The Plaza Colon was a hub for several narrow streets. The buildings were jammed together, two and three stories high, with balconies that hung out over the street. The air was hot, and a smell of sweat and garbage rode on the faint breeze. A chatter of music and voices came from open windows. The sidewalks were so narrow that it was an effort to stay out of the gutter, and fruit vendors blocked the streets with wooden carts, selling peeled oranges for a nickel each.
I walked for thirty minutes, looking into windows of stores that sold Ivy Liga clothes, peering into foul bars full of whores and sailors, dodging people on the sidewalks, thinking I would collapse at any moment if I didn’t find a restaurant.
Finally I gave up. There seemed to be no restaurants in the Old City. The only thing I saw was called the New York Diner, and it was closed. In desperation, I hailed a cab and told him to take me to the Daily News.
He stared at me.
The newspaper! I shouted, slamming the door as I got in.
Ah, si, he murmured. El Diario, si.
No, goddamnit, I said. The Daily News — the American newspaper — El News.
He had never heard of it, so we drove back to Plaza Colon, where I leaned out the window and asked a cop. He didn’t know either, but finally a man came over from the bus stop and told us where it was.
We drove down a cobblestone hill toward the waterfront. There was no sign of a newspaper, and I suspected he was bringing me down here to get rid of me. We turned a corner and he suddenly hit his brakes. Just ahead of us was some kind of a gang-fight, a shouting mob, trying to enter an old greenish building that looked like a warehouse.
Go on, I said to the driver. We can get by.
He mumbled and shook his head.
I banged my fist on the back of the seat Get going! No move– no pay.
He mumbled again, but shifted into first and angled toward the far side of the street, putting as much distance as possible between us and the fight. He stopped as we came abreast of the building and I saw that it was a gang of about twenty Puerto Ricans, attacking a tall American in a tan suit. He was standing on the steps, swinging a big wooden sign like a baseball bat
You rotten little punks! he yelled. There was a flurry of movement and I heard the sound of mumping and shouting. One of the attackers fell down in the street with blood on his face. The large fellow backed toward the door, waving the sign in front of him. Two men tried to grab it and he whacked one of them in the chest, knocking him down the steps. The others stood away, yelling and shaking their fists. He snarled back at them: Here it is, punks — come get it!
Nobody moved. He waited a moment, then lifted the sign over his shoulder and threw it into their midst. It hit one man in the stomach, driving him back on the others. I heard a burst of laughter, then he disappeared into the building.
Okay, I said, turning back to the driver. That’s it — let’s go.
He shook his head and pointed at the building, then at me. Si, esta News. He nodded, then pointed again at the building. Si, he said gravely.
It dawned on me that we were sitting in front of the Daily News — my new home. I took one look at the dirty mob between me and the door, and decided to go back to the hotel. Just then I heard another commotion. A Volkswagen pulled up behind us and three cops got out, waving long billyclubs and yelling in Spanish. Some of the mob ran, but others stayed to argue. I watched for a moment, then gave the driver a dollar and ran into the building.
A sign said the News editorial office was on the second floor. I took an elevator, half expecting to find myself lifted into the midst of more violence. But the door opened on a dark hall, and a little to my left I heard the noise of the city room.