Sanderson later explained that Moberg had first called Lotterman, who was not home, then Quinones, who was in Miami. Then he had called Segarra, who told him to sign a check for what he assumed would be small fines. Sanderson had been at Segarra’s house, just ready to leave when Moberg called, and he had stopped by the court on his way home.
Damn good you did, I said. We’d be back in that goddamn dungeon if you hadn’t come.
Yeamon and Sala mumbled agreement.
Enjoy it while you can, Sanderson replied. You won’t be out for long.
We rode the rest of the way in silence. As we passed the Plaza Colon I heard the first sounds of morning — a bus beginning its run, the shouts of early fruit peddlers — and from somewhere up on the hill came the wail of a police siren.
Nine
After only a few hours of sleep, I was awakened by a great shout. It was Sala, sprung up as if from a nightmare. Mother of balls! he yelled. The car! The vultures!
After a moment of confusion I remembered that we had left his car on the road near Casa Cabrones. The Puerto Ricans take a real interest in abandoned cars — they set upon them like hungry animals and tear them apart. First go the hubcaps, then the wheels, then the bumpers and doors, and finally they haul away the carcass — twenty or thirty of them, like ants dragging a dead beetle, hauling it off to some junk dealer for ten yanqui dollars, then fighting with knives and broken bottles for shares of the money.
Yeamon woke up slowly, groaning with pain. Around his mouth was a crust of dried blood. He sat up on the mattress and stared at us.
Wake up, I said. Your scooter’s out there too.
Sala swung his legs over the edge of the cot. It’s too late. They’ve had twelve hours — Christ, they can strip a car in twelve minutes. We’ll be lucky to find an oil spot.
Gone? said Yeamon. He was still staring at us, not quite awake.
I nodded. Probably.
Well by God let’s get out there! he exclaimed, leaping off the mattress. Catch ’em and smash a few teeth!
No hurry, said Sala. It’s all over by now. He stood up and flexed his back. Jesus, it feels like I’ve been stabbed. He came over to me. What’s wrong with my shoulder — is that a knife hole back there?
No, I told him. Just a scrape — maybe a fingernail.
He cursed and went into the bathroom for a shower.
Yeamon had already washed his face and was hurriedly getting dressed. Let’s hustle, he said. We’ll take a cab. He opened one of the windows and let in some light
Reluctantly, I began to dress. There were bruises all over my body and it was painful to move. I wanted to go back to bed and sleep all day, but I could see there was no hope for it.
We walked several blocks down to the Plaza Colon and got a cab. Yeamon told the driver where to go.
I had never seen the city on a Sunday morning. Usually I got up about noon and went to Al’s for a long breakfast. Now the streets were almost empty. There was no sign of the weekday chaos, the screech and roar of an army of salesmen careening through town in uninsured cars. The waterfront was nearly deserted, the stores were closed, and only the churches seemed to be doing any business. We passed several of them, and in front of each one was a colorful knot of people — tan-skinned men and boys in freshly pressed suits, flowery women with veils, little girls in white dresses, and here and there a priest in a black robe and a tall black hat
Then we sped across the long causeway to Condado. Things were different here. I saw no churches and the sidewalks were full of tourists in sandals and bright bermuda shorts. They streamed in and out of the big hotels, chattering, reading papers, carrying satchels, all wearing sunglasses and looking very busy.