Suddenly everybody stopped shouting and the scene boiled down to an argument between Yeamon, the manager and a man who appeared to be the cop in charge. Nobody was holding me now, so I moved up to hear what was going on.
Look, Yeamon was saying. I paid the other bills — what makes him think I won’t pay this one?
The manager said something about drunk, arrogant Yankees.
Before Yeamon could reply, one of the cops stepped up behind him and slammed him on the shoulder with his billy. He shouted and lurched to one side, onto one of the men who had come after us in the cars. The man swung wildly with a beer bottle, hitting him in the ribs. The last thing I saw before I went down was Yeamon’s savage rush on the man with the bottle. I heard several swacks of bone against bone, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something come at my head. I ducked just in time to take the main force of the blow on my back. It buckled my spine and I fell to the ground.
Sala was screaming somewhere above me and I was thrashing around on my back, trying to avoid the feet that were pounding me like hammers. I covered my head with my arms and lashed out with my feet, but the awful hammering continued. There was not much pain, but even through the numbness I knew they were hurting me and I was suddenly sure I was going to die. I was still conscious, and the knowledge that I was being kicked to death in a Puerto Rican jungle for eleven dollars and fifty cents filled me with such terror that I began to scream like an animal. Finally, just as I thought I was passing out, I felt myself being shoved into a car.
Eight
I was half-unconscious during the ride, and when the car finally stopped I looked out and saw an angry mob howling on the sidewalk. I knew I couldn’t stand another beating; when they tried to haul me out I clung desperately to the back of the seat until one of the cops hit me on the arm with his club.
To my surprise, the crowd made no move to attack us. We were pushed up the steps, past a group of sullen cops at the door, and led into a small, windowless room where they told us to sit on a bench. Then they closed the door and left us alone.
Jesus Christ, said Yeamon. This is incredible. We have to get hold of somebody.
We’re headed for La Princesa, Sala groaned. The bastards have us now — this is the end.
They have to let us use the phone, I said. I’ll call Lotterman.
Yeamon snorted. He won’t do a damn thing for me. Hell, he wants me locked up.
He won’t have any choice, I replied. He can’t afford to abandon me and Sala.
Yeamon looked doubtful. Well. . . I can’t think of anybody else to call.
Sala groaned again and rubbed his head. Christ, we’ll be lucky to get out of here alive.
We got off easy, said Yeamon, gently feeling his teeth. I thought we were done for when it started.
Sala shook his head. These people are vicious, he muttered. I was dodging that cop and somebody hit me from behind with a coconut — nearly broke my neck.
The door opened and the boss cop appeared, smiling as if nothing had happened. Okay? he said, watching us curiously.
Yeamon looked up at him. We’d like to use the phone, he said.
The cop shook his head. Your names? he said, pulling out a small notebook.
If you don’t mind, said Yeamon. I think we have a right to make a phone call.
The cop made a menacing gesture with his fist. I said NO! he shouted. Give me your names!
We gave our names.
Where are you staying? he asked.
Goddamnit, we live here! Sala snapped. I work for the Daily News and I’ve lived on this stinking rock for more than a year! He was trembling with rage and the cop looked startled. My address is 409 Calle Tetuan, Sala continued, and I want a lawyer immediately.