“If I’d known you were a Pascal, I would have punched you again, to knock lo pendejo out of you.”
He tipped the glass back in his mouth and started roaring with laughter again. His chorus of ass-kissers followed suit.
“So that bastard Stark hired you to take care of us? What a joke, pinche chiste.”
I tipped my glass back, the liquid gold sliding down my throat. “I’m sure you’ll find it amusing, too, when I ask you to hand over that pistol.”
The laugh track disappeared like magic. In the blink of an eye, we were alone and absolute silence fell. Even the birds stopped singing. They’d probably shat themselves in fear.
El Indio Fernández didn’t move a muscle, not a single inch of his body stirred. Nothing. He was as cold as a statue of Benito Juárez in a municipal park.
“You can’t take it away from me, hijo. It’s my virility. Mis huevos. It would be like cutting off Samson’s hair, like cutting off my balls,” he said slowly.
“Let’s make a deal then,” I replied, taking advantage of the liquid courage I’d just ingested. “I have to do my job. I don’t like it. It’s a bitch having to babysit these gringos. You know they can’t drink more than two tequilas without making a scene. But out of friendship to my father, you could give me a hand. I need to make them believe that no one is going to get hurt out here. Keep the revolver and just give me the bullets. I’ll take care of them so they don’t catch cold or anything. If they start crying, I’ll give them back to you.”
Given the disastrous outcome of the fight, I had opted for diplomacy instead. Sometimes it worked. Not always. If you don’t believe me, ask Kennedy.
I closed my eyes and waited for the next blow. I suspected that it might hurt less this time. Not because of the impact, but because I already knew what to expect.
Nothing happened.
“Only because you’re Pascal’s son, cabrón.” He downed another shot of tequila and unloaded his gun. He slammed the bullets down on the bar. Then El Indio Fernández shrugged his shoulders, gave me a pat on the back that knocked the air out of me, and went back to his guests.
I was reaching for the bullets when John Huston appeared next to me.
“Emilio’s only weakness is shooting people he doesn’t like. For instance, his last producer,” he grunted. “You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you. That means he likes you. I’m sure he’ll settle his dispute with you some other way.”
Not the most reassuring words. Huston returned to his actors, and I was alone for a while. I could see in the jungle, beyond the thatched roof where my princess charming had awakened me, a group of Indians watching me with the same expression they’d no doubt had when they used to watch the Spaniards. You could see the question in their eyes: “What the fuck are you doing here?”
They had been relegated to manual labor on the set, these former owners, dispossessed of their lands to benefit the million-dollar movie industry and this film that might win a couple of Oscars. But not best picture, like Gorman said.
3 PARTS GIN
1 PART ROSE’S LIME JUICE
1 LIME SLICE
Chill the gin and lime juice with ice, and serve in a cocktail glass; garnish with a slice of lime while listening to Wayne Newton’s rendition of “Call Me Irresponsible.”
Surgeon and Admiral Sir Thomas Desmond Gimlette (1857–1943) first served the drink that bears his name during the First World War. The Royal Navy officer had access to gin, and it occurred to him to mix it with lime juice.
An icon of Prohibition-era speakeasies, the gimlet is simple and elegant like its cousin the martini, but it has a more feminine flavor. Gimlette was the inventor, but it was Raymond Chandler’s character Terry Lennox, in the novel The Long Goodbye, who made it a legend, declaring, “A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose’s lime juice and nothing else.”
__________________
I’d never read or seen the play the movie was based on. But it was nothing like the stories I preferred. It centered on an alcoholic reverend, Burton’s character, as a sexually obsessed loser and bum. Not so different from the actor himself, actually.
The good reverend, on a trip with a group of old women to a beach in Mexico, sexually harasses the granddaughter of one of his traveling companions, our infamous Lolita. In order to avoid the trouble coming his way, he hijacks the school bus they’re traveling in, finally taking refuge in the hotel of a former lover. Residing there are a sketch artist, Deborah Kerr’s character, and her father, the self-appointed oldest living poet. All of these characters suffer and yell a lot. That’s basically the story. Pretty standard Tennessee Williams from what I can tell.
I couldn’t see what an old famous guy like the poet was doing on a beach in the middle of nowhere. If I were him, I’d buy a Jaguar, like the one Scott Cherries owned, and hire a couple of amicable girls. That way I’d die with a dumb grin on my face.
But that’s me, not the movie plot, which I found dull. Lots of dialogue and no car chases. When I finally met Tennessee Williams, it all made sense. You can’t expect much from a writer who dressed in pale pink and was accompanied by a lapdog wearing red ribbons.
My work on the set pretty much consisted of doing nothing. The bartender kept the drinks coming, and I obligingly tossed them down. Every day of the week was the same. Regular people think a movie set must be so glamorous and exciting, but anyone lucky enough to actually have the experience usually becomes very frustrated once they discover how tedious the whole thing really is. Three months of boring, repetitive, hard reality in order to produce two hours of frivolous fantasy. Giving birth is less painful and more fun for those involved.
Blondie appeared once in a while on the set, trailing behind her friend and charge, Lolita. Gorman revealed that my princess charming was Eva Martinei, Sue Lyon’s teacher. The actress was still hitting the books when she wasn’t fooling around with her boyfriend, listening to music, or playing at acting. Blondie also ran interference for her pupil. So her mother wouldn’t find out that Hampton Fancher, the boyfriend, hadn’t only sampled sex with her daughter in the kitchen but on the motorboat, in the sound room, in the editing room, in the car, in the school bus they were using for the shoot, on the beach, in the jungle, behind the bar, and, every now and then, in an actual bed.
Blondie passed by one afternoon as I was downing my fifth drink. She shouted a greeting, flashing that roguish smile. I growled my reply like a rabid dog. But by then I was so drunk, it sounded more like an anesthetized dog about to get spayed.
Nevertheless, she came over and we chatted awhile, volleying picaresque puns. She was a well-read woman of the world, knew everything, had lived a lot, and traveled even more. She was the type of college girl who didn’t mess around with lowlifes like me. Sometimes she would disappear for days at a time, and I would try to forget her blonde hair with the help of three extra martinis.
The weather was hot and humid. Whenever tempers ran high among the stars, that same selfish God would send rain our way to cool things off. I imagined He didn’t want those puny Hollywood actors spoiling His paradise.
When the rains came, the filming was put on hold and the entire cast returned to the “big city” of Vallarta. There, Huston and Stark wallowed in card games and Ava Gardner wallowed in someone’s bed. Richard Burton wallowed in his bottle, and Liz Taylor wallowed in strawberry shortcake. The rest of us spread out to various cantinas.
One of those first nights the rain had driven us back to Vallarta, I put on my best rags—a black, long-sleeved guayabera, clean and stain-free, a pair of black cotton pants, and shiny new huaraches I bought from an old man in the market for less than three pesos—intending to visit one of the cantinas.
I walked down the seawall. A lighthouse illuminated the water that was covered in a layer of fog so dense it resembled an opium den. Several local couples were out strolling. Gorgeous girls tittered and shot me coquettish glances as we occasionally crossed paths. I could hear some tone-deaf American journalists si
nging Sinatra from a nearby cantina.
On the corner where Morelos Street intersects the seawall, where the old Spanish Customs building was located, a noisy cantina caught my attention. If I were a smoker, I would have tossed my cigarette into the street and entered the joint with all the aplomb of a leading man. But I’m not. So I lifted a piece of pineapple taffy up to my mouth in my best Bogart style and pushed through the door.
The jukebox was playing one of the latest hits by Elvis. On the heels of the King was our own pop-chart singer Angélica María, less blonde than Doris Day but just as virginal.
I pushed past tables chock-full of news seekers from around the world, stagehands from the San Fernando Valley, and curious locals. I felt like I was in some bar during World War II, where beautiful Frenchwomen were only too glad to show their appreciation to US soldiers. For them, and for beautiful Vallarta women as well, it was a one-way ticket out of a constrictive family.
I ordered a gimlet from the bar, but I knew the cocktail wasn’t going to be any good coming from a bartender dressed in a kitchen apron. This was a drink that required a professional touch; an amateur could turn it into a major disaster. Still, I wasn’t feeling too picky tonight, so when the drink arrived, I finished it in one swallow.
“How is the circus going, soldado?” I heard a voice say.
To my surprise, the old gringo from Mazatlán was sitting beside me. I don’t know what startled me more: the fact of his being there or that he was still wearing the same dirty T-shirt from before. Only now it bore fresh stains.
“Hey, mister! You really do know where all the fun is,” I managed.
“Billy Joe viva in town. You are el forastero.”
“What? You only go to Mazatlán to pick up your Russian vodka?”
“I got other business there,” he replied cryptically.
He raised his ruby-colored glass. A Jamaica flower floated between the ice cubes.
We toasted, the glasses clinking like a servant’s bell, both of us glad to see a friendly face. For some reason, I liked the old man, despite the fact I found him unnerving. Unnerving but agreeable. Like a little lamb with two heads.
“So you live here?” I said. “Nice place to forget about the war. If you miss wars, come with me one day to the Mismaloya movie set. You’ll see some Britons who are trying to rip the guts out of some Americans. Better than D-Day.”
“I can see you’re not really happy, no feliz. What, you can’t lead your own mission? That’s a VIP place for generals.” Cantina philosophy, cheaper than a shrink and always accompanied by ice cubes.
“Hey, how did you know I was coming to Vallarta, anyway? I never told you.”
“Kennedy once told me you didn’t need to see Khrushchev to know there were Russians in Cuba.”
Kennedy? Khrushchev? Cuba? Good questions for an old stranger. “This isn’t a good day for you to be pulling my leg. If you want a good laugh, look for another drunk. This one’s already too beat up.”
He didn’t answer me, just smiled and asked the bartender to bring his friend another one of those “girlie” drinks.
Two more drinks appeared on the bar. I was looking forward to a peaceful chat with my new drinking buddy, but someone had other plans.
Before my second sip, I heard a small voice behind me, shrill, as if it belonged to someone who’d taken a bullet in the nuts.
“You must go someplace. It’s urgente, señor.”
A boy in a dirty school uniform was holding his arms tightly against his torso, like a Christmas nutcracker.
“Excuse me? Perdón?” I replied.
“The señorita needs your help. She gave me the address.”
The kid handed over a folded slip of paper. “Eva. Miramar 87,” it read in hurried, sloppy handwriting. I smiled at the thought of Blondie. Tonight was going to be more than interesting I’d expected.
When I raised my eyes, the kid had his hand out. One day he just might become the best bellhop in the world, once he was old enough to carry suitcases. I gave him a few coins.
“I’ve got to go to work, mister. Next time, I’ll buy the drinks,” I told the old man.
Billy Joe smiled, showing me all his teeth like a corncob, but he didn’t say anything. I asked the barman for directions to the address on the note and took one more look around the joint. With a little luck, by night’s end, some local girl would be arranging her marriage to a gringo technician, I mused before heading out to the street.
2 OUNCES VODKA
3 OUNCES TOMATO JUICE
½ OUNCE LIME JUICE
3 DROPS WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE
2 DROPS TABASCO SAUCE
SALT AND PEPPER
1 CELERY STALK
Mix the ingredients in a blender to chill. Serve in a tall glass with ice, preferably with salt on the rim. As a final touch, add a stalk of celery to the beat of George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue.”
The barman, Fernand Petiot of Harry’s New York Bar in Paris, claims to have created an early version of this popular drink, and renowned hangover cure, in the 1920s that consisted of equal parts tomato juice and vodka. When Petiot moved to New York and started working at the St. Regis Hotel, he added some spices to please the more adventurous New York palate.
The origin of the name is not clear, though it has been linked to several women, some real, others fictional: the most famous being Mary I, Queen of England. The drink’s nomenclature is likely more modern. Some say it was inspired by Mary Pickford, and others attribute its origin to a patron of Petiot’s who upon tasting the concoction confessed that it brought to mind a similar drink from his local haunt, the Chicago Bucket of Blood Club, and a beautiful girl named Mary who worked there.
There was an attempt to change the name to “the red snapper,” but it was too late: the legend was already in place.
__________________
Four blocks later I reached a long stairway that zigzagged toward the mountain. Puerto Vallarta is like a Minotaur’s labyrinth, I realized, cursing the founders of the city for putting this damnable place on a rock to start with. I mounted the stairs, leaving my kidney, one lung, and part of my hernia behind. There was another street at the top of the hill, illuminated by the lamps that shone from every window of the large houses with high walls, like Turkish prisons, that lined the street for as far as I could see.
A few cats meowed as I passed by, and a block or so further, I spotted a new Ford parked in front of one of the larger houses. So there is a way to get up here without suffering a heart attack, I thought. The car was parked in front of a house with the same address as on the note. I touched the hood; it was warm like a schoolgirl’s breast.
A rusty bell hung from the old wooden doorway, but the door was ajar and the notes from a jazzy number slipped out into the night. It was from Birdy, one of my favorite records. I decided to enter the house without ringing. Bells are only good for calling people to mass or to independence.
In a plant-choked patio like a neglected cemetery, an ashlar angel tried to free itself from a bougainvillea and a few rustic pieces of furniture were scattered in no particular order. I walked as lightly as a ballet dancer toward the music, which seemed to be coming from the room right off the patio, a light tapping accompanying the rhythm.
I crept through the open door and was assaulted by a strong odor that made my nose wrinkle. The scene before me had all the signs of a recent big bash: small tequila glasses, empty bottles, marijuana joints, and a brazier were all strewn on the tile floor. But I could tell right away this was one party I was glad I missed. The distinct smell of fresh blood and a bloodstain on one of the sofas confirmed it. I instinctively drew my Colt.
I spied another open door on the far end of the room. It led to a nearly bare room decorated like a convent. The bed was unmade, and in one corner, wrapped in sheets, a figure, crowned by an unforgettable head of blonde hair, was moving.
She was lying there in the fetal position, sobbing. The stench of vomit made me take a s
tep back. I reached for Blondie’s wrist and took her pulse. It was through the roof and her pupils were so dilated, I would have had to use a magnifying glass to find the irises.
Blondie was all right, just a little beat up, and absolutely stoned. Of course, the odor that had welcomed me when I first arrived was opium. The pipe had been tossed aside, next to a broken syringe. Her veins were no doubt a traffic jam of opium, heroin, and marijuana—perfect conditions for a car crash.
“Hey, doggie! I’ve been expecting you…” she said rasping, her voice like sandpaper.
“Party’s over, Blondie. I’m taking you to a doctor.”
“Is he gone?”
“Who?”
It was then I realized that the noise I’d heard accompanying the music wasn’t part of the recording. It was someone breathing heavily, together with the unmistakable squeal of mattress springs. Blondie hadn’t been alone.
Squeezing the Colt, I turned around and started toward the patio.
“Don’t leave me!” Blondie cried as I left the room.
As I entered the music room, gunfire greeted me. The good news was that the man trying to put on his underwear was more concerned with getting dressed than aiming straight.
My Colt reacted instinctively. I hit the deck and was still rolling as I snapped off a couple of rounds. The man winced, and I was sure that one of my return greetings had at least nicked him. It hadn’t stopped him, though. He closed in fast and kicked the gun from my hand. I took the next kick in the jaw as I tried to stand up.
I didn’t see little birds or stars, but it stunned me momentarily—just long enough for the man to get his underwear on and take off running.
By the time I got up, I heard the roar of a motor spreading its wings. The bird had flown the coop.
The room was as sparsely furnished as the bedroom had been, with two exceptions: a portable record player sat in the corner, playing a worn-out 45 over and over again, and next to it a camera was set on top of a tripod. The camera was open, and there was a used roll of film inside. I took it out and slipped it into my pocket.
Bitter Drink Page 4
