The party was dressy. There was a band on the porch, playing Cielito Lindo over and over again. They gave it a mad waltzing tempo and each time they finished, the dancers would yell for more. For some reason, I remember that moment as well or better than anything else I saw in Puerto Rico. A sensuous green garden, surrounded by palms and a brick wall; a long bar full of bottles and ice, and behind it a white-coated bartender; an elderly crowd in dinner jackets and bright dresses, talking peacefully on the lawn. A warm Caribbean night, with time passing slowly and at a respectful distance.
I felt a hand on my arm and it was Sala. Lotterman’s here, he said. We’re going to nail him.
Just then we heard a shrill scream. I looked across the garden and saw a flurry of movement There was another scream and I recognized Moberg’s voice, yelling: Watch out, watch out. . . eeeeeeyahhaaaa!
I got there just in time to see him getting up off the ground. Lotterman was standing over him, waving his fist. You stinking little sot! You tried to kill me!
Moberg got up slowly and brushed himself off. You deserve to die, he snarled, die like the rat you are.
Lotterman was trembling and his face was dark red. He took a quick step toward Moberg and hit him again, knocking him back on some people who were trying to get out of the way. I heard laughter beside me and a voice saying, One of Ed’s boys tried to hit him up for some cash. Look at him go, would you!
Lotterman was shouting incoherently and flailing at Moberg, driving him back into the crowd. Moberg was screaming for help when he bumped into Yeamon coming the other way. Yeamon shoved him aside and yelled something at Lotterman. The only word I caught was Now. . .
I saw Lotterman’s face collapse with surprise, and he was standing straight as a wooden pole when Yeamon hit him in the eyes and knocked him about six feet. He staggered wildly for a moment, then collapsed on the grass, bleeding from his eyes and both ears. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape come hurtling across the garden and strike the group like a cannonball. They all went down, but Donovan was first on his feet. He had a berserk grin on his face as he grabbed one man by the head and mashed him sideways against a tree. Yeamon dragged Lotterman out from under another man and began whacking him around the garden like a punching bag.
The crowd panicked and rushed to escape. Call the police! one man shouted.
A wrinkled old woman in a strapless dress went stumbling past me, shrieking, Take me home! Take me home! I’m afraid!
I edged away through the mob, trying to attract as little attention as possible. When I got to the door I looked back and saw a bunch of men staring down at Lotterman’s body and making the sign of the cross. There they go! someone shouted, and I looked toward the back of the garden where he was pointing. There was a rustling in the bushes, the sound of snapping limbs, and then I saw Donovan and Yeamon scrambling over the wall.
A man came running up the steps to the house. They got away! he shouted. Somebody call the police! I’m going after them!
I slid out the door and ran along the sidewalk toward my car. I thought I heard Yeamon’s scooter somewhere nearby, but I couldn’t be sure. I decided to hurry back to Al’s, saying that I’d ducked out of that unruly crowd and gone down to the Flamboyan for a few quiet beers. It would be a flimsy alibi, if anybody at the party had recognized me, but I had no choice.
I’d been there about fifteen minutes when Sala arrived. He was trembling as he hurried over to the table. Man! he said in a loud whisper. I’ve been driving like a bastard all over town. I didn’t know where to go. He looked around to make sure there was nobody else in the patio.