Yeamon mopped his face with a handkerchief. Man, he said, I don’t think I can stand to lose that scooter. Jesus — fired, beaten, arrested. . .
I nodded and Sala said nothing. He was leaning over the driver’s shoulder, as if he expected at any moment to catch sight of a mob dismantling his car.
After what seemed like hours we turned off the airport road and onto the narrow lane to Casa Cabrones. We were still several hundred yards away when I saw Sala’s car. There it is, I said, pointing up the road.
Christ, he muttered. A miracle.
As we pulled up to it I realized it was sitting on two coconut logs, instead of its wheels. They were gone, and so was Yeamon’s scooter.
Sala took it calmly. Well — better than I thought. He got into the car and checked around. Nothing gone but the wheels — damn lucky.
Yeamon was in a rage. I’ll recognize that thing! he shouted. One of these days I’ll catch somebody riding it.
I was sure we were due for more trouble if we hung around Casa Cabrones. The thought of another beating made me nervous. I walked a few hundred feet toward the bar, looking to see if anyone was coming. It was closed and the parking lot was empty.
On the way back to the car, I saw something red in the bushes beside the driveway. It was Yeamon’s scooter, covered with a layer of palm fronds. Someone had hidden it, intending to pick it up later.
I called him and he dragged it out. Nothing was missing. He kicked it over and it started perfectly. Damn, he said. I should sit here and wait for that punk to come back for it — give him a little surprise.
Sure, I said. Then spend the summer in La Princesa. Come on — let’s get out of here.
Back at the car, Sala was figuring up the cost of four new tires and wheels. He looked very depressed.
Let’s get some breakfast, said Yeamon. I’ve got to have food.
Are you nuts? Sala replied. I can’t leave this car — they’ll finish it off! He reached into his wallet. Here, he said to Yeamon. Go down to that gas station and call the Fiat dealer and tell him to send four wheels. Here’s his home phone — tell him it’s for Mr. Lotterman.
Yeamon took the card and clattered off down the road. In a few minutes we heard him coming back. Then we sat for an hour until the wrecker arrived. To my surprise, the man had sent four wheels. We put them on, Sala signed Lotterman’s name to a ticket, and then we drove in to the Long Beach Hotel for breakfast Yeamon followed on his scooter.
The patio was crowded, so we sat inside at the snack bar. All around us were people I had spent ten years avoiding — shapeless women in wool bathing suits, dull-eyed men with hairless legs and self-conscious laughs, all Americans, all fearsomely alike. These people should be kept at home, I thought; lock them in the basement of some goddamn Elks Club and keep them pacified with erotic movies; if they want a vacation, show them a foreign art film; and if they still aren’t satisfied, send them into the wilderness and run them with vicious dogs.
I glared at them, trying to eat the rotten breakfast the waitress had put in front of me — slimy eggs, fat bacon and weak American coffee.
Goddamnit, I said. This isn’t Nedick’s — don’t you have Puerto Rican coffee?
She shook her head.
Sala went out and bought a Miami Herald. I like this place, he said with a grin. I like to sit up here and look down at the beach and think of all the good things I could do with a Luger.
I put two dollars on the table and got up.
Where are you going? Yeamon asked, looking up from a part of the paper he had taken from Sala.
I don’t know, I said. Probably Sanderson’s. Anyplace where I can get away from these people.
Sala looked up. You and Sanderson are pretty good buddies, he said with a smile.