We stayed on the edge of it. I wanted to get my hands on some of that stolen booze, but I was afraid of the police. Yeamon wandered into the store and came out moments later with a magnum of champagne. He smiled sheepishly and tucked it into his bag, saying nothing. Finally my lust for drink overcame my fear of jail and I made a run for a case of scotch that was lying in the gutter near the front of the store. It was empty and I looked around for another. In the forest of dancing feet I saw several unbroken bottles of whiskey. I rushed toward them, shoving people out of the way. The noise was deafening and I expected at any moment to be smashed on the head with a bottle. I managed to rescue three quarts of Old Crow, all that was left of a case. The other bottles were broken and hot whiskey oozed through the streets. I got a firm grip on my loot and leaned into the mob, aiming for the spot where I’d left Yeamon and Chenault.
We hurried off down a side street, passing a blue jeep marked Poleece. In it, a gendarme in a pith helmet sat half asleep, idly scratching his crotch.
We stopped at the place where we’d eaten the night before. I put the whiskey in my satchel and ordered three drinks while we pondered the next move. The program said a pageant of some kind was scheduled at the ballpark in a few hours. It sounded harmless enough, but then nothing at all had been officially scheduled for that hour when the mob looted the liquor store. That was supposed to be a Rest Period. There was another Rest Period between the ballpark festivities and the All Out Tramp, officially scheduled for eight o’clock sharp.
It had an ominous sound. All the other Tramps were listed as beginning and ending at certain times. The Birds and Bees Tramp, on Thursday, began at eight and ended at ten. The High Combustible Tramp, which seemed to be the one we’d been caught in the night before, ran from eight until midnight. But the program said only that the All Out Tramp would begin at eight, and in small brackets on the same line was a note saying climax of carnival.
This thing tonight could get out of control, I said, tossing the program on the table. At least I hope so.
Chenault laughed and winked at me. We’ll have to get Fritz drunk, so he can enjoy it.
Balls, Yeamon muttered, not looking up from the program. You get drunk again tonight and I’ll abandon your ass.
She laughed again. Don’t try to say I was drunk — I remember who hit me.
He shrugged. It’s good for you — clears your head.
No sense arguing about it, I said. We’re bound to get drunk — look at all this whiskey. I patted my satchel.
And this, said Chenault, pointing to the magnum of champagne under Yeamon’s chair.
Christ help us, Yeamon muttered.
We finished our drinks and wandered over to the Grand Hotel. From the balcony we could see people heading for the ballpark.
Yeamon wanted to go out to Yacht Haven and find a boat leaving soon for South America. I wasn’t particularly anxious to join the mob at the ballpark and I remembered Sanderson saying most of the good parties were on the boats, so we decided to go there.
It was a long walk in the sun, and by the time we got there I was sorry I hadn’t offered to pay for a cab. I was sweating horribly and my bag seemed to weigh forty pounds. The entrance was a palm-lined driveway that led to a swimming pool, and beyond the pool was a hill that led down to the piers. There were more than a hundred boats, everything from tiny harbor sloops to huge schooners, and their naked spars swayed lazily against a background of green hills and a blue Caribbean sky. I stopped on the pier and looked down at a forty-foot racing sloop. My first thought was that I had to have one. It had a dark blue hull and a gleaming teakwood deck, and I would not have been surprised to see on the bow a sign, saying: For Sale — One Soul, no less.