Bitter Drink

by F. G. Haghenbeck

  I lifted one hand to my head. It felt as swollen and soft as a ripe mango. Having already kicked me once before in the jaw, Mr. Antsy Underpants had added another blow to the base of my skull this time. Running my fingers through my hair, I felt a sticky wetness. My head was bleeding freely.

  My eyes focused on a large shape in front of me. It was the Cadillac. I stumbled over to it, opened the door, and collapsed in the driver’s seat. The keys were still in the ignition. I just sat there like a putz, the prize champion of putzes. For a second it occurred to me I should lay off the bottle. But just for a second, before I convinced myself that what I really needed was another shot of that raicilla.

  Where Bobby had been standing there was only darkness. I heard a man groaning in pain among the crickets and a motor purring in the distance. Headlights fell on the Cadillac and the clearing around us. I could see Bobby’s body lying a few feet away.

  If the headlights belonged to the same guys that had done that to Bobby, there’d be no escape. I felt for my Colt. It was gone. The approaching headlights grew brighter.

  The car stopped in front of me, blinding me for a second time that night. I could see it was a convertible jeep. A war relic. A Napoleonic soldier would have been more modern and better equipped. My intuition told me there’d be no trouble from that jalopy.

  With enormous effort, I pulled myself out of the car and stumbled toward the ex-boxer. Bobby was alive and moaning, but I could see he was about to pass out. A bullet had gone through his thigh. Nothing to worry about. What a shame it would have been for the world to lose a future star like him, I thought. He’d received the same blow to the head, or maybe two, as I had, enough to knock him out at least. There was a lot of blood beside him, but none of it appeared to be his; it was nowhere near his leg wound.

  A shadow blocked the headlights all of a sudden. I turned and gazed into the blinding halo of light. A robust but hunched silhouette appeared. I could see it wore shorts and a scruffy beard. I don’t know which I recognized first, his voice or the smell of his T-shirt.

  “Soldado, next time better invite me to the party. Más diversión than a cantina, huh?”

  Billy Joe, my drinking buddy from Mazatlán, kneeled down beside me and started tending to Bobby La Salle.

  “Your amigo needs a doctor. He’s not hurt bad, but he could still bleed to death.”

  The old man lifted the boxer like a sack of potatoes and dragged him over to his jeep, depositing him in the backseat with all the delicacy of an airport luggage handler.

  “Compadre, you look muy mal. Let me see that wound.”

  I bent my head down so the old man could take a closer look. He gave a long whistle and moved away from me, as if my head wound and bad luck might be contagious. Leaning against the bumper of the jeep, he raised one of his British cigarettes to his lips and lit it, then offered me one.

  “No thanks. They’re bad for your health.”

  “Just like your line of work, soldado.” He took a deep drag and gave me the same smile he’d offered before, like Santa Claus having been asked for an impossible gift. Goddamned Santa. “You drive the Cadillac,” he said.

  “What about the money?” I asked.

  “Your amigo’s clean.”

  “No. He was carrying an envelope with cash. I guess our date didn’t feel like giving up the ring. They must have kept the ransom money.”

  “Rings, money, and a kick in head. Mucho bueno work.”

  “So how come you show up out here in the middle of nowhere, mister?” I asked. “And I don’t like your half-assed whorish answers anymore. If you tell me you’re out here hunting lizards, I swear I’ll do you worse than they did Bobby.”

  “I followed your trail from town. Esta ser carretera, the road, for cheap putas there. I saw your lights. It’s too cold to be a couple screwing…”

  “I wouldn’t know. Haven’t noticed any this trip,” I replied. My head had finally stopped buzzing. Now it was just pain I felt. “Rescued by an old wise guy. Sergeant Quintero’s gonna love hearing this one.”

  “Billy Joe’s always listo, soldado,” he said, getting into his car. “Follow me. Don’t die on the way, por favor. I still want putas baratas.”

  “You’re the champion jokester, mister,” I replied, my head still aching. I got back into the Cadillac and started the ignition. It took all my concentration not to drive off the road, though before reaching Puerto Vallarta, I did have to stop and throw up, making a terrible mess in the Cadillac. It was all that raicilla I’d drunk with Richard Burton. I was simply returning the favor.

  1 PART GIN

  1 PART CAMPARI

  1 PART SWEET VERMOUTH

  1 LEMON TWIST

  Shake the gin, Campari, and vermouth with ice to chill. Strain into a cocktail glass with a few ice cubes, and garnish with the lemon twist.

  The negroni hails from Florence, Italy, and was invented in the early twenties in honor of Count Camillo Negroni, who asked a bartender to add gin instead of soda water to his favorite cocktail, the Americano. The negroni didn’t make its debut in the United States until 1947, however. Here’s a cocktail to whet your appetite while Sammy Davis Jr. sings “The Girl from Ipanema.”

  __________________

  Just as I’d thought, Sergeant Quintero loved my story. In his own reserved way, he was whooping and bouncing off the walls. Very much in his own way: he raised one eyebrow and said in his standard bored tone of voice, “Mis huevos.”

  Of course, I spiced it up a bit. Like when you inherit a recipe. You add a little something, you take a little something out. And you always season to taste: Bobby La Salle and I were out practicing our aim, using river lizards as targets. That night there must have been a Rotary Club meeting or something, because there were no lizards to shoot. Then a gang of ruffians attacked us. It was highway robbery. It was a miracle I wasn’t killed. I would have been too, if not for the boxer’s courage. While trying to defend me, he took a bullet in the leg. The criminals took off, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Maybe they were late for that Rotary Club meeting. They left us in a sorry state: food for their colleagues, the lizards. Billy Joe had heard the shots and decided to investigate. And that’s how he found us.

  At least I didn’t lie about cheap whores.

  “Mis huevos,” Quintero repeated.

  Bobby lowered his head. He had a bandage that made him look like a gift-wrapped coconut. Another bandage covered the wound on his leg. He’d gotten off easy: only five stitches. It had cost me seven on the nape of the neck. They hurt more than the first kick in the nuts you get in grade school.

  Billy Joe smiled, using that Santa Claus expression of his. Goddamned Santa.

  “The muchacho tells the truth. Drunk sailors, maybe.” With that, the old man was done. It was like adorning Quintero’s drink with a paper umbrella to see if he’d swallow it whole.

  The old man smoked one of his cigarettes. Quintero, not wanting to be left out, removed a package of cheap, filterless Alas from his ridiculous blue shirt. Between the two of them, they puffed more smoke than a broken-down truck. Bobby Gorilla coughed. I liked the fact that he didn’t smoke; he was a true athlete.

  “Mr. Rogue, it’s been a long time since you gave us any trouble. Do you really want to stick your nose into this and end up with blood on your hands because of this pair of pendejos?”

  It surprised me that our friendly local Puerto Vallarta police officer was capable of articulating such a phrase; maybe he had gone to school after all, maybe even junior high.

  “Sergeant, that bells thing was Manuel’s goddamned idea.” I must have looked confused, because Billy Joe turned to explain. “Arrested by the police the other night. Got drunk with cabrón Manuel Lepe. We went to ring church bells.”

  “At four in the morning,” Quintero added in an annoyed tone. I tried to contain myself, but the image of that old man playing childish pranks—like peeping at girls in the bathroom or placing a tack on a chair or ringing church bells in the m
iddle of the night—made me laugh out loud.

  I’d met Manuel Lepe on one of my drunken sprees: he was a local artiste, a well-known character in town, who’d devoted himself to painting canvases that looked like gorgeous pipe dreams: infantile drawings of children, little donkeys, birds; everybody grinning and flying around like angels. Heroin doesn’t generally provide such pleasant visions.

  “It’d all be beautiful if it weren’t for the fact that we picked up a stiff,” Quintero told us sadly, like a bad actor on a Mexican soap opera. “In the river, a few feet away from where you were. It was thrown off the bridge and ran aground alongside the highway. Lucky the current was slow.”

  “And does this body have a name?” I asked. Naïveté is the best weapon against cops.

  “Believe it or not, it does. A guy called José Antonio Contreras. From Mexico City. A real luxury model: wanted for murder, robbery, and beating up bunny rabbits on Sundays. Suspected in the infamous killing of Mercedes Cassola and Ycilio Massine, and a known member of gangs run by Carlos Zippo, Giuseppe Bari, and the Nava.”

  “This can’t be for real. You’re making those names up,” I said with a smile.

  “Sure. Just like the stiff.”

  “No big loss. Maybe just some poor brokenhearted soul who jumped off the bridge,” I concluded, trying to wrap up this mess.

  “Sure, the kind of suicide you only find in Mexico—with a bullet in the chest. A little present from one of you, perhaps?” Quintero asked.

  Silence. The street noise had suddenly died. Even the goddamned crickets awaited our answer.

  “It wasn’t us,” I protested, breaking the awful silence. “I was packing my Colt. It didn’t so much as cough.” The crickets started chirping again. “And how did you find out so much about a dead guy in less than an hour?” I added. “Even James Bond would be impressed by the Vallarta police force.” I’ve found that playing the funny guy also helps with cops. Especially when they’re pointing a gun at you.

  “We were already after this dude. His gang specialized in jewel theft. Our snitch said he was working for Bernabé Jurado here in town. With all these tourists, Puerto Vallarta is a thieves’ paradise.”

  He looked us up and down, like three kids getting scolded at recess. And then he must have decided to take pity on us. “Get outta here,” he barked, “before I find a reason to lock you up all week.”

  “No problemo, soldado. Though the coffee in jail is better than at the Hotel Rosita,” Billy Joe had to add. That really put Quintero in a bad mood. He cursed a blue streak as he escorted us out to the street.

  2–3 OUNCES RUM

  JUICE FROM 1 LIME

  2 TABLESPOONS SUGAR

  2–4 SPEARMINT LEAVES

  2–3 OUNCES SODA WATER

  Crush the mint leaves to release their flavor. Add the sugar and lime juice, and stir until you can smell the mint. Then pour into a highball glass with the rum and ice, and top off with the soda water.

  The mojito made its appearance in the early twentieth century at Mariano Beach, a popular Cuban resort. But the drink didn’t become famous until Angel Martinez opened La Bodeguita del Medio. Ernest Hemingway discovered mojitos in this famous restaurant during his years in Havana, where he continued to live even after the revolution, no doubt so he could keep savoring this delicious concoction. The drink won over other famous people like Brigitte Bardot, Pablo Neruda, Nat King Cole, and Errol Flynn, all of whom enjoyed it with “Maracaibo.”

  __________________

  I couldn’t face Kimberly House and Richard Burton just yet. I didn’t want to explain how his money had gone up in smoke. But Bobby La Salle didn’t have a choice. He told me that since I’d covered for him with the cops, he’d return the favor. He was a nice enough critter. You just had to keep him well fed.

  He dropped me and Billy Joe off at the Rio Hotel.

  The bartender was wearily presiding over a group of journalists from Chicago who were getting progressively drunker. Billy Joe paid the man for a round of mojitos and offered him such a healthy tip he was able to close up shop and call it a night. The journalists fell asleep at their table while we drank our mojitos.

  “How did you get to be a bloodhound, soldado?” the old man asked me, point-blank.

  “That’s a long story.”

  “This time of night, I won’t find my barata whores, so I’ve got time.”

  He was right. No whores for him and no Blondie for me; she was probably counting opium sheep by now. The old man and I would have to keep each other company.

  “I was sixteen when I left my mother’s house,” I said. “Nothing personal. I just couldn’t spend my life attending family reunions on Saturday and mass on Sunday. It’s against my religion.”

  I didn’t usually feel comfortable talking about myself. Bloodhounds don’t do that; they just provide sarcastic back talk. That’s why they’re tough guys. But the events of the evening must have had an impact because I couldn’t shut up.

  “I thought I’d be better off with my father. Everything was fine until I hit him back. At least the blood stayed in the family: mine on his fists and his in my mouth.”

  “Hermoso.”

  “An old LA detective, Michael Carmandy, hired me. He’d been a private dick during Prohibition, one of the best. A loner and heavy drinker who couldn’t be bought off. By then he was already a brand name. He had ten assistants and three secretaries, one of whom was a doll, beautiful, in fact.”

  “Your first heartbreak?”

  “No, just irreconcilable differences. She wanted kids, a house in San Diego, and a vacation home in Acapulco. I wanted booze, fun, and recreational drugs. When she married an architect from Chicago—a Mexican to boot—I quit. Carmandy recommended me to his contacts.”

  “You like him more than your father?”

  “Mussolini would have been better than my dad.” I ended my story abruptly, closing the curtain on that act. “Now I work for myself. Pays for my vices and the rent.”

  “A real winner.”

  I didn’t like the old man’s comment. I didn’t like his smile either. But I really didn’t like my own life story.

  Billy Joe and I retreated to my room. The bar had been closed for so long, the journalists were already snoring. I was certain that one of my bottles of gin still had something to offer. It was already three in the morning; the night couldn’t get any worse.

  I was wrong. It got worse. It looked like a hurricane had touched down in my room. Although a hurricane wouldn’t have been so rough. One of my surfboards was even broken in two. Billy Joe was more upset to see the broken bottle of gin, though.

  My clothes were such a mess it looked like the floor of my studio in Venice Beach, but at least there I would have known where everything was. Whoever did this did it with feeling. This had the stench of Mr. Antsy Underpants all over it.

  I could just imagine him enjoying this little remodel.

  “This wasn’t vengeance. You’ve got something. That’s why he didn’t kill you at the river,” Billy Joe declared.

  “I have nothing of value,” I said. “I always carry everything with me, and I already lost the Colt Carmandy gave me earlier tonight.”

  “You’ve got something,” Billy Joe repeated, lighting one of his British cigarettes.

  I looked at the mess, annoyed. What little was mine was there. Unless, of course, they were looking for something that wasn’t mine.

  “The roll of film,” I exclaimed. “The one I found at the house. I kept it because I didn’t want the cops to see it. Because of the girl’s mother.”

  The old man gave me a knowing look, like someone who can tell you how the movie ends before he even enters the theater. Goddamned Santa.

  “I’m going to sleep. Next time you got a date and need a good rifle, call me,” he said.

  I wished him a very good evening and told him to dream of sweet little angels, like the kind Manuel Lepe paints.

  2 OUNCES WHITE RUM

  JUICE F
ROM 2 LIMES

  1 TEASPOON SUGAR

  10 DROPS MARASCHINO LIQUEUR

  1 ORANGE SLICE

  Mix the rum, lime juice, sugar, and maraschino liqueur with ice in a cocktail shaker. If you prefer it frappé, mix in an electric blender. Serve in a wide glass garnished with the slice of orange. Then form a conga line and dance to the beat of Desi Arnaz’s hit tune “Babalu.”

  The daiquiri is actually a whole family of cocktails, with its primary ingredients being rum and lime juice. There are as many kinds as there are fruit flavors, but the version that gained international fame was born in one of the most famous bars in the world: El Floridita in Havana, Cuba.

  Daiquiri is actually the name of a beach near Santiago, Cuba, where a steel mill is located. They say a US engineer, Jennings Cox, invented the first one, giving it the simple moniker of “natural daiquiri.” It was later perfected by Constantino Ribalaigua Vert, bartender and owner of El Floridita, and the joint came to be known as the “Daiquiri Palace.” Ernest Hemingway dubbed it the “Great Constant” after tasting Ribalaigua Vert’s version. The daiquiri continued to gain popularity through the decades, even inside the White House, where it was rumored to be John F. Kennedy’s favorite drink at mealtime.

  __________________

  The guy in charge of the hotel was nice enough to offer me another room. He didn’t like the current decor in the old one either. I slept all day and all night, and when I woke up the next morning, my injuries hurt worse than before.

  For breakfast, I ordered a couple of huevos rancheros, yolks intact; refried beans with a touch of sour cream; toast; and a pot of coffee from room service. I devoured it all.

  Then I took a long, luxurious shower, like a debutante before her sweet-sixteen party.

  The man I saw in the mirror when I stepped out of the shower looked a lot like me. He had the same face, but he looked roughed up, tired, and bruised like a melon. The visage made me queasy.

  I dressed and decided I better get back to work. The motorboat took me across the water to Mismaloya.