Thompson, Hunter S Read Free Page B

head.
    “What's wrong?” I said.
    He shrugged. “No change, senor.”
    I felt in my pocket -- nothing but a nickel. I knew he was lying, but I didn't feel like
     taking the trouble to get a dollar changed. “You goddamn thief,” I said, tossing the bills
     in his lap. He shrugged again and drove off.
    The Plaza Colon was a hub for several narrow streets. The buildings were jammed together,
     two and three stories high, with balconies that hung out over the street. The air was hot,
     and a smell of sweat and garbage rode on the faint breeze. A chatter of music and voices
     came from open windows. The sidewalks were so narrow that it was an effort to stay out of
     the gutter, and fruit vendors blocked the streets with wooden carts, selling peeled
     oranges for a nickel each.
    I walked for thirty minutes, looking into windows of stores that sold “Ivy Liga” clothes,
     peering into foul bars full of whores and sailors, dodging people on the sidewalks,
     thinking I would collapse at any moment if I didn't find a restaurant.
    Finally I gave up. There seemed to be no restaurants in the Old City. The only thing I
     saw was called the New York Diner, and it was closed. In desperation, I hailed a cab and
     told him to take me to the
    
    
     Daily News.
    He stared at me.
    “The newspaper!” I shouted, slamming the door as I got in.
    “Ah, si,” he murmured.
    
    
     “El Diario,
    
    
     si.”
    “No, goddamnit,” I said. The
    
    
     Daily News --
    
    
     the American newspaper -- El
    
    
     News."
    He had never heard of it, so we drove back to Plaza Colon, where I leaned out the window
     and asked a cop. He didn't know either, but finally a man came over from the bus stop and
     told us where it was.
    We drove down a cobblestone hill toward the waterfront. There was no sign of a newspaper,
     and I suspected he was bringing me down here to get rid of me. We turned a corner and he
     suddenly hit his brakes. Just ahead of us was some kind of a gang-fight, a shouting mob,
     trying to enter an old greenish building that looked like a warehouse.
    “Go on,” I said to the driver. “We can get by.”
    He mumbled and shook his head.
    I banged my fist on the back of the seat “Get going! No move-- no pay.”
    He mumbled again, but shifted into first and angled toward the far side of the street,
     putting as much distance as possible between us and the fight. He stopped as we came
     abreast of the building and I saw that it was a gang of about twenty Puerto Ricans,
     attacking a tall American in a tan suit. He was standing on the steps, swinging a big
     wooden sign like a baseball bat
    “You rotten little punks!” he yelled. There was a flurry of movement and I heard the
     sound of mumping and shouting. One of the attackers fell down in the street with blood on
     his face. The large fellow backed toward the door, waving the sign in front of him. Two
     men tried to grab it and he whacked one of them in the chest, knocking him down the steps.
     The others stood away, yelling and shaking their fists. He snarled back at them: “Here it
     is, punks -- come get it!”
    Nobody moved. He waited a moment, then lifted the sign over his shoulder and threw it
     into their midst. It hit one man in the stomach, driving him back on the others. I heard a
     burst of laughter, then he disappeared into the building.
    “Okay,” I said, turning back to the driver. “That's it -- let's go.”
    He shook his head and pointed at the building, then at me. “Si, esta
    
    
     News.”
    
    
     He nodded, then pointed again at the building. “Si,” he said gravely.
    It dawned on me that we were sitting in front of the
    
    
     Daily News --
    
    
     my new home. I took one look at the dirty mob between me and the door, and decided to go
     back to the hotel. Just then I heard another commotion. A Volkswagen pulled up behind us
     and three cops got out, waving long billyclubs and yelling in Spanish. Some of the mob