Bitter Drink

by F. G. Haghenbeck

  I finally secured a room at the Rio Hotel, though I had to give the manager a huge tip to inspire him to evict a noisy reporter from the Excelsior. I wanted to raise my expense quota.

  My room had a balcony that looked out onto the street, and when I threw the window open wide, I could see the Cuale River, which divided the city in half.

  I turned on the fan and ordered two rum and Cokes with plenty of ice from room service. The heat was so unbearable that even the palm trees were panting. All of them. Every single leaf. But it wasn’t the heat that got to you here, it was the humidity.

  I thought back to the old gringo from the bar in Mazatlán. Something wasn’t quite right, like the uneasy feeling of having a piece of food caught between your teeth. And then it struck me: I’d never said I was coming to Puerto Vallarta. How’d he known where I was headed?

  I emptied both glasses, one after another, without breathing.

  TEQUILA

  2 CUPS ORANGE JUICE

  3 TABLESPOONS TABASCO SAUCE OR POWDERED CHILI PEPPERS

  ¼ CUP LIME JUICE

  2 CUPS TOMATO JUICE

  2 TABLESPOONS MINCED ONION

  SALT AND PEPPER

  2 TABLESPOONS WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE

  1 LIME SLICE

  Mix together all ingredients except for the tequila, seasoning with salt and pepper to taste. Serve in a tall shot glass. Serve the tequila in another shot glass, accompanied by a slice of lime. The music of mariachi Pedro Infante will help it go down smoothly.

  Born in the city of Tequila, Jalisco, in the early twentieth century, sangrita, a traditional chaser for shots of tequila, was popular among rich hacienda owners who cultivated the maguey plant from which mezcal is distilled. Invented by Romero’s widow, sangrita takes away the strong alcoholic flavor of tequila so you can better appreciate the taste of the spirit.

  In time, sangrita became an obligatory accompaniment for tequila, its feminine side, if you will. A sip of tequila is taken, followed by one of sangrita. Few drinks mix together so sublimely inside the mouth.

  __________________

  There was no highway leading to the movie set; the commute was either made by donkey or by sea. All the supplies, equipment, and material had to be transported in panga motorboats, which set out from a small dock in Puerto Vallarta on Playa de los Muertos: Dead Man’s Beach. Bad name for a beach. Bad name for anything. Especially if you’re the dead man.

  I caught a panga to Mismaloya along with some people who were working on the film. Our little boat skirted the scenic coastline, passing by places no modern man had ever set foot on. Not that I think many modern men are too interested in setting their feet someplace so filled with mosquitoes and vermin.

  We reached a spot where two big islands, large and steep, emerged from the sea.

  “They call it Los Arcos. That’s where all the birds nest,” the panga captain told me. And indeed, these islands seemed to be a popular spot; an infinite number of birds flew around them: seagulls, pelicans, frigate birds, and other fish thieves. As the panga approached the shore, the birds rose up in cacophonous flight.

  A few minutes later, the panga reached a small beach, pleated like a sheet. Next to it, on a crag, was a colonial-style edifice right out of a Speedy Gonzales cartoon. We’d arrived at The Night of the Iguana.

  We disembarked on a dock built at the foot of the rocks, and then climbed a steep staircase that had been built between the outcroppings in an attempt to make this lost corner of the world more habitable. A great flurry of activity greeted me once I reached the plateau. Dozens of people moved back and forth, like a colony of ants, carrying, dragging, or delivering things. Just a typical day on a film set.

  I bumped into a man wearing a sky-blue guayabera and creased linen pants that were so smooth they walked on their own. He sported several days of stubble and several years of receding hairline. I guessed he was one of the production assistants, as he clutched a thick stack of papers to his chest like it was his virginity.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Stark,” I ventured.

  “If you hurry, you can catch a plane to Los Angeles, darling. He won’t be here until next week,” he answered me in Spanish tinged with a touch of Pasadena playboy.

  “Mr. Huston?” I tried again.

  “Sure you want to see him? He hasn’t filmed anything since yesterday. He just might swallow you whole.”

  “If I can’t have the big boys, I’ll settle for you. I’m the security guy. Mr. Stark told me to show up here.”

  Sky-Blue Shirt smiled. He turned around, signaling back to me. He didn’t shake my hand or introduce himself. He was no gentleman. But then, no one in Movieland was.

  “Follow me,” he replied. “They’ve been expecting you since last week. Did you make a wrong turn in Tijuana?”

  I followed my new acquaintance, who swayed his hips so much it looked like he was dancing a rumba. His style was unmistakable—of the Rock Hudson/Sal Mineo variety.

  “You got a name? Or should I use ‘Hey, you!’ like everyone else?” I asked.

  “Gorman, honey. But if you want to play rough, you can call me some other name.”

  I smiled. I liked it when pretty boys flirted with me. “Sunny Pascal. Are you the production assistant?”

  “Costumes, makeup, scenery, or the guy who brings Miss Lyon her cookies and milk. Today I’m busy handing out scripts. Want one?”

  “Not a bad idea, although I already know how the story ends,” I said, taking the script Gorman offered. “Is it any good?”

  “Nothing you couldn’t buy for a song on Sunset Boulevard. Maybe a couple of Oscar nominations. Not best picture or best screenplay,” Gorman replied. He was obviously quite the film critic.

  When we reached the bar on the set, the stars and production crew were taking a break, escaping the blazing heat.

  Gorman introduced me to the production assistant, the director’s assistant, and another assistant of some kind. They didn’t even turn to look at me. I was no more than a contractual obligation to them, a burden imposed on them by Mr. Stark. Nothing more.

  The last assistant I met told Gorman he should see to it I had everything I needed. Looks like Mr. Gorman just got promoted from milk-and-cookies boy to my new production liaison. I don’t know if he saw it as a promotion or not; he merely winked at me.

  “And what’s your job here supposed to be, bloodhound?” Gorman asked.

  “I thought you might be able to tell me that,” I replied, taking a seat at the bar so I could take in the scenery.

  “Seems to me you just won the lottery,” Gorman said, taking a seat next to me. “Nothing’s going to happen here. Maybe some yelling or a catfight. Just some material for The Hollywood Reporter.”

  The barman was busy preparing some virgin drinks to be distributed among the extras. I wondered how far my influence as “the security guy” would stretch.

  “You want something to drink, Gorman?”

  “Tequila sunrise, darling,” he purred, then turned to the barman, and snapped, “Don’t be stingy with the cherries.”

  “A martini,” I told the barman, then added, “I’m in charge of security.”

  The barman hesitated, but then turned and started working on the order. In the movies you don’t bet on someone’s looks, you bet on their name tag—a clear chain of command stretching back to Lumière.

  “If you let me in on what’s going on around here, I’ll buy you another round,” I offered Gorman.

  He produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with all the masculinity of Katharine Hepburn and lit one up. He took one long pull, and half of it turned to ash before my eyes.

  “The movie has got to be finished in less than three months. I don’t foresee any difficulties. No special effects, not many extras. It’s a filmed theatrical play, darling. We just have to pray the weather will be merciful. But the weather has no mercy at all; she can be a real bitch.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Members of staff
? One hundred and twenty people. Almost all of them are housed in the bungalows. They built us bathrooms, living rooms, dining rooms…It’s like a hotel.”

  “What about local workers?” I asked.

  “Tarascan Indians. They live in a village on the beach, fishing and catching iguanas. Now they’re the construction crew.”

  “Mexican modernity.”

  “Thanks for the drink,” he said, standing up. “I’ve got to finish delivering scripts.”

  “If you see or hear anything, I’ll be around.”

  “Count on me, but be careful, macho man, aluminum bends both ways.”

  I caught sight of a swift boat that had just reached the dock of the set. Several elegant people disembarked, all wearing dark glasses and expensive clothes. Two faces were of particular interest, the others, their assistants, were recyclable.

  Liz Taylor wore a cotton robe that stuck to her perspiring body, and Richard Burton had completely unbuttoned his shirt against the oppressive heat. Behind them a retinue followed like a royal procession. They were accompanied by, among others, their agents Hugh French and Michael Wilding, Taylor’s first husband, now reduced to picking up after the horses in the parade.

  A man just a hair smaller than a concession stand stopped at the foot of the stairs, his hands at his waist. He wore a guayabera that could have doubled as an awning, and sported a red bandana knotted at his neck and a pair of yellow snakeskin boots, as flashy as two neon signs. His straw hat was bigger than an umbrella, and his face was as wrinkled and cured as barbecued meat. If not for the mustache, you could eat it in a taco.

  This was unmistakably the famous Emilio Fernández, better known as “El Indio.” Movie director, actor, typical Indian-Mexican character. Typical like pyramids, typical like tequila.

  He gave a shout, opening his enormous arms wide to embrace Elizabeth Taylor. After he released the poor thing, you could have swept her up in a dustpan and thrown her into the nearest wastebasket.

  “Come with me, Liz! All of you: follow El Indio. You’ll be all right if you stick with El Indio,” he announced.

  Emilio Fernández took out a .45 bigger than a Nazi howitzer and aimed it at Richard Burton’s chest. Even from my perch I could tell that Burton cursed under his breath, no doubt in Welsh, and foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog.

  The sight of the gun sent a wave of adrenaline through me. A wave I couldn’t surf, one that broke right in my face. And I jumped down from the bar stool and barreled toward the group, my Colt drawn.

  Fernández, pistol in hand, continued pawing Taylor as if she were a piece of fruit at the market, as my right fist found El Indio’s jaw.

  He dropped the actress, though my blow didn’t seem to affect him any more than that. He didn’t budge, not one inch. That was typical too, like the pyramids.

  My Colt looked like a toy gun against the mass of this man. His two eyebrows joined in the middle to form a ferocious, King Kong expression. I didn’t relish the idea of being perforated by a .45. Those cannons cause wounds that don’t even hurt—because you’re too dead to feel them.

  There was no shot, just a fist the size of a medieval battering ram right between my eyes.

  Then a slow fade to black. I’d won myself an intermission.

  1 PART DARK RUM

  1 PART LIGHT RUM

  1 PART ORANGE JUICE

  1 PART MARACUYÁ JUICE

  1 PART PINEAPPLE JUICE

  1 PART SWEETENER

  1 PART GRENADINE

  DASH OF LIME JUICE

  1 ORANGE SLICE

  1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

  Mix all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker or blender. Serve in a high hurricane glass shaped like a lamp. Garnish with the cherry and orange slice.

  The hurricane was invented during World War II in Pat O’Brien’s Bar in New Orleans. A creative barman decided to serve the cocktail in a hurricane lamp from a big candelabra, the kind typically found in those parts, thus giving the drink its evocative name. The bar is still open today, boasting the one and only original recipe for this drink emblematic of the Big Easy. Enjoy on a warm night to the sounds of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  __________________

  The lights came back on in my head. And as I opened my eyes, the glow was so intense I couldn’t stand it.

  “Turn off the spotlight,” I cried.

  “Sorry, the sun has a contract to be here for another six hours,” a female voice replied, brightly. She had the kind of voice that comes wrapped in a nice package. A diva’s voice, I concluded.

  “So give him a big tip and maybe he’ll go away.”

  I focused front and center. Not bad, not bad at all. She was blonde, the kind of blonde that’d make all the other blondes feel inadequate. Big green eyes, a dreamy expression. Lips like a ripe peach. Anything you asked for, whatever you wanted, she had it.

  The beautiful face holding an unlit Camel between its lips came into focus. “Welcome to the world of the living. Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  “Two tequilas. One for my mouth, the other for my cheek.”

  I was lying down on an equipal, as life on the set went on around me. Nobody cared that I’d checked out for a while. Everyone was continuing business as usual, except for the beautiful blonde and a smiling Gorman who was covering his mouth with a pink handkerchief.

  “What happened to Miss Taylor?” I asked.

  “She’s having a drink with Mr. Fernández,” Gorman answered, pointing toward the bar.

  Around a table, the Indian bellowed with laughter alongside Richard Burton, Liz Taylor, and John Huston.

  There I was stretched out on a sofa, my cheek so hot you could fry an egg on it. Some security guy I’d turned out to be.

  “You kept him from squeezing her like a tube of toothpaste. You’re a hero,” Gorman exclaimed.

  “What the fuck is El Indio Fernández doing here, anyway?” I grunted, touching my cheek. It felt as big as Texas.

  “He’s the associate producer.”

  “It would have been safer to form an association with Hitler. He wouldn’t have packed a cannon instead of a pistol,” I said, sitting up. The ground spun in circles, like when you get tossed by a wave, or a Tijuana cop demonstrates his boxing technique on your face.

  “You’re a tough nut to crack,” the blonde said as she lit her Camel with a Zippo that screeched louder than a mattress in a cheap motel. “Maybe you ought to think about changing jobs. Yours is a pretty dangerous one. Taming lions or skydiving would be better.”

  “Someone has to do it, and some days I get to meet beautiful women. I met my quota today.” Even playing the tough guy hurt.

  “I can see you’re feeling better. The smart-ass in you is back already.” She exhaled a puff of smoke into my face.

  It tasted oddly wonderful, carrying a hint of her perfume.

  “Maybe a massage would set me right.”

  “Don’t push it,” she said, rising to her feet and sending me an air kiss. “If I’m ever in trouble, I already know which dog will come to my aid.”

  “Watch out for that dog; he bites.”

  “I’ll be careful, bloodhound,” she said sweetly as she walked away. Her white cotton dress showed off the silhouette of her shapely legs underneath like a bar lamp. A bar lamp from a real fancy joint.

  Fernández glanced at me. He was still laughing when he got to his feet. He put on his enormous umbrella hat, the shadow it cast darkening his skin even more, and crossed the sun-drenched patio to where I lay.

  “You’re a Pascal, pendejo?” he exclaimed, spraying saliva. “Yep. Your father’s that sonofabitch cabrón Captain Pascal?”

  “He’s a commander now, sir,” I replied, cringing at the weakness in my voice, but all the toughness had drained out of me as soon as that fist crossed my face.

  “Well, if you’re that bastard’s son, come, bébete un tequila with me.”

  He grabbed my shoulder and lifted me up like a wooden ventriloquist’s dum
my. Oh, to be made out of wood right now would be a blessing, I thought. My shoulder ached. Everything ached.

  “Your father is a real asshole. I met him in Santa Barbara when I was working for the gringos.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I replied, unable to come up with anything intelligent to say to him.

  With another affectionate slap on the back that almost cost me a lung, he asked, “Did he tell you why I was dabbling in the movies?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “That hijo de puta assassin Huerta exiled me.

  “How ’bout that, Pascal? That asshole motherfucker thought El Indio was a troublemaker. So I threw my hat in with the gringos. Fucking around with cinema. That’s where I met that cabrón father of yours. We’d go to the fairgrounds and pick up muchachas. He used to knock up Mexican girls who worked picking oranges.”

  “We don’t talk much,” I offered. “But I guess you know he was stationed in the Pacific.”

  “That bastard only got more tail: Japanese. I bet you’ve got a yellow sister, mijo,” he cried, releasing his bellowing laugh.

  Everyone around us echoed him. No one followed the joke, but they got the gist. They didn’t want to end up like me, ground beef. I’ve always prided myself on setting a good example.

  “Send him my regards, muchacho. You all right?”

  “I’m just fine. It only hurts when I breathe.”

  “Wise guy, chistoso,” he said, and pulled me over to the bar.

  “Don’t drag me, sir. I think I can manage on my own. I think I can even go to the bathroom without spraying.”

  “Real funny, just like your old man.”

  Two shot glasses of tequila were already waiting for us at the bar. He lifted one up to my mouth, the other to his own.