Bitter Drink

by F. G. Haghenbeck

  Arriving fashionably late to roll call that day, I noticed nothing was any different than it had been. Everyone was hurrying around retrieving, transporting, or exchanging something. I crossed the set, headed for my usual seat at the bar, grateful Richard Burton wasn’t in this scene. He’d be tied up for safekeeping at Kimberly House by his lioness, no doubt.

  I ordered a daiquiri, testing our bartender’s skill. It wasn’t half bad, though I’d drunk better urine in public bathrooms. I settled into my seat, said a silent prayer to the selfish God to make Blondie appear, and drank.

  Lately, that was what I did best: drink.

  I could see John Huston chewing on a cigar the size of a thimble and hear that Gabriel Figueroa had decided on the opera Mikado for today’s soundtrack. His Italian wasn’t any better than his English, but his voice made the bottles on the bar tremble. For an opera singer, he was an excellent cinematographer.

  Much to my disappointment, Blondie didn’t show.

  But I did spy a group of local Indians again, looking on in silence from the edge of the jungle. This time a family had gathered. The man was no older than I was, a sparse beard surrounding his mouth. The woman was pregnant and nursing a baby. Three children, mucus encrusted beneath their noses, were seated, resting. Their eyes were dark, deep, and hopeless.

  My daydreaming was interrupted by a loud noise. The sound of objects creaking, then falling from high above. Noises that signal blood, pain, and maybe even death.

  I saw members of the staff running toward one of the bungalows. I jumped from my seat, reached for my Colt, and then remembered I’d lost it.

  One of the set balconies had collapsed, taking two assistants down with it. It didn’t look promising: the balcony had fallen down the cliff between jagged rocks. Two men were trapped among the rubble a few yards away from the crashing waves. One of them was Tom Shaw, the assistant director. I didn’t recognize the second man.

  Tom looked worse off than his companion though. He tried to speak, but blood bubbled from his mouth. People were shouting, calling for help. All I could think was that we were a long way away from the beaten path, a long way for the Red Cross ambulances to come.

  I shouted for a rope, and someone furnished one. Tying one end to a column and the other to my waist, and praying to the God of drunks that I’d live to taste one last martini, I descended down the cliff face.

  Tom kept trying to call out as I moved carefully down the wall. His blood began staining the rocks, mixing with bird guano. Other men followed me down the rope. I reached the spot where he landed but was scared to move him. With the help of the others, I was able to carefully move him onto the waiting motorboat that would take him to Puerto Vallarta. The next motorboat, the one meant for his companion, was working its way toward shore.

  I climbed back up the rope and returned to the scene of the accident. It was free of onlookers now. I could see the construction was of poor quality. The only way to win at this game was to do things on the cheap. But no matter how bad a job the builders had done, there was no reason for this building to have crumbled like a sand castle.

  Bending down to study the remains hanging from the demolished terrace, I could see that the rods holding the beams had been cut with a hacksaw. This was no accident; someone had wanted blood.

  “Goddamned Indians. They build everything out of sand,” Huston grunted behind me.

  I stood up and turned around. The director was only inches away; he could have easily shoved me off the precipice in this position. In fact, if he’d so much as exhaled, he would have. I swallowed hard. He was a full head taller than me.

  Huston gave two chews to his cigar, regarding me silently. It was the kind of silence that comes after they hand down your sentence at a trial, or after she tells you she’s pregnant. Then he just turned and walked away, grumbling, “By God! We better finish this goddamned film before we all end up swallowed alive by the jungle.”

  I found my breath again and quickly moved away from the edge of the construction, sure I’d wet myself.

  2 OUNCES WHISKEY

  ½ OUNCE SWEET VERMOUTH

  2–3 DASHES ANGOSTURA BITTERS

  1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

  Mix ingredients with ice in a shaker, blending until frosted. Serve in a cocktail glass. Garnish with the maraschino cherry. Drink while listening to “I’d Like to Hate Myself in the Morning” by Shirley Bassey.

  The manhattan was first mixed in the late nineteenth century, when famous partygoer Jenny Jerome asked the bartender, during an animated event at the Manhattan Club, to serve something special to then New York governor Samuel J. Tilden. The cocktail became famous on Wall Street, Broadway, and in Hollywood during its golden age.

  __________________

  Filming was suspended for two days while all the buildings were thoroughly checked, so we all retreated to our respective hotels.

  I was one of the last ones to catch transport to Puerto Vallarta. And by the time I arrived at the Rio Hotel, I wasn’t drunk, which was a major accomplishment for me.

  It was still early in LA, so I decided to tighten a few screws. In the lobby I requested a long-distance call be made to Scott Cherries’s office.

  “Sunny! I thought you’d be busy with all those orgies,” Scott exclaimed by way of a greeting.

  His voice was so distant it sounded like he was on the other side of the world, or maybe the other side of the galaxy.

  “So far I haven’t been able to attend any. They start after midnight, and you know I go to bed at eight o’clock, right after drinking my hot cocoa.”

  “And the women? There’s gotta be some broad after you,” Scott said.

  “Just a drug addict. The rest are too busy trying to conquer the other lush, Richard Burton.”

  “You’re not calling to wish me a happy Thanksgiving…”

  “No, I already sent you a card with a turkey on it. Here they call it guajolote, by the way. They eat it with mole sauce, so no one can ID it during the autopsy,” I joked and then swallowed hard. I don’t like asking for favors. “I need to call in some of those favors you owe me,” I said, seriously.

  “No problem. But don’t expect a tip.”

  “Are you still friends with that general who wanted to sell you his Korea memoirs? If so, ask him about a man—”

  “If the man doesn’t have a name, we can start with the phone book. Today I’ll ask him for letters a through f,” Scott cut in.

  “Billy Joe Rogue. Claims he was a GI,” I said.

  “Got it.”

  “And how’s it going with that secretary at the LA consulate?”

  “If my personal life interests you, you must be really bored,” Scott replied.

  “Why don’t you invite her out to dinner to the Luau on Rodeo Drive? I’m buying. Maybe you can while away the evening by asking her about the movie. Bring the conversation around to Stark.”

  “I think that’ll be an interesting chat. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Tuck yourself in at night and say your prayers,” I said.

  He hung up the phone.

  As for me, I was going to forget about that morning’s unpleasantness by doing something I hadn’t done since arriving in Puerto Vallarta. No, not sex; I’d given up on that already. I was going to surf.

  I grabbed my good board—the other one was already kindling—put on my worn swim trunks, and strolled over to Playa de los Muertos, where some tourists, and the journalists who felt cheated by the cancellation of that day’s shoot, were sunning themselves—their bodies white as sour milk. Some local beauties played around on the seawall, their feet splashing in the water, spicing up the afternoon.

  I sighed heavily and let the sound of crashing waves fill my heart before throwing myself into the water.

  I mounted a tunnel and couldn’t get out, the waves smacking me around. I emerged from the water and then started to turn my board to face the oncoming swell, ready to enjoy some payback. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw som
eone signaling me from the beach. I turned my board back around and started paddling to shore.

  A smattering of applause greeted me as I walked out of the surf.

  “Taking a beating from the ocean seems to me as brainless as taking a beating for sticking your nose someplace it doesn’t belong,” Sergeant Quintero said, beer in hand.

  “Would you like to give it a try, sargento? It’s good practice. Then when you get hit by a cop, it hurts much less.”

  “Mis huevos.”

  He was already in a countdown, waiting for another opportunity to use his catchphrase.

  “Isn’t there any crime in this town? Shouldn’t you be out looking for bad guys?”

  “To be honest, it’s pretty quiet. Until busybodies come and stir up the broth; that’s when the scum floats to the surface.” He finished his beer in one long swallow. “I came to let you know that the dead guy must have been some kind of swell.”

  “You mean he had a pedigree?”

  “Like designer clothes, but that’s not why I’m here. He was shot by a hundred-percent sterling. You won’t find silver that pure in the jewelry stores here in town. I’m thinking about melting it down and having a ring made.”

  “A silver bullet?” I said, toweling myself off.

  “I asked around at the hotels to see if they’ve got the Lone Ranger registered, but so far no luck. Might he be an amigo of yours?”

  I was at a loss for words. I guessed Quintero didn’t know the main actors in the film had all received gold revolvers loaded with silver bullets.

  Running my mouth off would give him the advantage, and I didn’t want that.

  “Why don’t you take a trip to the silver mines at Taxco? Maybe you’ll get lucky and find the guilty party.”

  “And why don’t you go straight to hell?” he said, returning the volley. No mercy. He threw his beer bottle into the sea and walked off.

  I sat down on the beach and watched a pelican splash around looking for fish. A waiter from a nearby restaurant brought me a beer prepared with Tabasco sauce, lime juice, and salt.

  The sunset was beautiful. As far as I was concerned, Quintero and his suspects could flush themselves down the toilet.

  The sun was about to dunk itself into the sea when once again I was interrupted by my messenger boy. Picture-perfect, he still wore his old school uniform. Today his serious expression was enhanced by a finger up his nose.

  “Tengo a message for you,” he said, finding his prey and smearing it on his pants leg.

  “As dependable as the telegraph. Not to mention better dressed.”

  “Ellos me dijeron they’ll be waiting for you at Mismaloya, a las diez.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. I took the brat by the shoulders and shook him a little. I didn’t want to hurt him, just shake the snot loose from his pants.

  “Who sent you?”

  “No sé. They gave me this for you.”

  He took a wrinkled, grease-stained paper bag out of his pocket. It was fairly heavy. I stuck my hand in and felt cold steel. It was my Colt.

  The kid grinned at me, sticking his hand out.

  I handed him ten pesos.

  By the time I’d turned back to the sea, night had fallen.

  1 PART VODKA

  1 PART TRIPLE SEC OR COINTREAU

  1 PART LIME JUICE

  Mix all the ingredients together and shake with ice. Serve in a short tequila glass. Sugar can be added for sweetening. If you prefer a fluorescent tone, add one part blue curaçao. And if you want something with more pizzazz, add “Summertime Blues” by Eddie Cochran to the mix.

  The kamikaze cocktail was named after the infamous Japanese suicide pilots of World War II, since anyone who tries it gets bombed. To enhance the effect, down it in a single blow.

  __________________

  After a shower at the hotel, I dressed, and loaded my gun. I was ready for my date.

  It was late at night when I went in search of transportation to Mismaloya. There wasn’t much action at the dock. No boats were running to my destination at this time of night. I asked around, trying to find someone, among the few drunken sailors I encountered, who’d rent me a boat in exchange for a few bucks. No luck.

  I was about to give up when I felt a tug on my shirt. I recognized the face at once. It was one of the kids from the Indian family I was always catching sight of near the set.

  “Señor, mi papá says you can come with us.”

  The raft he pointed to was equipped with a battered outboard motor, and I could see his father trying to get it started as we spoke. The pregnant woman, with the baby in her arms, was already on board. The other two children were helping them shove off.

  “Va para Mismaloya?” the man asked me gravely.

  “I’ll be able to make it worth your while if you’ll take me,” I said.

  The man didn’t answer; he simply gestured for me to climb aboard. I took my seat across from the woman, greeting her shyly. She was nursing the baby, her full, chocolate-colored breast exposed. The rest of the children were laughing in the prow. The raft was heavily laden with beans and corn, though there was no meat aboard; I imagined it didn’t show up on their menu too often.

  The boat sputtered and then lurched forward, moving away from the dock. The lights grew smaller and smaller, as did the noise of the city. The sea current was in our favor, and we moved at a good clip. Only a few huts on the coast were witness to our voyage to the island. It was hot and humid, but the children’s laughter broke the stillness of the night.

  “Do you live in Mismaloya? Vive ahí?” I asked, making small talk.

  “Sí, señor, mi familia has always lived there,” the man answered me dryly. The whites of his eyes shone in the darkness.

  “Do you come to Vallarta often?”

  “El pulpo. With octopus. I make a few centavos selling it to the bungalows. Before, I harvested corn, but they took the land away.”

  “Didn’t you find work with the film shoot? Maybe they’d pay you more than what you get for selling pulpos.”

  “I don’t want nothing to do with them.”

  His comment was so filled with anger I decided it wise to end the conversation there.

  In silence, I kept watch while the boat slowly made its way. The sound of a melancholy song grew louder, soon blanketing all of us in the boat. It was shrill and sad. A shiver ran through me, all the way from the soles of my feet to the hair on my head. I’d never quite experienced anything like it.

  I turned to look at the man, and he signaled for all if us to be quiet. Then he cut the motor.

  Another noise filled the air. A continuous purring that ended with a whistle. From the depths of the water, a giant shadow emerged and elevated several feet, then showed itself in all its glory. Breathless, I got to my feet. If I’d reached out, I could have touched the enormous body of the breaching whale.

  It was huge. The biggest living creature I’d ever seen. I almost fell overboard when the cetacean dove back into the water, splashing us and rocking the boat. The moaning and singing continued. An enormous back emerged a few yards away, releasing a massive spray of water.

  It was a herd of humpback whales, Puerto Vallarta’s most famous tourists. Every year they migrate from the north in search of warm ocean currents, rather than cheap tequila and news of Burton and Taylor’s sinful affair.

  My heart felt like it would leap out of my chest. I turned to look at the man; he was smiling a complicit smile. The children were still pointing at the retreating whales, while we continued our trajectory toward Mismaloya.

  They dropped me off at the dock by the movie set. I offered the man a five-dollar bill, but he wouldn’t accept it until I agreed to take a basket of octopuses. Thankfully, they were dead.

  The set was peaceful. There were only a few lights on in the technicians’ houses, but the main set, the hotel where the story took place, was dark. Part of the wardrobe was hanging alongside some abandoned lights. I walked slowly, trying t
o make as much noise as a mouse at a veterinarian’s office.

  “Tell your bosses there’s gonna be more accidents if we can’t reach an agreement.”

  The voice sounded like a radio announcer’s and came from a shed submerged in shadow. The accent was pure Mexico City. It was a greasy, spicy voice, like the tacos at the Plaza Mexico bullfights.

  “Tell me what you want, and I’ll be glad to pass it along. I’ll even throw in some octopus for the grill.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, you bum,” a voice behind me growled.

  I recognized it at once, a memory of an acne-riddled buttocks flashed in my mind.

  “Well, if you don’t want to chat, I’d better be going. Sergeant Quintero will be happy to talk to you,” I bluffed without a single ace up my sleeve.

  I turned around, heading back to the dock. A Luger got in my way. To my surprise, the hand that carried it was attached to a body, face and all. A razor-sharp mug, with traces of acne, and hair so greasy you could fry up an octopus on it, Spanish-style. A thin nose poked out like the barrel of a gun. An outmoded pencil mustache smiled at me above a gold tooth. He wore a shining red silk shirt, pleated pants, spats, and patent leather shoes. Antsy Underpants didn’t have the kind of face you need to sell the latest fashion, but he wasn’t ugly enough for his mother not to love him, either. Even rapists have mothers, I figured.

  “It’s bad manners to turn your back on the licenciado, asshole,” he said, without lowering his gun.

  “What else do you want? You’ve got the ring and the cash,” I told the shadow. The Luger pressed between two of my ribs. I jumped when I felt its tickle.

  “I want the roll of film, but I also want a piece of the pie. My clients are very upset. They don’t like being left out,” the shadow answered.

  I smiled. Finally I had a pair of kings in my hand: They weren’t the ones who had redecorated my hotel room. They thought the roll of film was still in my possession.

  “No,” I said.

  The Luger dug in deeper. This time I didn’t jump. I was starting to get irritated by Antsy Underpants and his routine of hassling me every time we met.