well, it may come to that.”

He laughed. “Good luck.” Then he reached into his shirt pocket. “Come out and have dinner
if you have time. It's not expensive -- it only sounds that way.” He laughed and waved
goodbye. I looked at his card; it was an advertisement for a hotel called Pirate's Castle
-- Owen Ford, prop.

“Thanks,” I muttered, tossing the card over the railing. I was tempted to go out there
and eat a huge meal, then hand him a card saying, “Worldwide Congress of Non-Paying
Journalists -- Paul Kemp, prop.”

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Yeamon, looking wild-eyed and carrying two bottles of
rum. “I thought you'd be up here,” he said with a grin. “We've been checking the post
office all day -- then I realized that any professional journalist would seek the highest
and safest spot in town.” He fell down in a wicker chair. “What else but the balcony of
the Grand Hotel?”

I nodded. “It's nice, but don't get comfortable. This place is sold out like all the
others.” Then I looked around. “Where's Chenault?”

“I left her downstairs in the gift shop,” he said. “She'll be up -- can we get ice here?”

“I guess so,” I said. “I've been getting drinks.”

“For God's sake,” he replied. “Don't buy rum here. I found a place where you can get it
for seventy-five cents a gallon -- all we really need is ice.”

“Fine,” I said. “Go ask.”

As he started for the bar, Chenault appeared. “Over here,” he called, and she came over
to the rail. Yeamon went to the bar and Chenault sat down.

She fell back in the chair and groaned. “My lord!” she said. “We've been dancing all day.
I'm nearly dead.”

She looked happy. She also looked as pretty as I'd ever seen her. She was wearing sandals
and a madras skirt and a white sleeveless blouse, but the difference was in her face. It
was red and healthy and damp with sweat. Her hair hung loose and free on her shoulders
and her eyes glittered with excitement. There was something especially sexual about her
now. Her small body, still wrapped very tastefully in plaids and white silk, seemed ready
to explode with energy.

Yeamon came back with three glasses of ice, cursing because the bartender had charged him
thirty cents for each one. He put them on the floor and filled them with rum. “These
bastards,” he mumbled. “They'll get rich selling ice -- look how the rotten stuff melts.”

Chenault laughed and kicked him playfully in the back. “Stop that silly complaining,” she
said. “You'll spoil the fun.”

“Balls,” he replied.

Chenault smiled and sipped her drink. “If you'd let yourself go, you'd enjoy it”

He finished pouring the drinks and stood up. “Don't give me that crap,” he said. “I don't
need a mob to enjoy myself.”

She didn't seem to hear him. “It's too bad,” she said. “Fritz just can't enjoy himself
because he can't let go.” She looked at me. “Don't you agree?”

“Leave me out of it,” I said. “I came here to drink.”

She giggled and held up her glass. “That's right,” she said. “We came here to drink --
just have a good time and let go!”

Yeamon frowned and turned his back on us, leaning on the railing and staring down at the
plaza. It was almost empty now, but far down the street we could hear the drums and the
howl of the crowd.

Chenault finished her drink and stood up. “Come on,” she said. “I feel like dancing.”

Yeamon shook his head wearily. “I don't know if I can stand any more of it.”

She pulled at his arm. “Come on, it'll do you good. You too, Paul.” She reached out with
her other hand and tugged at my shirt.

“Why not?” I said. “We might as well try it.”

Yeamon straightened up and reached for the glasses. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I can't
face it again without rum -- I'll get some more ice.”

We waited for him at the top of the stairs that led down to the street Chenault turned to
me with a big smile. “We have to sleep on the beach,” she said. “Did Fritz tell you?”

“No,” I said. “But I found out anyway. I know one that comes highly recommended.”

She grabbed my arm and squeezed it. “Good. I
want
to sleep on the beach.”

I nodded, seeing Yeamon approach with the drinks. I enjoyed Chenault in this wild
condition, but it made me nervous. I recalled the last time I'd seen her full of drink,
and the idea that anything like that might happen again, especially in a place like this,
was not a happy prospect.

We went down the stairs and walked along the streets, sipping our drinks. Then we caught
up with the mob. Chenault grabbed hold of somebody's waist in the last row of dancers and
Yeamon got in beside her. I stuffed the bottle I'd been carrying into my pants pocket and
fell in next to Yeamon. In a moment we were sealed in by more people behind us. I felt
hands on my waist and heard a shrill voice screaming, “Take it off! Take it off.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw a white man who looked like a used car salesman. Then
the mob surged left and I saw the man stumble and fall. The dancers trampled him without
missing a beat.

The bands kept circling the town and the mob kept growing larger. I was dripping with
sweat and ready to collapse from the constant dancing, but there was no way out of it. I
looked to my left and saw Yeamon, smiling grimly as he executed the jerky shuffle-step
that carried us along. Chenault was laughing happily and swinging her hips to the constant
thump of the drums.

Finally my legs threatened to give out. I tried to catch Yeamon's attention, but the
noise was deafening. In desperation, I lunged across the chain of dancers, knocking people
off balance, and grabbed Yeamon's arm. “Out!” I yelled. “I can't stand it.”

He nodded and pointed toward a side street a few hundred yards ahead. Then he grabbed
Chenault by the arm and began edging toward the sidelines. I whooped distractedly as we
bulled through the crowd.

When we got clear of the mob we stood there and let it pass, then we started off toward a
restaurant that Yeamon had seen earlier in the day. “It looks decent, anyway,” he said. “I
hope to God it's cheap.”

The place was called Olivers. It was a makeshift, thatched-roof affair on top of a
concrete building with boarded-up windows. We struggled up the stairs and found an empty
table. The place was crowded, and I pushed to the bar. Singapore slings were fifty cents
each, but it was worth that much just to sit down.

From our table we could look up and down the waterfront. It was jammed with all kinds of
boats -- sleek power cruisers and scraggy, native sloops full of bananas, tied up
alongside sleek eight-meter racing hulls from Newport and Bermuda. Beyond the channel
buoys stood a few big motor yachts that people said were gambling ships. The sun went down
slowly behind a hill across the harbor and lights began to flicker in buildings on the
wharf. Somewhere across town we could still hear the frenzied beat of the dance as it
moved through the streets.

A waiter appeared, wearing an Old Spice yachting cap. We all ordered the seafood platter.
“And three glasses of ice,” Yeamon told him. “Right away, if you don't mind.”

The waiter nodded and disappeared. After a ten-minute wait Yeamon went to the bar and got
three glasses of ice. We poured our drinks under the table and set the bottle on the floor.

“What we need is a gallon jug,” said Yeamon. “And some kind of a knapsack to carry ice.”

“Why the gallon jug?” I asked.

“For that seventy-five-cent rum,” he replied.

“Hell with it,” I said. “It's probably worthless.” I nodded toward the bottle on the
floor. “This is cheap enough -- you can't beat good rum at a dollar a bottle.”

He shook his head. “Nothing worse than traveling with a rich journalist -- throw dollars
around like beans.”

I laughed. “I'm not the only one working for Sanderson these days,” I said. “The big
money is just around the corner -- never lose faith.”

“Not for me,” he replied. “I'm supposed to be doing an article on this carnival --
checking with the tourist bureau and all that.” He shrugged. “No dice. I can't sneak
around digging up facts while everybody else is drunk.”

“Nobody's drunk,” said Chenault “We're just letting go.”

He smiled lazily. “That's right, we're kicking off the traces, really raising hell -- why
don't you write a good stiff note to the Smith College alumni letter and tell 'em where
they missed the boat?”

She laughed. “Fritz is jealous of my background. I have so much more to rebel against.”

“Balls,” said Yeamon. “You don't have anything to rebel
with.”

The waiter arrived with the food and we stopped talking. It was dark when we finished, and
Chenault was anxious to get into the streets again. I was in no hurry. This place was
peaceful, now that the crowd had thinned out, but it was close enough to the chaos that we
could join it anytime we wanted.

Finally she dragged us down to the street, but the dance had petered out. We wandered
around the town, stopping at the liquor store to buy two more bottles of rum, then
returning to the Grand Hotel to see what was happening there.

A party was going on at one end of the balcony. Most of these people appeared to be
expatriates -- not tourists, but the type who looked like they might live here on the
island, or at least somewhere in the Caribbean. They were all very tan. A few had beards,
but most of them were freshly shaven. The ones with beards wore shorts and old polo
shirts, the boating set. The others wore linen suits and leather shoes that sparkled in
the dim light of the balcony chandeliers.