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. . .