Hunter S. Thompson Read online

  “Holy shit,” Sala kept saying, “we're going to be killed.”

  When we came to the paved road, Yeamon pulled over and let us pass. We stopped a few yards ahead of him and I called back, “Come on, damnit! Let's get out of here.”

  The other cars came up beside him and I saw him throw up his hands as if he'd been hit. He jumped off the scooter, letting it fall, and grabbed a man whose head was outside the window. Almost at the same moment I saw the police drive up. Four of them leaped out of a little blue Volkswagen, waving their billy clubs. The Puerto Ricans cheered wildly and scrambled out of their cars. I was tempted to run, but we were instantly surrounded. One of the cops ran up to Yeamon and pushed him backward. “Thief!” he shouted. “You think gringos drink free in Puerto Rico?”

  At the same time, both doors of the Fiat were jerked open and Sala and I were pulled out I tried to break loose, but several people were holding my arms. Somewhere beside me I could hear Yeamon saying over and over: “Well, the man spit on me, the man spit on me. . .”

  Suddenly everybody stopped shouting and the scene boiled down to an argument between Yeamon, the manager and a man who appeared to be the cop in charge. Nobody was holding me now, so I moved up to hear what was going on.

  “Look,” Yeamon was saying. “I paid the other bills -- what makes him think I won't pay this one?”

  The manager said something about drunk, arrogant Yankees.

  Before Yeamon could reply, one of the cops stepped up behind him and slammed him on the shoulder with his billy. He shouted and lurched to one side, onto one of the men who had come after us in the cars. The man swung wildly with a beer bottle, hitting him in the ribs. The last thing I saw before I went down was Yeamon's savage rush on the man with the bottle. I heard several swacks of bone against bone, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something come at my head. I ducked just in time to take the main force of the blow on my back. It buckled my spine and I fell to the ground.

  Sala was screaming somewhere above me and I was thrashing around on my back, trying to avoid the feet that were pounding me like hammers. I covered my head with my arms and lashed out with my feet, but the awful hammering continued. There was not much pain, but even through the numbness I knew they were hurting me and I was suddenly sure I was going to die. I was still conscious, and the knowledge that I was being kicked to death in a Puerto Rican jungle for eleven dollars and fifty cents filled me with such terror that I began to scream like an animal. Finally, just as I thought I was passing out, I felt myself being shoved into a car.

  The Rum Diary

  Eight

  I was half-unconscious during the ride, and when the car finally stopped I looked out and saw an angry mob howling on the sidewalk. I knew I couldn't stand another beating; when they tried to haul me out I clung desperately to the back of the seat until one of the cops hit me on the arm with his club.

  To my surprise, the crowd made no move to attack us. We were pushed up the steps, past a group of sullen cops at the door, and led into a small, windowless room where they told us to sit on a bench. Then they closed the door and left us alone.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Yeamon. “This is incredible. We have to get hold of somebody.”

  “We're headed for La Princesa,” Sala groaned. “The bastards have us now -- this is the end.”

  “They have to let us use the phone,” I said. “I'll call Lotterman.”

  Yeamon snorted. “He won't do a damn thing for me. Hell, he wants me locked up.”

  “He won't have any choice,” I replied. “He can't afford to abandon me and Sala.”

  Yeamon looked doubtful. “Well. . . I can't think of anybody else to call.”

  Sala groaned again and rubbed his head. “Christ, we'll be lucky to get out of here alive.”

  “We got off easy,” said Yeamon, gently feeling his teeth. “I thought we were done for when it started.”

  Sala shook his head. “These people are vicious,” he muttered. “I was dodging that cop and somebody hit me from behind with a coconut -- nearly broke my neck.”

  The door opened and the boss cop appeared, smiling as if nothing had happened. “Okay?” he said, watching us curiously.

  Yeamon looked up at him. “We'd like to use the phone,” he said.

  The cop shook his head. “Your names?” he said, pulling out a small notebook.

  “If you don't mind,” said Yeamon. “I think we have a right to make a phone call.”

  The cop made a menacing gesture with his fist. “I said NO!” he shouted. “Give me your names!”

  We gave our names.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  “Goddamnit, we live here!” Sala snapped. “I work for the Daily News and I've lived on this stinking rock for more than a year!” He was trembling with rage and the cop looked startled. “My address is 409 Calle Tetuan,” Sala continued, “and I want a lawyer immediately.”

  The cop thought for a moment “You work for the Daily News?”

  “You're damn right,” Sala replied.

  The cop looked down at us and smiled wickedly. “Tough guys,” he said. “Tough Yankee journalists.”

  No one said anything for a moment, then Yeamon asked again to use the phone. “Look,” he said. “Nobody's trying to be tough. You just beat the hell out of us and now we want a lawyer -- is that too much to ask?”

  The cop smiled again. “Okay, tough guys.”

  “What the hell is this 'tough guy' business?” Sala exclaimed. “Where the Christ is a phone?”

  He started to get up and he was still in a crouch, halfway off the bench, when the cop stepped forward and gave him a savage rabbit punch on the neck. Sala dropped to his knees and the cop kicked him in the ribs. Three more cops burst into the room as if they'd been waiting for the signal. Two of them grabbed Yeamon, twisting his arms behind his back, and the other one knocked me off the bench and stood over me with his stick. I knew he wanted to hit me and I didn't move, trying not to give him an excuse. After a long moment, the boss cop yelled, “Okay, tough guys, let's go.” I was jerked off the floor and we were forced down the hall at a half-trot, our arms twisted painfully behind our backs.

  At the end of the hall we came into a big room full of people and cops and a lot of desks -- and there, sitting on a table in the middle of the room, was Moberg. He was writing in a notebook.

  “Moberg!” I yelled, not caring if I was hit as long as I attracted his attention. “Call Lotterman! Get a lawyer!”

  At the sound of Moberg's name, Sala looked up and screamed with rage and pain: “Swede! For Christ's sake call somebody! We're being killed!”

  We were pushed through the room at high speed and I had no more than a glimpse of Moberg before we were in another hallway. The cops paid no attention to our shouts; apparently they were used to people screaming desperately as they were led away to wherever we were being taken. My only hope was that Moberg had not been too drunk to recognize us.

  We spent the next six hours in a tiny concrete cell with about twenty Puerto Ricans. We couldn't sit down because they had pissed all over the floor, so we stood in the middle of the room, giving out cigarettes like representatives of the Red Cross. They were a dangerous-looking lot Some were drunk and others seemed crazy. I felt safe as long as we could supply them with cigarettes, but I wondered what would happen when we ran out.

  The guard solved this problem for us, at a nickel a cigarette. Each time we wanted one for ourselves we had to buy twenty-one for every man in the cell. After two rounds, the guard sent out for a new carton. We figured out later that our stay in the cell cost us more than fifteen dollars, which Sala and I paid, since Yeamon had no money.

  It seemed like we had been there for six years when the guard finally opened the door and beckoned us out. Sala could hardly walk and Yeamon and I were so tired that we had trouble supporting him. I had no idea where we were going. Probably to the dungeon, I thought. This is the way people disappear.

  W
e went back through the building, along several hallways, and finally into a large courtroom. As we were shoved through the door, looking as dirty and disheveled as the most horrible bums in the cell we had just left, I looked around anxiously for some familiar face.

  The courtroom was jammed and I looked for several minutes before I saw Moberg and Sanderson standing solemnly in one corner. I nodded to them and Moberg held up his fingers in a circle.

  “Thank God,” said Sala. “We've made contact.”

  “Is that Sanderson?” Yeamon asked.

  “Looks like it,” I said, not having the faintest idea what it meant.

  “What's that prick doing here?” Sala mumbled.

  “We could do a hell of a lot worse,” I said. “We're damn lucky anybody's here.”

  It was almost an hour before they called our case. The boss cop was the first to speak and his testimony was delivered in Spanish. Sala, who understood parts of what he was saying, kept muttering: “That lying bastard. . . claims we threatened to tear the place up. . . attacked the manager. . . ran out on our bill. . . hit a cop. . . Christ Jesus!. . . started a fight when we got to headquarters. . . God, this is too much! We're done for!”

  When the boss cop had finished, Yeamon asked for a translation of the testimony, but the judge ignored him.

  The manager testified next, sweating and gesturing with excitement, his voice rising to an hysterical pitch as he swung his arms and shook his fists and pointed at us as if we had killed his entire family.

  We understood nothing of what he said, but it was obvious that things were going against us. When it finally came our turn to speak, Yeamon got up and demanded a translation of all the testimony against us.

  “You heard it,” said the judge in perfect English.

  Yeamon explained that none of us spoke Spanish well enough to understand what had been said. “These people spoke English before,” he said, pointing at the cop and the manager. “Why can't they speak it now?”

  The judge smiled contemptuously. “You forget where you are,” he said. “What right do you have to come here and cause trouble, and then tell us to speak your language?”

  I could see that Yeamon was losing his temper and I motioned to Sanderson to do something. Just then I heard Yeamon say he “would expect fairer treatment under Batista.”

  A dead silence fell on the courtroom. The judge stared at Yeamon, his eyes bright with anger. I could almost feel the axe descending.

  Sanderson called from the back of the room: “Your Honor, could I have a word?”

  The judge looked up. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Sanderson. I'm with Adelante.”

  A man I had never seen stepped quickly up to the judge and whispered in his ear. The judge nodded, then looked back at Sanderson. “Go ahead,” he said.

  Sanderson's voice seemed out of place after the wild denunciations of the cop and the manager. “These men are American journalists,” he said. “Mr. Kemp is with the New York Times, Mr. Yeamon represents the American Travel Writers' Association, and Mr. Sala works for Life magazine.” He paused, and I wondered just how much good this kind of thing was going to do. Our earlier identification as Yankee journalists had been disastrous.

  “Perhaps I'm wrong,” Sanderson continued, “but I think this testimony has been a little confusing, and I'd hate to see it result in any unnecessary embarrassment.” He glanced at the boss cop, then back to the judge.

  “Jesus,” Yeamon whispered. “I hope he knows what he's doing.”

  I nodded, watching the judge's face. Sanderson's last comment had been delivered in a tone of definite warning, and it crossed my mind that he might be drunk. For all I knew, he had come straight from some party where he'd been drinking steadily since early afternoon.

  “Well, Mr. Sanderson,” said the judge in an even voice. “What do you suggest?”

  Sanderson smiled politely. “I think it might be wise to continue this hearing when the atmosphere is a little less strained.”

  The same man who had spoken to the judge earlier was back at the bench. There was a quick exchange of words, then the judge spoke to Sanderson.

  “You have a point,” he said, “but these men have behaved in an arrogant way -- they have no respect for our laws.”

  Sanderson's face darkened. “Well, Your Honor, if the case is going to be tried tonight, I'll have to ask for a recess until I can contact Adolfo Quinones.” He nodded. “I'll have to wake him up, of course, get Senor Quinones out of bed, but I don't feel qualified to act any further as an attorney.”

  There was another hurried conference at the bench. I could see that the name Quinones had given the court some pause. He was the News' attorney, an ex-senator, and one of the most prominent men on the island.

  We all watched nervously as the conference continued. Finally the judge looked over and told us to stand. “You will be released on bail,” he said. “Or you may wait in jail -- as you like.” He jotted something down on a piece of paper.

  “Robert Sala,” he said. Sala looked up. “You are charged with public drunkenness, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. Bail is set at one thousand dollars.”

  Sala grumbled and looked away.

  “Addison Yeamon,” said the judge. “You are charged with public drunkenness, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. Bail is set at one thousand dollars.”

  Yeamon said nothing.

  “Paul Kemp,” said the judge. “You are charged with public drunkenness, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. Bail is set at three hundred dollars.”

  This was almost as much of a shock as anything that had happened all night I felt as if I'd committed a treachery of some kind. It seemed to me that I'd resisted well enough -- had it been my screaming? Was the judge taking pity on me because he knew I'd been stomped? I was still pondering it as we were led out of the courtroom and into the hall.

  “What now?” said Yeamon. “Can Sanderson afford that kind of bail?”

  “Don't worry,” I said. “He'll handle it.” As I said it I felt like a fool. If worst came to worst, I could cover my bail out of my own pocket.

  And I knew somebody would post Sala's, but Yeamon was a different matter. Nobody was going to make sure he came to work on Monday. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that in a few minutes we were going to go free and he would go back to that cell, because there wasn't a soul on the island with a thousand dollars who had even the slightest interest in keeping Yeamon out of jail.

  Suddenly Moberg appeared, followed by Sanderson and the man who'd been huddling with the judge. Moberg laughed drunkenly as he approached us. “I thought they were going to kill you,” he said.

  “They almost did,” I replied. “What about this bail? Can we get that much money?”

  He laughed again. “It's paid. Segarra told me to sign a check.” He lowered his voice. “He said to pay the fines if they weren't more than a hundred dollars. He's lucky -- there weren't any fines.”

  “You mean we're out?” said Sala.

  Moberg grinned. “Of course. I signed for it”

  “Me too?” said Yeamon.

  “Certainly,” Moberg replied. “The deed is done -- you're all free.”

  As we started for the door, Sanderson shook hands with the man he'd been talking with, and hurried after us. It was almost dawn and the sky was a light grey. Except for a few people around the police station, the streets were calm and empty. A few big freighters stood at anchor in the bay, waiting for morning and the tugboats that would bring them in.

  By the time we got to the street, I could see the first rays of the sun, a cool pink glow in the eastern sky. The fact that I'd spent all night in a cell and a courtroom made that morning one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. There was a peace and a brightness about it, a chilly Caribbean dawn after a night in a filthy jail. I looked out at the ships and the sea beyond them, and I felt crazy to be free with a whole day ahead of me.

  Then I realized I would sl
eep most of the day, and my excitement disappeared. Sanderson agreed to drop us at the apartment and we said good night to Moberg, who was going off to look for his car. He'd forgotten where he'd left it, but he assured us it was no problem. “I'll find it by the smell,” he said. “I can smell it for blocks.” And he shuffled off down the street, a small figure in a dirty grey suit, sniffing for his car.

  Sanderson later explained that Moberg had first called Lotterman, who was not home, then Quinones, who was in Miami. Then he had called Segarra, who told him to sign a check for what he assumed would be small fines. Sanderson had been at Segarra's house, just ready to leave when Moberg called, and he had stopped by the court on his way home.

  “Damn good you did,” I said. “We'd be back in that goddamn dungeon if you hadn't come.”

  Yeamon and Sala mumbled agreement.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Sanderson replied. “You won't be out for long.”

  We rode the rest of the way in silence. As we passed the Plaza Colon I heard the first sounds of morning -- a bus beginning its run, the shouts of early fruit peddlers -- and from somewhere up on the hill came the wail of a police siren.

  The Rum Diary

  Nine

  After only a few hours of sleep, I was awakened by a great shout. It was Sala, sprung up as if from a nightmare. “Mother of balls!” he yelled. “The car! The vultures!”

  After a moment of confusion I remembered that we had left his car on the road near Casa Cabrones. The Puerto Ricans take a real interest in abandoned cars -- they set upon them like hungry animals and tear them apart. First go the hubcaps, then the wheels, then the bumpers and doors, and finally they haul away the carcass -- twenty or thirty of them, like ants dragging a dead beetle, hauling it off to some junk dealer for ten yanqui dollars, then fighting with knives and broken bottles for shares of the money.