Sala laughed. “Hitler had plenty of money, but he never paid his bills.”
Schwartz shook his head sadly. “I wish I could get into the office. I have to make some calls.” He nodded meaningfully. “Long calls -- like Paris, Kenya, and Tokyo.”
“Why Tokyo?” said Moberg. “You can get killed there.”
“You mean you can get killed there,” Schwartz replied. “I mind my own business.”
Moberg shook his head. “I have friends in Tokyo. You'll never make friends -- you're too stupid.”
“You dirty little lush!” Schwartz exclaimed, suddenly standing up. “One more word out of you and I'll punch your face!”
Moberg laughed easily. “You're cracking up, Schwartz. I'd advise you to take a bath.”
Schwartz took a quick step around the table and swung like he was throwing a baseball. Moberg could have dodged, if he'd had any reflexes, but he just sat there and let himself be bashed off his chair.
It was a tough show and Schwartz was obviously pleased with himself. “That'll teach you,” he muttered, starting for the door. “See you fellows later,” he called back to us. “I can't stand being around that lush.”
Moberg grinned and spit at him. “I'll be back in a while,” he told us. “I have to see a woman in Rio Piedras -- I need money.”
Sala watched him go, shaking his head sadly. “I've seen a lot of creeps in my time, but that one takes the cake.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Moberg is your friend. Never forget that.”
Later that night we went to a garden party given by the Rum League and the San Juan Chamber of Commerce, to honor the spirit of American scholarship. The house was white stucco, ornate and sprawling, with a big garden in back. About a hundred people were there, most of them dressed formally. On one side of the garden was a long bar and I hurried toward it Donovan was there, drinking heavily. He opened his coat discreetly and showed me a butcher knife tucked into his belt “Look at this,” he said. “We're ready.”
Ready? I thought. Ready for what? Slitting Lotterman's throat? The garden was full of rich celebrities and visiting students. I noticed Yeamon standing off from the crowd with his arm around an exceptionally pretty girl. They were sharing a pint of gin and laughing harshly. Yeamon was wearing black nylon gloves, which I took as an ominous sign. Jesus, I thought, these bastards have gone through the looking glass. I wanted no part of it
The party was dressy. There was a band on the porch, playing “Cielito Lindo” over and over again. They gave it a mad waltzing tempo and each time they finished, the dancers would yell for more. For some reason, I remember that moment as well or better than anything else I saw in Puerto Rico. A sensuous green garden, surrounded by palms and a brick wall; a long bar full of bottles and ice, and behind it a white-coated bartender; an elderly crowd in dinner jackets and bright dresses, talking peacefully on the lawn. A warm Caribbean night, with time passing slowly and at a respectful distance.
I felt a hand on my arm and it was Sala. “Lotterman's here,” he said. “We're going to nail him.”
Just then we heard a shrill scream. I looked across the garden and saw a flurry of movement There was another scream and I recognized Moberg's voice, yelling: “Watch out, watch out. . . eeeeeeyahhaaaa!”
I got there just in time to see him getting up off the ground. Lotterman was standing over him, waving his fist. “You stinking little sot! You tried to kill me!”
Moberg got up slowly and brushed himself off. “You deserve to die,” he snarled, “die like the rat you are.”
Lotterman was trembling and his face was dark red. He took a quick step toward Moberg and hit him again, knocking him back on some people who were trying to get out of the way. I heard laughter beside me and a voice saying, “One of Ed's boys tried to hit him up for some cash. Look at him go, would you!”
Lotterman was shouting incoherently and flailing at Moberg, driving him back into the crowd. Moberg was screaming for help when he bumped into Yeamon coming the other way. Yeamon shoved him aside and yelled something at Lotterman. The only word I caught was “Now. . .”
I saw Lotterman's face collapse with surprise, and he was standing straight as a wooden pole when Yeamon hit him in the eyes and knocked him about six feet. He staggered wildly for a moment, then collapsed on the grass, bleeding from his eyes and both ears. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape come hurtling across the garden and strike the group like a cannonball. They all went down, but Donovan was first on his feet. He had a berserk grin on his face as he grabbed one man by the head and mashed him sideways against a tree. Yeamon dragged Lotterman out from under another man and began whacking him around the garden like a punching bag.
The crowd panicked and rushed to escape. “Call the police!” one man shouted.
A wrinkled old woman in a strapless dress went stumbling past me, shrieking, “Take me home! Take me home! I'm afraid!”
I edged away through the mob, trying to attract as little attention as possible. When I got to the door I looked back and saw a bunch of men staring down at Lotterman's body and making the sign of the cross. “There they go!” someone shouted, and I looked toward the back of the garden where he was pointing. There was a rustling in the bushes, the sound of snapping limbs, and then I saw Donovan and Yeamon scrambling over the wall.
A man came running up the steps to the house. “They got away!” he shouted. “Somebody call the police! I'm going after them!”
I slid out the door and ran along the sidewalk toward my car. I thought I heard Yeamon's scooter somewhere nearby, but I couldn't be sure. I decided to hurry back to Al's, saying that I'd ducked out of that unruly crowd and gone down to the Flamboyan for a few quiet beers. It would be a flimsy alibi, if anybody at the party had recognized me, but I had no choice.
I'd been there about fifteen minutes when Sala arrived. He was trembling as he hurried over to the table. “Man!” he said in a loud whisper. “I've been driving like a bastard all over town. I didn't know where to go.” He looked around to make sure there was nobody else in the patio.
I laughed and leaned back in the chair. “Wasn't that a bitch?”
“A bitch?” he exclaimed. “Did you hear what happened? Lotterman had a heart attack -- he's dead.”
I leaned toward him. “Where'd you hear that?”
“I was there when they took him away in the ambulance,” he replied. “You should have seen the place -- women screaming, cops everywhere -- they took Moberg.” He lit a cigarette. “You know we're still out on bail,” he said quietly. “We're doomed.”
The lights were on in my apartment, and as I hurried up the stairs I heard the shower running. The bathroom door was closed and I pulled it open. The curtain jerked back and Yeamon peered out of the shower. “Kemp?” he said, peering through the steam. “Who the hell is it?”
“God damn you!” I shouted. “How did you get in here?”
“Your window was open. I'll have to stay here tonight -- the lights failed on my scooter.”
“You dumb bastard!” I snapped. “You might have a murder rap on your ass -- Lotterman had a heart attack -- he's dead!”
He jumped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. “Jesus,” he said. “I better get out of here.”
“Where's Donovan?” I said. “They're after him too.”
He shook his head. “I don't know. We hit a parked car on the scooter. He said he was going to the airport.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost eleven-thirty. “Where's the scooter?” I asked.
He pointed to the rear of the building. “I put it around the side. It was hell getting here with no lights.”
I groaned. “Christ, you're sucking me right into jail! Get dressed. You're leaving.”
It was a ten-minute drive to the airport and we had barely got under way when we ran into a tropical monsoon. We stopped and put up the top, but by the time we got it snapped down we were both soaking wet.
The rain was blin
ding. A few inches above my head it pounded on the canvas, and beneath us the tires hissed on the wet pavement.
We swung off the highway and started up the long road to the airport We were about halfway to the terminal when I looked to my left and saw a big plane with Pan Am markings come hurtling down the runway. I thought I could see Donovan's face at one of the windows, grinning and waving at us as the plane lifted off the runway and went past us with a great roar, a winged monster full of lights and people, all bound for New York. I pulled over and we watched it climb and go into a steep turn above the palm jungle and then out to sea, until finally it was nothing but a tiny red dot up in the stars.
“Well,” I said. “There it goes.”
Yeamon stared after it. “Is that the last one?”
“Yep,” I replied. “Next flight's at nine-thirty tomorrow morning.”
After a pause he said, “Well, I guess we should head back.”
I looked at him. “Back where?” I said. “You might as well give yourself up right now as come out here tomorrow morning.”
He stared out at the rain and glanced around nervously. “Well goddamnit, I have to get off this island -- that's all there is to it.”
I thought for a moment, then I remembered the ferry from Fajardo to St. Thomas. As far as I knew, it left about eight every morning. We decided that he would go over there and get a cheap room at the Grand Hotel. After that he would be on his own --I had my own problems.
It was forty miles to Fajardo, but the road was good and there was no hurry, so I drove easily. The rain had stopped and the night smelled fresh. We put the top down and took turns sipping the rum.
“Damn,” he said after a while. “I hate to have to take off for South America with one suit and a hundred dollars to my name.”
He leaned back in the seat and wept I could hear the surf a few hundred yards to the left of the road. To the right I could see the peak of El Yunque, a black outline against a menacing sky.
It was almost one-thirty when we came to the end of the highway and turned off to Fajardo. The town was dark and there wasn't a soul on the streets. We rounded the empty plaza and drove down toward the ferry dock. There was a small hotel about a block away and I stopped in front of it while he went in to get a room.
In a few minutes he came out and got into the car. “Well,” he said quietly, “I'm okay. The ferry leaves at eight.”
He seemed to want to sit for a while, so I lit another cigarette and tried to relax. The town was so quiet that every sound we made seemed dangerously amplified. Once the rum bottle banged against the steering wheel as he was passing it back to me, and I jumped like somebody had fired a shot.
He laughed quietly. “Take it easy, Kemp. You don't have anything to worry about.”
I wasn't so much worried, as spooked. There was something eerie about the whole business, as if God in a fit of disgust had decided to wipe us all out. Our structure was collapsing; it seemed like just a few hours ago that I was having breakfast with Chenault in the sunny peace of my own home. Then I had ventured into the day, and plunged headlong into an orgy of murder and shrieking and breaking of glass. Now it was ending just as senselessly as it began. It was all over and I was very sure of it because Yeamon was leaving. There might be some noise after he left, but it would be orthodox noise, the kind a man can deal with and even ignore --instead of those sudden unnerving eruptions that suck you into them and toss you around like a toad in rough water.
I couldn't remember where it actually began, but it was ending here in Fajardo, a dark little spot on the map that seemed to be the end of the world. Yeamon was going on from here and I was going back; it was definitely the end of something, but I wasn't sure just what.
I lit a cigarette and thought about other people, and wondered what they were doing tonight, while I was here on a dark street in Fajardo sipping rum out of a bottle with a man who would tomorrow morning be a fugitive murderer.
Yeamon handed the bottle back to me and got out of the car. “Well, I'll see you, Paul -- God knows where.”
I leaned across the seat and stuck out my hand. “Probably New York,” I said.
“How long will you be here?” he asked.
“Not long,” I replied.
He gave my hand a final shake. “Okay, Kemp,” he said with a grin. “Thanks a lot -- you came through like a champ.”
“Hell,” I said, starting the engine. “We're all champs when we're drunk.”
“Nobody's drunk,” he said.
“I am,” I said. “Or else I'd have turned you in.”
“Balls,” he replied.
I shoved the car into gear. “Okay, Fritz, good luck.”
“Right,” he said as I pulled away. “Good luck yourself.”
I had to go down to the corner to turn around, and as I came back up the street I passed him again, and waved. He was walking down toward the ferry and when I got to the corner I stopped and watched to see what he would do. It was the last time I saw him and I remember it very clearly. He walked out on the pier and stood near a wooden lamppost, looking out at the sea. The only living thing in a dead Caribbean town -- a tall figure in a rumpled Palm Beach suit, his only suit, now full of dirt and grass stains and bulgy pockets, standing alone on a pier at the end of the world and thinking his own thoughts. I waved again, although his back was to me, and gave two quick blasts on the horn as I sped out of town.
The Rum Diary
Twenty-One
On my way back to the apartment I stopped to get the early editions. I was stunned to see Yeamon on the front page of El Diario under a big headline that said “Matanza en Rio Piedras.” It was from the shot of the three of us in the jail, taken when we got arrested and beaten. Well, I thought, this is it. The jig is up.
I drove home and called Pan Am to book a seat on the morning plane. Then I packed my bags. I crammed everything -- clothes, books, a big scrapbook of my stuff from the News -- into two duffel bags. I laid them side by side, then I put my typewriter and my shaving kit on top of them. And that was it -- my worldly goods, the meager fruits of a ten-year odyssey that was beginning to look like a lost cause. On my way out I remembered to take a bottle of Rum Superior for Chenault.
I still had three hours to kill and I needed to cash a check. They would do it at Al's, I knew, but maybe the cops would be waiting for me there. I decided to risk it and drive very carefully through Condado, across the causeway and into the sleeping Old City.
Al's was empty, except for Sala sitting alone in the patio. When I walked to the table Sala looked up. “Kemp,” he said, “I feel a hundred years old.”
“How old are you?” I said. “Thirty? Thirty-one?”
“Thirty,” he said quickly. “I was just thirty last month.”
“Hell,” I replied. “Imagine how old I feel -- I'm almost thirty-two.”
He shook his head. “I never thought I'd live to see thirty. I don't know why, but for some reason I just didn't.”
I smiled. “I don't know if I did or not -- I never gave it much thought.”
“Well,” he said. “I hope to God I never make forty -- I wouldn't know what to do with myself.”
“You might,” I said. “We're over the hump, Robert. The ride gets pretty ugly from here on in.”
He leaned back and said nothing. It was almost dawn, but Nelson Otto was still lingering at his piano. The song was “Laura,” and the sad notes floated out to the patio and hung in the trees like birds too tired to fly. It was a hot night, with almost no breeze, but I was feeling cold sweat in my hair. For lack of anything better to do, I studied a cigarette burn in the sleeve of my blue oxford-cloth shirt.
Sala called for more drink and Sweep brought four rums, saying they were on the house. We thanked him and sat for another half hour, saying nothing. Down on the waterfront I could hear the slow clang of a ship's bell as it eased against the pier, and somewhere in the city a motorcycle roared through the narrow streets, sending its echo up the hill to Calle O'L
eary. Voices rose and fell in the house next door and the raucous sound of a jukebox came from a bar down the street Sounds of a San Juan night, drifting across the city through layers of humid air; sounds of life and movement, people getting ready and people giving up, the sound of hope and the sound of hanging on, and behind them all, the quiet, deadly ticking of a thousand hungry clocks, the lonely sound of time passing in the long Caribbean night.
The Rum Diary
About the Author
Hunter S. Thompson was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky. His books include Hell's Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72, The Curse of Lono, Songs of the Doomed, Better Than Sex, and The Proud Highway. He is a regular contributor to various national and international publications. He now lives in a fortified compound on an island near Puerto Rico.
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