The place was called Olivers. It was a makeshift, thatched-roof affair on top of a concrete building with boarded-up windows. We struggled up the stairs and found an empty table. The place was crowded, and I pushed to the bar. Singapore slings were fifty cents each, but it was worth that much just to sit down.
From our table we could look up and down the waterfront. It was jammed with all kinds of boats — sleek power cruisers and scraggy, native sloops full of bananas, tied up alongside sleek eight-meter racing hulls from Newport and Bermuda. Beyond the channel buoys stood a few big motor yachts that people said were gambling ships. The sun went down slowly behind a hill across the harbor and lights began to flicker in buildings on the wharf. Somewhere across town we could still hear the frenzied beat of the dance as it moved through the streets.
A waiter appeared, wearing an Old Spice yachting cap. We all ordered the seafood platter. And three glasses of ice, Yeamon told him. Right away, if you don’t mind.
The waiter nodded and disappeared. After a ten-minute wait Yeamon went to the bar and got three glasses of ice. We poured our drinks under the table and set the bottle on the floor.
What we need is a gallon jug, said Yeamon. And some kind of a knapsack to carry ice.
Why the gallon jug? I asked.
For that seventy-five-cent rum, he replied.
Hell with it, I said. It’s probably worthless. I nodded toward the bottle on the floor. This is cheap enough — you can’t beat good rum at a dollar a bottle.
He shook his head. Nothing worse than traveling with a rich journalist — throw dollars around like beans.
I laughed. I’m not the only one working for Sanderson these days, I said. The big money is just around the corner — never lose faith.
Not for me, he replied. I’m supposed to be doing an article on this carnival — checking with the tourist bureau and all that. He shrugged. No dice. I can’t sneak around digging up facts while everybody else is drunk.
Nobody’s drunk, said Chenault We’re just letting go.
He smiled lazily. That’s right, we’re kicking off the traces, really raising hell — why don’t you write a good stiff note to the Smith College alumni letter and tell ’em where they missed the boat?
She laughed. Fritz is jealous of my background. I have so much more to rebel against.
Balls, said Yeamon. You don’t have anything to rebel with.
The waiter arrived with the food and we stopped talking. It was dark when we finished, and Chenault was anxious to get into the streets again. I was in no hurry. This place was peaceful, now that the crowd had thinned out, but it was close enough to the chaos that we could join it anytime we wanted.
Finally she dragged us down to the street, but the dance had petered out. We wandered around the town, stopping at the liquor store to buy two more bottles of rum, then returning to the Grand Hotel to see what was happening there.
A party was going on at one end of the balcony. Most of these people appeared to be expatriates — not tourists, but the type who looked like they might live here on the island, or at least somewhere in the Caribbean. They were all very tan. A few had beards, but most of them were freshly shaven. The ones with beards wore shorts and old polo shirts, the boating set. The others wore linen suits and leather shoes that sparkled in the dim light of the balcony chandeliers.
We barged in and sat down at a table. I was fairly drunk by now and I didn’t care if we were thrown out or not. The party broke up just a few minutes after we arrived. Nobody said anything to us and I felt a little foolish when we were left on the balcony by ourselves. We sat there for a while, then wandered down to the street. A few blocks away we could hear a band warming up. Soon the street was jammed once again with people, all clinging to each other and dancing the strange dinga that we’d learned earlier in the day.