The roulette wheel was surrounded by low rollers, most of them much older than they wanted to look. The light in gambling rooms is not good for aging women. It catches every crease in their faces and every wart on their necks; drops of sweat between fallow breasts, hairs on a nipple momentarily exposed, a flabby arm or a sagging eye. I watched their faces, most of them red with new sunburns, as they stared at the bouncing ball and nervously fingered their chips.
Then I walked back to a table where a young Puerto Rican in a white jacket was giving out free sandwiches. The fat is in the fire, I said to him.
Si, he replied gravely.
As I started back toward the roulette wheel I felt a hand on my arm.
It was Sala. Ready? he said. Let’s move on.
We drove up the street to the Condado Beach Hotel, but the casino was almost empty. Nothing here, he said. Let’s go next door.
Next door was La Concha. The casino here was more crowded, but the atmosphere was the same as the others — a sort of dull frenzy, like taking a pep pill when what you really want to do is sleep.
Somehow, I became involved with a woman who claimed to be from Trinidad. She had large breasts, a British accent, and wore a tight green dress. One moment I was standing next to her at the roulette wheel, and before I realized what was happening we were in the parking lot, waiting for Sala — who, in the same weird way, had found himself with a girl who turned out to be a friend of my date.
After much effort, we fitted ourselves in the car. Sala seemed agitated. To hell with the rest of the shots, he said. I’ll get them tomorrow. He paused. Well. . . what now?
The only place I knew was Al’s, so I suggested we go there.
Sala objected. Those bums from the paper will be there, he said. They’re finishing up about now.
There was a moment of silence — then Lorraine leaned over the seat and suggested we go to the beach. It’s such a beautiful night, she said. Let’s just drive along the dunes.
I couldn’t help laughing. Hell yes, I said. Let’s get some rum and drive on the dunes.
Sala mumbled and started the car. A few blocks from the hotel we stopped at a bodega and he got out. I’ll get a bottle, he said. They probably won’t have any ice.
Don’t worry about it, I said. Just get some paper cups.
Rather than drive all the way out to the airport, where Sala said the beaches would be deserted, he turned off near the edge of Condado and we stopped on a beach in front of the residential section.
We can’t drive here, he said. Why not go for a swim?
Lorraine agreed, but the other girl balked.
What the hell is wrong with you? Sala demanded.
She gave him a stony look and said nothing. Lorraine and I got out of the car, leaving Sala with his problem. We walked several hundred yards down the beach and I was curious. You really want to go in? I said finally.
Certainly, she replied, pulling her dress over her head. I’ve wanted to do this all week. What an awful bore this place is — we’ve done nothing but sit, sit, sit.
I took off my clothes and watched her as she toyed with the idea of removing her underwear.
Might as well keep it dry, I said.
She smiled, acknowledging my wisdom, then unhooked her bra and stepped out of her panties. We walked down to the water and waded in. It was warm and salty, but the breakers were so big that neither of us could stand up. For a moment I considered going out beyond them, but a look at that dark sea changed my mind. So we played in the surf for a while, letting ourselves be knocked around by the waves, and finally she struggled back to the beach, saying she was exhausted. I followed, offering her a cigarette as we sat down on the sand.