This last phrase made Lyon’s eyes open so wide they almost popped out of her head.
“She’s already spoken to the chief of police. They drugged her and kidnapped her. It was a miracle you were able to save her in time,” she said.
“Some people call me Sir Lancelot. I’m a knight in shining armor on Saturdays, Sundays, and days off.”
“She’s a good teacher,” she continued. “She’s expanded my mind. She knows a lot and has traveled a lot. She’s not a piece of shit like all the rest. She won’t let Hollywood ruin me like it has Liz and Deborah.”
“Yeah, it’s really crummy that they’re famous and earn millions of dollars. Someone oughta get the electric chair.” I was taking it out on her, but it was Blondie who deserved my sarcasm. “If you want to ruin your life, you don’t need Hollywood’s help, young lady. You’re already well on your way.”
To her surprise, I abruptly stood up. Hampton Fancher ran toward me, full of bravado.
“You’re being disrespectful to Sue. That’s gonna hurt.”
He telegraphed his attack. I used the same punch that the Indian, Fernández, had used on me: in the face, right between the eyes.
Fancher went flying over the sofa and landed on the coffee table. The tequila and joints floated in midair until gravity did its part. I was expecting a scream or at least some tears from Lyon, but her jaw just dropped. Another dumb blonde to swell the ranks of Movieland.
“Is Eva okay?” I asked in a conciliatory fashion.
Lyon answered, completely ignoring the curses coming from her boyfriend, who was trying to get to his feet.
“Yes. Actually she’s been asking for you.”
“Tell her something nice, something she’d like. On my behalf.”
I walked out, mentally erasing Sue Lyon from future sexual fantasies.
2 PARTS VODKA
1 PART COFFEE LIQUEUR, PREFERABLY KAHLÚA
MILK OR LIGHT CREAM
Blend the vodka, chilled if possible, with the coffee liqueur. Serve in a short glass with ice. Slowly add the milk or cream to taste in order to achieve an appealing visual effect.
A cocktail for many occasions, the White Russian is named in honor of the “anti-Bolsheviks,” or supporters of the czar, from the 1917 Revolution. It isn’t a Russian cocktail, but it is prepared with vodka. The Black Russian came first in the 1940s, and with the addition of cream sometime later became “white” and sweeter, and a particular hit with the ladies. Mix one up and turn on the sweet sounds of Eartha Kitt singing “C’est Si Bon” to the accompaniment of Henri René’s orchestra.
__________________
The next day there was nothing more for me to do on the set. I went back to the hotel to get some shut-eye. With a little luck, my encounter with Sue and her hotheaded boyfriend would turn out to have been no more than a bad dream.
Two heavy knocks on the door woke me from my slumber. They must have been fairly hard, as up to now I’d been able to sleep right through the church bells next to my hotel. Coming to consciousness, I realized I’d fallen asleep in my street clothes and an empty bottle of gin was lying beside me. I would have preferred Blondie.
Again the pounding echoed in my ears like war drums. This time I was sure it could be heard all the way to China. Mao was probably wondering what in the hell was so urgent, too.
I stumbled toward the door. “Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see you,” a voice said in clumsy English, as rough as a Harlem garbage dump.
Standing before me was the largest man I’d ever seen. On his neck he carried something vaguely similar to a head. Big face, snub nose so broad it looked like the prow on a cruise ship, and eyes ridiculously small in comparison with his long, almost girlish eyelashes. His chest was enormous, like a Sherman tank, and I was sure his knuckles touched the floor. He wore a tight sport shirt, short pants, and tennis shoes that made him look like an orangutan outfitted for Wimbledon. Only the orangutan would have been better looking. His hand, so broad I could have pulled up and sat down on it, grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me out of the room in one swift motion.
“Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see you,” he repeated in the same tone.
“I heard you already. Got any other sentences? Or did your record get scratched?” I answered. My feet were dangling several inches above the floor by this point, but my question must have thrown him off, because he dropped me. I took advantage of the opportunity and stepped quickly back inside the room.
“Are you Sunny Pascal?” he growled.
“Only when it suits me.”
This time he was thoughtful, not knowing what to do.
I was starting to like our little exchange. It gave me enough time to clean myself up while the big ape reflected on his bananas. A final look in the mirror assured me that I was presentable enough for an audience with the famous couple and headed back over to King Kong.
“You said it.”
“What did I say?” he asked me, scratching his head.
“Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see me. After you.”
For the first time, he saw the light and gave me a goofy grin that was short one tooth. I couldn’t help thinking he looked like a fat kid who’d just been given a piece of candy.
This fat kid had one nice ride, I’ll give him that. A beautiful Cadillac convertible waited outside the Rio Hotel. I barely managed to get in before King Kong took off like a madman, hitting every pothole in Vallarta. Two dogs and a donkey almost met their maker as we careened up the vertiginous streets. At least they would have died with class: this was one exquisite car.
We reached a cobblestoned street in the upper part of town. The river ran along one side, murmuring peacefully. King Kong parked the car across from an enormous white facade with ashlar masonry. The entrance was protected by a huge mango tree brimming with fruit just waiting to drop on unwary pedestrians. A few mangos lay smashed on the ground, and the sickly sweet odor of fermented fruit crept into my nostrils.
An elegantly lettered sign made of ceramic tiles read “Kimberly House.”
King Kong placed his hand on my shoulder and propelled me through the entryway. There among the flowers and bougainvillea, two boys and a little girl played at splashing each other with buckets of water. They were lovely children, blonde and blue eyed, the kind only a gorgeous woman can produce.
Under the shade of a tile roof, a room filled with rustic leather-and-pine furniture sprawled like a retired tourist. There Elizabeth Taylor reclined in her trademark Cleopatra pose. She was dressed in a long white tunic, open at the side to display a burnished, well-defined leg. Her hair was gathered back in a great bow. In her hand, she held what looked like a White Russian. A nearly empty box of chocolates lay to one side. A large pair of dark glasses shaded her famous violet-colored eyes. Her equally famous cleavage was crowned by an enormous collar of stones so ridiculously large, they could have passed for costume jewelry. She indeed looked like a queen—much better, in fact, than the sourpuss on the British pound.
A small bar with bottles of every shape and size stood like an altar at the far end of the room. At the center, instead of the parish priest, however, was Richard Burton in a tight bathing suit and a wide linen shirt. He looked more relaxed than he had on the set, almost paternal.
“You’re the sleuth, right?” Burton asked me in his distinctive Welsh accent. “I’ve seen you on the set. You’re hard to beat.”
“I think you’ve already won, and I don’t even know what we’re playing. I couldn’t hope to match what I see here, Mr. Burton.”
He roared with laughter. One of the children turned around, mocking him. Taylor didn’t so much as look at me; she wasn’t taking her eyes off the children. Like a lioness watching her cubs play with a rattlesnake.
“Drinks. I meant drinks,” he explained. “Between the two of us, we’re going to bankrupt Stark. Our bar tab is going to cost him more than the goddamned film.” He raised a bottle without a label. The contents were as pure as the
diamonds nestled on his girlfriend’s breast. “Raicilla?”
“Only if you’re driving. They took away my license.”
He roared again. None of the children turned around this time. He poured two tall shot glasses and passed one to me. He waited until my fingers had grazed the glass, and then he knocked his back in one swallow. I didn’t want to fall behind; mine disappeared just as quickly.
“This raicilla is good for the soul. You can feel how it trickles down into your gut.” He took a seat on one of the chairs and refilled the glasses. “I’ve been talking to the Indians who sell it to me. They make it out of local maguey. It has a little mescaline, like peyote. That’s why it makes you feel so light.”
“Better than anesthesia.”
“I ought to bottle it and sell it in the States. I’d become more of a millionaire than any bloody Hollywood actor.” Again the laugh. Not even Liz turned her head. It seems British humor is as odd as steering wheels on the right and drinking tea in the middle of the afternoon.
“We have a delicate matter to discuss. John said you might be able to help us,” he murmured seriously.
“As long as we don’t have to kill anybody. I don’t like bloodstains on my clothes. They’re hard to wash out.”
“Liz lost something. Something she holds in high regard. We’d like to recover it…” He turned to her. She rewarded him with the gaze of a cat about to pounce. “Of course, I don’t mean her acting career. That would be no small feat, after our leading roles in Cleopatra. We wouldn’t want to die in the attempt.” This time it was my turn to laugh. The Brit had the acid humor of a drunk who has just got run over by a bicycle.
“It’s a gold ring, set with rubies and pearls,” Taylor said, interrupting our little chat. “The king of Indonesia gave it to me.” Her voice was hard and sweet, like a good slap after a soft kiss.
“I’m marrying Liz for her jewels. The only thing I’ve got to offer in exchange is me…which is more than enough for any woman.” Taylor gave him a hard punch in the stomach while he laughed. I was expecting them to take out the gold pistols John Huston had given them and open fire.
“It disappeared from the house last night,” Miss Taylor concluded.
“Well, I don’t think they’ll try to sell it in town. Selling the Statue of Liberty in the Sahara Desert would be more subtle. Your ring is no doubt on its way to Mexico City, ma’am.”
“No, it’s still here in town.” Burton turned toward his friendly giant, who was still standing there beside him, and said, “Bobby, show him the note.”
King Kong disappeared into another room, then reappeared with a white envelope and placed it clumsily into my hands.
Inside the envelope was a folded sheet. A sum of money was written on it, and an address: “Salado Bridge. Midnight. No cops.” I folded it again and put it back into the envelope. Who knows, maybe they wanted to keep it as a Mexican souvenir.
“Smart. They know what they’re doing. If they’d tried to run, Interpol would’ve tracked them out of the country.”
“Money is not an issue. We just want you to accompany Bobby to the drop-off. You know about these things. Our bodyguard, here, is just an ex-boxer.”
I turned to look at the giant, who returned another gap-toothed grin. I adored him even more.
“Do you want me to apprehend them?”
“We don’t want any shooting, or for you to play the hero. We don’t want any more publicity than we already have. Liz is doing the paperwork to divorce Eddie Fisher, and I’m working on mine with Sue, right here in Puerto Vallarta. This might make the local authorities nervous. Come back with the ring and you’ll be handsomely rewarded.”
“I’m on Mr. Stark’s payroll. It’s my job,” I said and then added, “Another glass of raicilla should settle the score.”
Burton turned to look at his future wife. She folded herself on the sofa while scolding one of her children for wallowing in the garden.
Burton poured me another raicilla. I guess we had a deal.
2 OUNCES BRANDY
1 OUNCE LEMON JUICE
1 OUNCE COINTREAU OR TRIPLE SEC
SUGAR
Blend and chill with ice. Serve in a cocktail glass with a sugared rim. “Makin’ Whoopee” by Ella Fitzgerald perfectly reflects this drink’s prewar esprit.
According to David A. Embury, renowned cocktail historian, the sidecar was invented by a World War I captain who stopped in a Paris bar, hoping for a daiquiri. The bar was out of rum, so he had to settle for brandy instead, and the sidecar was born. The new drink needed a name, and “sidecar” seemed fitting, since the bar’s owner was known for riding a motorcycle equipped with one.
__________________
Bobby La Salle was Richard Burton’s bodyguard, trainer, and Ping-Pong opponent. Burton’s agent and Liz Taylor’s ex, Michael Wilding, had hired him. I asked Bobby Gorilla whether Wilding had enough guts to shine his ex-wife’s shoes, but Bobby didn’t get it; you couldn’t hold a complex conversation with him any more than you could with a child.
Burton handed me another envelope, this one stuffed with crisp, clean hundred-dollar bills. It was a sum I figured I’d never come across again in my lifetime, even if I robbed a bank. The Welshman downed a few more drinks with us as we waited for nightfall.
When the time had come, I asked Bobby to take me to my hotel first. Burton had said no guns, but I had learned long ago that you didn’t walk around with that kind of money without some backup. Bobby was a good start, but my Colt was more trustworthy and less bulky.
On our way to the hotel, Bobby told me about his glory days as a boxer, and I told him about my interest in surfing. He wanted to be an actor now, and I cheered him on. After all he was as goofy as a cartoon character, and everybody likes them.
The church bells tolled midnight as we headed out on the highway toward the city limits. There wasn’t much traffic, just a few tractor trailers on their way to Guadalajara.
The moon reflected on the surface of the sea, and the palm trees swayed in the night breeze, which was perfumed with the salty smell of seaweed. We crossed the Salado River, and the Cadillac turned inland. The land on both sides of us was overrun by jungle, and all we could hear were the songs of crickets and toads. At a clearing by the river, where some fishing boats rested on the bank alongside their extended nets, I killed the motor. The crickets and toads grew louder. It seemed deserted enough, but you could probably have hidden a German tank in the undergrowth if you wanted to.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere. Here, even the lizards get bored,” I told Bobby, as a few frogs splashed into the water, reminding us that we were not completely alone.
A flashlight beam shone in our eyes. It came from a leafy tree not more than thirty feet from the car. I felt like a deer caught in headlights.
“Stay in the car. I’ll take care of this,” Bobby Gorilla said, grabbing the envelope of money. He got out of the car and raised both hands in the air. I managed to discern a shape behind the beam of light. It approached the former boxer. Their voices merged with the noise of the river and its inhabitants, and I couldn’t make out more than a word here and there.
The crickets and toads finally took five, and I was able to hear the man with the flashlight say, “Did you bring the money, cabrón?”
It was spoken in a fast and zesty Spanish. Not the kind spoken on the coasts but city Spanish. Professional, criminal Spanish.
I didn’t want Burton to have the impression that all Mexicans were a bunch of crooks. I had to do something, so I slowly drew my Colt from my shoulder holster and climbed out of the car. I didn’t care anymore if my baby caught cold. There’d be time enough for it to recover.
“Dinero here, anillo.” Bobby articulated the two Spanish words I’d taught him on the way over. I heard a grunt. Voices. Arguing.
A shot.
This was getting interesting. It certainly wasn’t the crickets or toads who’d fired. The ones packing the weapons were another kind of verm
in. I heard Bobby cursing, spewing words I am sure his mother wouldn’t want to hear. I released the safety.
Another shot.
Two shots are too many for one night. Before I could move a muscle, a finger touched my shoulder. Then the barrel of a gun. I can still remember the words whispered in my ear before I fell unconscious, “This is for hurting my arm.” Call it a drunkard’s intuition, but I knew that voice belonged to Mr. Antsy Underpants.
1 OUNCE VODKA
1 OUNCE BLUE CURAÇAO
7 OUNCES LEMONADE
1 MARASCHINO CHERRY
Blend vodka, curaçao, and lemonade with ice. May be enjoyed with rum and Malibu coconut cream, or sweetened with sugar. Garnish with the cherry and the tunes of Mel Tormé.
The blue lagoon was created by Andy MacElhone, a famous bartender and son of the owner of Harry’s New York Bar in Paris. The drink was named after the 1949 film directed by Frank Launder and based on a Victorian romance by the novelist Henry De Vere Stacpoole. Years later, in 1980, a new version of the movie was released, making actress Brooke Shields famous.
__________________
I was somewhat dizzy when I came to and suffering my worst hangover ever.
“You’re an irresponsible drunk. Did you think your old man would be proud of someone like you?”
I could hear voices speaking to me in the dark, but I couldn’t make out a face.
“It’s my life. I’m not you.”
“Tough guy, huh?”
“They’re my mistakes. Don’t fuck with me…”
I dragged myself across the wet ground and managed to get up on one knee. The voices continued, but they were only in my head. I was alone. Steadying myself with both hands, I tried to stand but fell down again, my hands covered with wet sand.
Slowly coming to my senses, I tried again. The second attempt was painful but successful. I got up with all the caution of an ice skater who’s just fallen flat on his ass, using the trunk-door handle for support. My joints were still numb.
Bitter Drink Page 6
