Thompson, Hunter S (16 page)

Sometime after midnight we found ourselves in front of a place called the Blue Grotto, a
crowded waterfront dance hall with a two dollar cover charge. I tried to pay, but people
laughed and a squatty woman grabbed my arm. “Oh, no,” she said. “You come with us. We go
to the real party.”

I recognized our friends from the street dance. A bully was slapping Yeamon on the back
and babbling about a “whip fight” and some spies with a case of gin. “I know these
people,” said Chenault, “let's go with them.”

We ran down the street to where they had a car, and about six more people piled in with
us. At the end of the main street we turned up toward the hills above town, climbing and
twisting on a dark little road through what appeared to be the residential section. The
houses at the bottom of the hill were wooden, with peeling paint, but as we went higher,
more and more houses were made of concrete blocks. Finally they became almost elaborate,
with screen porches and lawns.

We stopped at a house full of lights and music. The street in front of it was jammed with
cars and there was no place to park. The driver let us out and said he'd join us when he
found a place for the car. The squatty girl gave a loud whoop and ran up the steps to the
front door. I followed reluctantly and saw her talking to a fat woman in a bright green
dress. Then she pointed back at me. Yeamon and Chenault and the others caught up as I
stopped at the door.

“Six dollars, please,” said the woman, holding out her hand.

“Christ!” I said. “How many does that pay for?”

“Two,” she said. “You and the young lady.” She nodded at the girl who had ridden out from
town on my lap.

I cursed silently and gave up six dollars. My date repaid me with a coy smile, and took
my hand as we entered the house. My God, I thought, this pig is after me.

Yeamon was right behind us, muttering about the six dollar fee. “This better be good,” he
told Chenault. “You might as well figure on getting a job when we get back to San Juan.”

She laughed, a happy little shriek that had nothing to do with Yeamon's remark. I glanced
at her, and saw the excitement in her eyes. That dip in the harbor had sobered me up a
bit, and Yeamon seemed pretty steady, but Chenault had the look of a hophead, ready to
turn on.

We went down a dark hall and into a room full of music and noise. It was jammed from wall
to wall, and over in one corner a band was playing. Not the steel band I expected to see,
but three horns and a drum. The sound was familiar, but I couldn't place it. Then, looking
up at the ceiling where the light bulbs were wrapped in blue gelatin, I knew the sound. It
was the music of a Midwestern high school dance in some rented club. And not just the
music; the crowded, low-ceilinged room, the makeshift bar, doors opening onto a brick
terrace, people giggling and shouting and drinking booze out of paper cups -- it was all
exactly the same, except that every head in the room was black.

Seeing this made me a bit self-conscious and I began looking around for a dark corner
where I could drink without being seen. My date still had me by the arm, but I shook her
off and moved toward one corner of the room. No one paid any attention to me as I eased
through the mob, bumping dancers here and there, keeping my head lowered and moving
cautiously toward what looked like a vacant spot.

A few feet to my left was a door and I edged toward it, bumping more dancers. When I
finally got outside I felt like I'd escaped from a jail. The air was cool and the terrace
was almost empty. I walked out to the edge and looked down on Charlotte Amalie at the
bottom of the hill. I could hear music floating up from the bars along Queen Street. Off
to my right and left I could see Land Rovers and open taxis full of people moving along
the waterfront, heading for other parties, other yachts and dim-lit hotels where red and
blue lights glittered mysteriously. I tried to remember which other places we'd been told
to go for the “real fun,” and I wondered if they were any better than this one.

I thought of Vieques, and for a moment I wanted to be there. I remembered sitting on the
hotel balcony and hearing the hoofbeats in the street below. Then I remembered Zimburger,
and Martin, and the Marines -- the empire builders, setting up frozen food stores and
aerial bombing ranges, spreading out like a piss puddle to every corner of the world.

I turned to watch the dancers, thinking that since I'd paid six dollars to get into this
place, I might as well try to enjoy it.

The dancing was getting wilder now. No more swaying fox-trot business. There was a
driving rhythm to the music; the movements on the floor were jerky and full of lust, a
swinging and thrusting of hips, accompanied by sudden cries and groans. I felt a
temptation to join in, if only for laughs. But first I would have to get drunker.

On the other side of the room I found Yeamon, standing by the entrance to the hall. “I'm
ready to do the dinga,” I said with a laugh. “Let's cut loose and go crazy.”

He glared at me, taking a long slug of his drink.

I shrugged and moved on toward the hall closet, where the button-down bartender was
laboring over the drinks. “Rum and ice,” I shouted, holding my cup aloft. “Heavy on the
ice.”

He seized it mechanically, dropped in a few lumps of ice, a flash of rum, then he handed
it back. I stabbed a quarter into his palm and went back to the doorway. Yeamon was
staring at the dancers, looking very morose.

I stopped beside him and he nodded toward the floor. “Look at that bitch,” he said.

I looked and saw Chenault, dancing with the small, spade-bearded man we had met earlier.
He was a good dancer, and whatever step he was doing was pretty involved. Chenault was
holding her arms out like a hula charmer, a look of tense concentration on her face. Now
and then she would spin, swirling her madras skirt around her like a fan.

“Yeah,” I said. “She's hell on this dancing.”

“She's part nigger,” he replied, in a tone that was not soft.

“Careful,” I said quickly. “Watch what you say in this place.”

“Balls,” he said loudly.

Great Jesus, I thought. Here we go. “Take it easy,” I said. “Why don't we head back to
town?”

“Fine with me,” he replied. “Try talking to her.” He nodded at Chenault, dancing
feverishly just a few feet away.

“Hell,” I said. “Just grab her. Let's go.”

He shook his head. “I did. She screamed like I was killing her.”

There was something in his voice that I'd never heard before, an odd wavering that
suddenly made me nervous. “Jesus,” I muttered, looking around at the crowd.

“I'll just have to bat her in the head,” he said.

Just then I felt a hand on my arm. It was my pig, my squatty date. “Let's go, big boy!”
she whooped, dragging me onto the floor. “Let's do it!” She squealed and began to stomp
her feet

Good God, I thought. What now? I watched her, holding my drink in one hand and a
cigarette in the other. “Come on!” she shouted. “Give me some business!” She hunched
toward me, pulling her skirt up around her thighs as she wiggled back and forth. I began
to stomp and weave; my dancing was shaky at first, then I leveled out to a sort of
distracted abandon. Somebody bumped me and I dropped my drink on the floor. It made no
difference to the frenzied couples that hemmed us in.

Suddenly I was next to Chenault. I shrugged helplessly and kept up the stomp. She laughed
and bumped me with her hips. Then she danced back to her partner, leaving me with my pig.

Finally I shook my head and quit, making gestures to indicate I was too tired to go on. I
went back to the bar for a fresh drink. Yeamon was nowhere in sight and I presumed he'd
been sucked into the dance. I made my way through the bodies and out to the terrace,
hoping for a place to sit down. Yeamon was sitting on the railing, talking to a teenage
girl. He looked up with a smile. “This is Ginny,” he said. “She's going to teach me the
dance.”

I nodded and said hello. Behind us the music was growing wilder, and at times it was
almost drowned out by the screaming of the crowd. I tried to ignore it, looking out over
the town, seeing the peace below us and wanting to be down there.

But the music from the house was getting crazier. There was a new urgency about it, and
the shouts of the mob took on a different tone. Yeamon and Ginny went in to see what was
happening. The crowd was moving back to make room for something, and I walked over to see
what it was.

They had made a big circle, and in the middle of it. Chenault and the small,
spade-bearded man were doing the dance. Chenault had dropped her skirt and was dancing in
her panties and her white sleeveless blouse. Her partner had taken off his shirt exposing
his glistening black chest. He wore nothing but a pair of tight, red toreador pants. Both
of them were barefoot.

I looked at Yeamon. His face was tense as he stood on tiptoe to watch. Suddenly he called
her name. “Chenault!” But the crowd was making so much noise that I could barely hear him
three feet away. She seemed oblivious to everything but the music and the freak who led
her around the floor. Yeamon called again, but nobody heard.

Now, as if in some kind of trance, Chenault began to unbutton her blouse. She popped the
buttons slowly, like a practiced stripper, then flung the blouse aside and pranced there
in nothing but her bra and panties. I thought the crowd would go crazy. They howled and
pounded on furniture, shoving and climbing on each other to get a better view. The whole
house shook and I thought the floor might cave in. Somewhere across the room I heard glass
breaking.

I looked again at Yeamon. He was waving his hands in the air now, trying to get
Chenault's attention. But he looked like just another witness, carried away with the
spectacle.

Now they were close together and I saw the brute reach around Chenault and unhook the
strap of her bra. He undid it quickly, expertly, and she seemed unaware that now she wore
nothing but her thin silk panties. The bra slid down her arms and fell to the floor. Her
breasts bounced violently with the jerk and thrust of the dance. Full, pink-nippled halls
of flesh, suddenly cut loose from the cotton modesty of a New York bra.

I watched, fascinated and terrified, and then I heard Yeamon beside me as he lunged
toward the dance floor. There was a commotion and then I saw the big bartender move up
behind him and grab his arms. Several others pushed him back, treating him like a harmless
drunk as they made room for the dance to go on.

Yeamon was screaming hysterically, struggling to keep his balance. “Chenault!” he
shouted. “What the hell are you doing?” He sounded desperate, but I felt paralyzed.

They were coming together again, weaving slowly toward the middle of the circle. The
noise was an overpowering roar from two hundred wild throats. Chenault still wore that
dazed, ecstatic expression as the man reached out and eased her panties over her hips and
down to her knees. She let them drop silently on the floor, then stepped away, breaking
into the dance again, moving against him, freezing there for a moment -- even the music
paused -- then dancing away, opening her eyes and flinging her hair from side to side.

Suddenly Yeamon broke loose. He leaped into the circle and they were on him immediately,
but this time he was harder to pin. I saw him smack the bartender in the face, using his
arms and elbows to keep them off, screaming with such a fury that the sound of it sent
chills up my spine, and finally going down under a wave of bodies.

The melee stopped the dance. For an instant I saw Chenault standing alone; she looked
surprised and bewildered, with that little muff of brown hair standing out against the
white skin, and her blonde hair falling around her shoulders. She looked small and naked
and helpless, and then I saw the man grab her arm and start pulling her toward the door.

I staggered through the crowd, cursing, shoving, trying to get to the hall before they
disappeared. Behind me I could hear Yeamon, still yelling, but I knew they had him now and
my only thought was to find Chenault. Several people whacked me before I got to the door,
but I paid no attention. Once I thought I heard her scream, but it could have been anyone.

When I finally got outside I saw a crowd at the bottom of the stairs. I hurried down and
found Yeamon lying there on the ground bleeding from the mouth and groaning. Apparently
they had dragged him out a back door. The bartender was leaning over him and wiping his
mouth with a handkerchief.

I forgot about Chenault and shoved through the ring of people, mumbling apologies as I
made my way to where Yeamon was stretched out. When I got there the bartender looked up
and said, “Is this your friend?”

I nodded, bending down to see if he was hurt.

“He's okay,” somebody said. “We tried to be easy with him, but he kept swinging.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Yeamon was sitting up now, holding his head in his hands. “Chenault,” he mumbled. “What
the hell are you doing?”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Okay,” I said. “Take it easy.”

“That filthy sonofabitch,” he said loudly.

The bartender tapped me on the arm. “You better get him out of here,” he said. “He's not
hurt now, but he will be if he stays around.”

“Can we get a cab?” I asked.

He nodded. “I'll get you a car.” He stepped back and yelled across the crowd. Somebody
answered and he pointed at me.

“Chenault!” Yeamon shouted, trying to get up off the ground.

I shoved him back down, knowing that the moment he got up we'd have another fight. I
looked up at the bartender. “Where's the girl?” I said. “What happened to her?”

He smiled faintly. “She enjoyed herself?”

I realized then that we were going to be sent off without Chenault. “Where is she?” I
said too loudly, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

A stranger stepped up to me and snarled, “Man, you better get out.”