Yeamon came back with three glasses of ice, cursing because the bartender had charged him thirty cents for each one. He put them on the floor and filled them with rum. These bastards, he mumbled. They’ll get rich selling ice — look how the rotten stuff melts.
Chenault laughed and kicked him playfully in the back. Stop that silly complaining, she said. You’ll spoil the fun.
Balls, he replied.
Chenault smiled and sipped her drink. If you’d let yourself go, you’d enjoy it
He finished pouring the drinks and stood up. Don’t give me that crap, he said. I don’t need a mob to enjoy myself.
She didn’t seem to hear him. It’s too bad, she said. Fritz just can’t enjoy himself because he can’t let go. She looked at me. Don’t you agree?
Leave me out of it, I said. I came here to drink.
She giggled and held up her glass. That’s right, she said. We came here to drink — just have a good time and let go!
Yeamon frowned and turned his back on us, leaning on the railing and staring down at the plaza. It was almost empty now, but far down the street we could hear the drums and the howl of the crowd.
Chenault finished her drink and stood up. Come on, she said. I feel like dancing.
Yeamon shook his head wearily. I don’t know if I can stand any more of it.
She pulled at his arm. Come on, it’ll do you good. You too, Paul. She reached out with her other hand and tugged at my shirt.
Why not? I said. We might as well try it.
Yeamon straightened up and reached for the glasses. Wait a minute, he said. I can’t face it again without rum — I’ll get some more ice.
We waited for him at the top of the stairs that led down to the street Chenault turned to me with a big smile. We have to sleep on the beach, she said. Did Fritz tell you?
No, I said. But I found out anyway. I know one that comes highly recommended.
She grabbed my arm and squeezed it. Good. I want to sleep on the beach.
I nodded, seeing Yeamon approach with the drinks. I enjoyed Chenault in this wild condition, but it made me nervous. I recalled the last time I’d seen her full of drink, and the idea that anything like that might happen again, especially in a place like this, was not a happy prospect.
We went down the stairs and walked along the streets, sipping our drinks. Then we caught up with the mob. Chenault grabbed hold of somebody’s waist in the last row of dancers and Yeamon got in beside her. I stuffed the bottle I’d been carrying into my pants pocket and fell in next to Yeamon. In a moment we were sealed in by more people behind us. I felt hands on my waist and heard a shrill voice screaming, Take it off! Take it off.
I looked over my shoulder and saw a white man who looked like a used car salesman. Then the mob surged left and I saw the man stumble and fall. The dancers trampled him without missing a beat.
The bands kept circling the town and the mob kept growing larger. I was dripping with sweat and ready to collapse from the constant dancing, but there was no way out of it. I looked to my left and saw Yeamon, smiling grimly as he executed the jerky shuffle-step that carried us along. Chenault was laughing happily and swinging her hips to the constant thump of the drums.
Finally my legs threatened to give out. I tried to catch Yeamon’s attention, but the noise was deafening. In desperation, I lunged across the chain of dancers, knocking people off balance, and grabbed Yeamon’s arm. Out! I yelled. I can’t stand it.
He nodded and pointed toward a side street a few hundred yards ahead. Then he grabbed Chenault by the arm and began edging toward the sidelines. I whooped distractedly as we bulled through the crowd.
When we got clear of the mob we stood there and let it pass, then we started off toward a restaurant that Yeamon had seen earlier in the day. It looks decent, anyway, he said. I hope to God it’s cheap.