Six dollars, please, said the woman, holding out her hand.
Christ! I said. How many does that pay for?
Two, she said. You and the young lady. She nodded at the girl who had ridden out from town on my lap.
I cursed silently and gave up six dollars. My date repaid me with a coy smile, and took my hand as we entered the house. My God, I thought, this pig is after me.
Yeamon was right behind us, muttering about the six dollar fee. This better be good, he told Chenault. You might as well figure on getting a job when we get back to San Juan.
She laughed, a happy little shriek that had nothing to do with Yeamon’s remark. I glanced at her, and saw the excitement in her eyes. That dip in the harbor had sobered me up a bit, and Yeamon seemed pretty steady, but Chenault had the look of a hophead, ready to turn on.
We went down a dark hall and into a room full of music and noise. It was jammed from wall to wall, and over in one corner a band was playing. Not the steel band I expected to see, but three horns and a drum. The sound was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Then, looking up at the ceiling where the light bulbs were wrapped in blue gelatin, I knew the sound. It was the music of a Midwestern high school dance in some rented club. And not just the music; the crowded, low-ceilinged room, the makeshift bar, doors opening onto a brick terrace, people giggling and shouting and drinking booze out of paper cups — it was all exactly the same, except that every head in the room was black.
Seeing this made me a bit self-conscious and I began looking around for a dark corner where I could drink without being seen. My date still had me by the arm, but I shook her off and moved toward one corner of the room. No one paid any attention to me as I eased through the mob, bumping dancers here and there, keeping my head lowered and moving cautiously toward what looked like a vacant spot.
A few feet to my left was a door and I edged toward it, bumping more dancers. When I finally got outside I felt like I’d escaped from a jail. The air was cool and the terrace was almost empty. I walked out to the edge and looked down on Charlotte Amalie at the bottom of the hill. I could hear music floating up from the bars along Queen Street. Off to my right and left I could see Land Rovers and open taxis full of people moving along the waterfront, heading for other parties, other yachts and dim-lit hotels where red and blue lights glittered mysteriously. I tried to remember which other places we’d been told to go for the real fun, and I wondered if they were any better than this one.
I thought of Vieques, and for a moment I wanted to be there. I remembered sitting on the hotel balcony and hearing the hoofbeats in the street below. Then I remembered Zimburger, and Martin, and the Marines — the empire builders, setting up frozen food stores and aerial bombing ranges, spreading out like a piss puddle to every corner of the world.
I turned to watch the dancers, thinking that since I’d paid six dollars to get into this place, I might as well try to enjoy it.
The dancing was getting wilder now. No more swaying fox-trot business. There was a driving rhythm to the music; the movements on the floor were jerky and full of lust, a swinging and thrusting of hips, accompanied by sudden cries and groans. I felt a temptation to join in, if only for laughs. But first I would have to get drunker.
On the other side of the room I found Yeamon, standing by the entrance to the hall. I’m ready to do the dinga, I said with a laugh. Let’s cut loose and go crazy.
He glared at me, taking a long slug of his drink.
I shrugged and moved on toward the hall closet, where the button-down bartender was laboring over the drinks. Rum and ice, I shouted, holding my cup aloft. Heavy on the ice.