“No thanks!” I jumped out of the bed as I felt an intimate hand under the covers. “I’d like to oblige, but aside from anything else, I have all these inhibitions. But I wonder if I could ask one favor from you before I leave.”
“Of course, sweetie. Anything at all.”
“Could you lend me some clothes?”
“But of course.” The one with the greasy kid stuff crowning his coiffure got out of bed and crossed over to a closet.
The other one stayed in the bed and sulked for a moment. But then he got interested in the clothing the other one was selecting for me and joined him. They chattered away about styles and fashions for all the world like two buyers at a Dior fashion show. Finally they reached some agreement and came back to me with some garments.
I was still trying to pull the slivers of glass out of my hide. Curlylocks noticed and insisted on helping me. I didn’t trust his motivations, but I was in no position to turn down any offer of help. So—nervously—I lay down on my belly and let him prospect. His fingers were very light, and he seemed to enjoy his work.
“He loves me . . . He loves me not . . .” he chanted in Spanish, pulling petals of glass from my rear end.
The other duzy watched and giggled.
Finally, I was de-glassed and I got up and put on the clothes they’d provided me. Open sandals with jazzy scrollwork, skin-tight, bright red Capris—-the kind of pants Calypso dancers wear—a yellow and green striped shirt that was even brighter than the pants and had flowing sleeves, and, to top it off, a straw hat with a gay rainbow ribbon wrapped around it and dangling over the brim. It was an outfit I normally wouldn’t have been caught dead in, but I suppose it beat walking around naked.
My two couturiers were delighted with the sartorial result. They stood back and oohed and ahhed and clapped their hands. “Isn’t he just gorgeous!” the scented senor exclaimed.
“Simply beautiful!” the other agreed.
The way their eyes were glowing as they stared at me, I was beginning to feel like an hors d’oeuvre set in front of a pair of starving Armenians. “Muchas gracias,” I told them and edged toward the door. They fluttered along with me, both of them now coaxing me to stay. They were right behind me when I opened the door and stepped cautiously out into the hallway.
My timing was perfect. Raoul, Consuela and the madam were just tiptoeing down the staircase from the roof. They looked genuinely happy to see me.
However, my two effeminate buddies behind me seemed anything but happy to see them. “Women!” one of them muttered indignantly. “Wouldn’t you know it,” the other added. “He’s not one of us at all!” The first one put his arm around the other’s shoulders and turned him back toward the bedroom. “Disgusting!” he proclaimed. “Well, if he prefers females . . .” The door slammed shut behind them.
“Who are your friends?” the madam asked. “They don’t seem to like us.”
“It’s a long story and I haven’t time to explain,” I told her. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
“Are you thinking of joining the Steel Band or something?” she asked, eyeing my costmne. “You’re certainly a sight to impress the tourists.”
“It’s the latest thing in Caribbean beachwear,” I answered. “Now come on. Let’s go.”
We crept down the rest of the stairs. There was one rebel guard at the foot. He had his back to us. Raoul caved in his skull with the butt of the tommygun. And then we were outside.
To the north we could hear the sounds of battle raging as the rebels attacked the government buildings held by the junta in power. Still farther north was my hotel, where I hoped Victoria Winters and Alan Foster would still be waiting for me. The action seemed to have pretty much swept past us and it was relatively calm where we were now. This gave us a chance to discuss what our next move should be.
The madam had friends who would-hide her and Consuela in this part of the city, and it was decided that they would remain there. But I very much wanted to get back to my hotel and put Vickie and Foster on the trail of the German. And I wanted to bring Marti with me so that we might pick his brain at our leisure. Fortunately, he agreed to accompany me.
We decided it would be foolish to attempt to get through the lines of battle. If the rebels didn’t get us, then the junta troops would. This was one night when nobody would stop to ask which side you were on. Nor would they respect neutrality. The smell of blood was thick in the air and every man was both a potential killer and a potential victim. So, somehow, we had to circumvent the revolution.
Raoul came up with a plan for accomplishing this. His idea was simple. He proposed that we go in the opposite direction from the battle to the fishing wharves. Here we would steal a boat and travel by water along the coastline in the general direction of Haiti. At some point, whenever it seemed relatively safe, we’d beach the boat and head back toward Santo Domingo through the jungle. Thus we’d come on the city from the northern side, hopefully before that district became embroiled in the battle.
So we bid the ladies goodbye and started for the docks. We got there without incident and began prowling the waterfront looking for a dinghy with the oars in it, a boat that hadn’t been chained to its mooring by its owner. Finally we found one. It was secured by a rope which Raoul cut. We got in and then, as quietly as he could, Raoul began rowing out of the harbor.
It wasn’t quietly enough. Before he’d taken more than a few strokes, a fisherman appeared on the docks and began shouting after us excitedly in Spanish. Others joined him and the shouts grew to a furious hubbub. Then one of them gestured and the whole group began to move.
They had realized that no matter how hard Raoul and I rowed, the tide would carry us very close to the point of a jetty protruding out into the water. Now they were racing down the jetty, obviously intending to intercept us.
I pulled on those oars with all my strength, and so did Raoul. But the tide was too powerful, and no matter how hard we tried it kept pulling us toward the rocks. As we came abreast of them, the group of fishermen went into action.
They’d armed themselves with harpoon spears. Now they loosed them at us in a fusillade. We both fell flat in the boat, Lady Luck stayed with us, and neither of us was hit.
But two of the missiles had lodged in the flooring of the dinghy, and now the fishermen were tugging at the ropes attached to them in an effort to pull us close enough so they could get their hands on us. Their fury was their strength, and they might have succeeded if Raoul hadn’t reacted so quickly. While I was vainly trying to pull the harpoons free, he used more sense and quickly cut the ropes attached to them. By now the fishermen were practically hovering over us, poised to jump. Raoul slammed an oar into the belly of the man in front. As he fell back against the others, we both began to row furiously. It worked, and then we were out of range and they could do nothing but stand there shaking their fists and shouting curses after us.
I guess we rowed steadily for more than an hour. We hugged the coastline. Then, when the lights of Santo Domingo had been lost to us for about half of that hour, we made for shore and beached the boat.
Now we walked along the dunes searching the wall of jungle for a path that might lead back toward the northern border of the city. After a while, we found an opening that looked like it might be such a trail. We had to take a chance on it. If it ran out, then we’d just have to retrace our steps back to the beach. It would be impossible to get through that impenetrable jungle at night without a well-worn trail to follow.
Even as it was, following the trail was no cinch. The only light we had to guide us was the moon overhead. The path wound so much we couldn’t be sure we were going in the right direction. And vines, branches and brambles tripped us up and assaulted our bodies every step of the way. Pretty soon the sharpy outfit I’d borrowed from the two gay boys was in tatters. My skin, like Raoul’s, was covered with scratches and bruises and insect bites.