I laughed and leaned back in the chair. Wasn’t that a bitch?
A bitch? he exclaimed. Did you hear what happened? Lotterman had a heart attack — he’s dead.
I leaned toward him. Where’d you hear that?
I was there when they took him away in the ambulance, he replied. You should have seen the place — women screaming, cops everywhere — they took Moberg. He lit a cigarette. You know we’re still out on bail, he said quietly. We’re doomed.
The lights were on in my apartment, and as I hurried up the stairs I heard the shower running. The bathroom door was closed and I pulled it open. The curtain jerked back and Yeamon peered out of the shower. Kemp? he said, peering through the steam. Who the hell is it?
God damn you! I shouted. How did you get in here?
Your window was open. I’ll have to stay here tonight — the lights failed on my scooter.
You dumb bastard! I snapped. You might have a murder rap on your ass — Lotterman had a heart attack — he’s dead!
He jumped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Jesus, he said. I better get out of here.
Where’s Donovan? I said. They’re after him too.
He shook his head. I don’t know. We hit a parked car on the scooter. He said he was going to the airport.
I looked at my watch. It was almost eleven-thirty. Where’s the scooter? I asked.
He pointed to the rear of the building. I put it around the side. It was hell getting here with no lights.
I groaned. Christ, you’re sucking me right into jail! Get dressed. You’re leaving.
It was a ten-minute drive to the airport and we had barely got under way when we ran into a tropical monsoon. We stopped and put up the top, but by the time we got it snapped down we were both soaking wet.
The rain was blinding. A few inches above my head it pounded on the canvas, and beneath us the tires hissed on the wet pavement.
We swung off the highway and started up the long road to the airport We were about halfway to the terminal when I looked to my left and saw a big plane with Pan Am markings come hurtling down the runway. I thought I could see Donovan’s face at one of the windows, grinning and waving at us as the plane lifted off the runway and went past us with a great roar, a winged monster full of lights and people, all bound for New York. I pulled over and we watched it climb and go into a steep turn above the palm jungle and then out to sea, until finally it was nothing but a tiny red dot up in the stars.
Well, I said. There it goes.
Yeamon stared after it. Is that the last one?
Yep, I replied. Next flight’s at nine-thirty tomorrow morning.
After a pause he said, Well, I guess we should head back.
I looked at him. Back where? I said. You might as well give yourself up right now as come out here tomorrow morning.
He stared out at the rain and glanced around nervously. Well goddamnit, I have to get off this island — that’s all there is to it.
I thought for a moment, then I remembered the ferry from Fajardo to St. Thomas. As far as I knew, it left about eight every morning. We decided that he would go over there and get a cheap room at the Grand Hotel. After that he would be on his own –I had my own problems.
It was forty miles to Fajardo, but the road was good and there was no hurry, so I drove easily. The rain had stopped and the night smelled fresh. We put the top down and took turns sipping the rum.
Damn, he said after a while. I hate to have to take off for South America with one suit and a hundred dollars to my name.
He leaned back in the seat and wept I could hear the surf a few hundred yards to the left of the road. To the right I could see the peak of El Yunque, a black outline against a menacing sky.