Bitter Drink

by F. G. Haghenbeck

  “I want the ring, the money, and another ten grand,” I said boldly, feeling very macho as I laid out my bluff. The whale incident had given me courage. I heard laughter from the shadows.

  Antsy didn’t like me getting so high and mighty, and he dug his weapon in harder, until I could feel the barrel grazing the innermost bend of my intestines.

  Then I heard blows and shouting. Two more men appeared. One looked like a judicial or federal cop: white shirt, brown pants, and a crew cut, though the shield was missing. He carried a revolver in his hand. He probably got it cheap at Woolworth’s. The other guy was Gorman, looking quite a bit worse for wear.

  The thug threw him at me. Gorman fell to his knees a few steps away. He was crying like a little girl whose dolly had been taken away. An ugly wound split his bald crown all the way to his forehead.

  “Señor Pascal, you have no fucking idea what’s at stake here…Why don’t you explain it to him, Felix?” the shadow calmly declared.

  I turned to look at Gorman. He hadn’t gotten to his feet and was still crying. His hand was clumsily bandaged with a bloody rag. I thought he might be missing at least three fingers.

  “Felix tried to be clever, too. We don’t want it to end this way, right?” Antsy Underpants told me, showing his teeth.

  “The ring, the money, and twenty grand.”

  “You said ten, or maybe your memory ain’t so good?” Antsy complained.

  “Plus interest for keeping me here. Another five minutes and it’ll be twenty-five.” I’d bluffed high. I couldn’t back out now. Much less with a gun inches away from my heart. “Shoot me if you want, but you’ll never get to see those photos. You know where I’m staying.”

  I helped Gorman to his feet. We had to get out of there. My little number was held together with safety pins as stable as a house of cards.

  “Señor Pascal, you’re descending into a sewer. If you’re not careful, you’ll get flushed out to sea,” the shadow warned.

  We walked away without looking back. I expected no less than a shout, a shot, or another whale popping up in front of us.

  Unfortunately, it was a shot. I closed my eyes anticipating the pain.

  The bullet went wide. Gorman fell to the ground. A bloody moan issued from his mouth. Another bullet passed just inches from me.

  Antsy Underpants hadn’t moved. He was as surprised as I was. His weapon hadn’t said a word. He wasn’t even aiming at me.

  “There’s someone else here! It’s a trap, licenciado! Get out!” shouted the thug with the face of a judicial cop. His revolver filled the silence.

  Without a second thought, I used Gorman as a shield. My Colt answered back. The bullets were all lost in the darkness of the jungle. For the third time, Antsy Underpants cleared out, leaving me behind. At least this time another guy had taken the hit.

  I checked out Gorman. The bullet he took was through the forehead. Someone else had killed him.

  I heard noises around me, footsteps moving off into the jungle. Others were running on the dock, and then I heard a motorboat moving away at top speed. Finally, the shouts of the technicians, roused out of bed by the gunfire, broke the night air.

  I was pretty sure poor Gorman couldn’t hear any of it.

  2 OUNCES WHITE RUM

  1 OUNCE COCONUT CREAM

  6 OUNCES PINEAPPLE JUICE, PREFERABLY FRESH

  ½ CUP ICE

  1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

  1 PINEAPPLE SLICE

  Set your blender on frappé to mix the ingredients. Serve in a tall glass, or a hollowed-out pineapple. Garnish with the maraschino cherry and pineapple slice.

  The piña colada is a sweet cocktail, the perfect choice for days by the swimming pool and on the beach. It dates back to 1954, when a bartender from San Juan, Puerto Rico, tried to combine all the typical local flavors in a cocktail. He never imagined it would become such an international success. Today the piña colada is associated with nearly every tourist resort that offers picturesque beaches.

  The drink was further popularized by Rupert Holmes, who released the fairly awful “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” in 1979.

  __________________

  For the first time, I did the job I was paid to do; no one ended up in jail. Officially, nothing happened. No police homicide reports were filed, and the balcony accident was chalked up to just another unfortunate mishap, all too common on a film shoot.

  Two days after my encounter with the whale and Antsy Underpants, the cameras were rolling. Gorman’s predictions failed to come true: The supplies and food kept on coming. I even got some extra help on the job. Armed marines provided us with additional security by patrolling the vicinity in motorboats. Of course, they weren’t solving any problems; they were just keeping a lid on them.

  Off the record, I was asked for a thousand bucks in exchange for registering Gorman’s body with the Red Cross as the victim of a traffic accident. A direct payment to Quintero. It took me a whole day to arrange. The production assistant yelled, grunted, and cursed, but finally got me in front of Stark. If Ray wanted to be in the news for the gossip, and not the murders, he’d have to pull out his wallet.

  Ray Stark was not too happy to see me. The Gorman incident was bothersome enough, but when I told him there was a dead guy with one of the actors’ silver bullets in him, all the color drained from his face. He coughed up the money pretty quick then, all in hundred-dollar bills.

  John Huston’s priority was finishing the movie; it was always finishing the movie, and he wasn’t going to let a murder investigation stop him. Fortunately, in Mexico everything can be settled with dollars and a smile. You can even get a new governor that way.

  Back on the film set, Stark regarded me cheerfully now that our unpleasant business was over. Richard Burton drank martinis and joked about how Liz Taylor looked like a French tart. The cinematographer Gabriel Figueroa sang excerpts from the opera Carmen at the top of his lungs. Deborah Kerr and Sue Lyon filmed a scene that would wind up on the cutting-room floor. And the gossip-rag photographers kept aiming their cameras at the world’s most famous couple. As for me, I was stationed at the bar, finishing my martini, watching the three-ring circus I’d helped them stage.

  John Huston stood next to me and said, “Keep an eye on them, Sunny. There are more reporters in Puerto Vallarta than iguanas.”

  I looked out over the bay. A lazy fog rolled out over the sea. A marine boat patrolled the area. Everything seemed calm, so I decided to take the first boat back to Puerto Vallarta.

  When I reached my hotel, I requested a call be put through to Los Angeles. Scott Cherries didn’t sound so playful this time: “What the hell is going on down there?”

  “Nothing. Everything I touch turns into trouble,” I replied, halfheartedly.

  “I meant the film shoot. It’s independent money, from New York or Chicago. The kind you need to wash and iron along with the laundry.”

  “The movie’s funded with dirty money?”

  “Stark is backed by certain groups that want to take over the studios. Sunny, the gangsters aren’t like we show in the pictures anymore. No Cagney, Bogart, or Robinson. Now they’re the top dogs in Hollywood.”

  “Thanks for the information. You can send flowers to my funeral. But no lilies; I’m allergic.”

  “Don’t do anything rash. This isn’t the first time Hollywood has used that kind of dough. It’s the biggest washing machine in the world. This is basically a power struggle. If you do what’s asked of you, they’ll always be grateful. You’ll be set for life.”

  “And what am I supposed to do? Die?” I asked.

  “Easy, now. It’s just business; some of the cash is even coming out of Mexico. My friend at the consulate told me that the Mexican government issued a land-use permit: for all of Mismaloya, a big chunk of Vallarta, and several other beaches.”

  “Well, I already knew they wanted to turn the set into a hotel. Stark and Huston are partners, no doubt about it. But it’s bigger than all that.”
<
br />   “It’s as big as you want it to be. In the end, it’s just a movie. Do your job and don’t let any of those bullets cross your path. I’ll get the ice ready. You bring the tequila for the margaritas.”

  “Find anything out about Billy Joe Rogue?”

  “I already told you the good news. He’s the bad news. When I asked my friend in the military, he wanted to know who was asking. He told me if I didn’t want any trouble with the government, it would be best to learn a lesson from the cat. The one curiosity killed. All he could tell me was that Rogue was in the big leagues in the Pacific. Then in Korea. Then, after the Bay of Pigs, he turned into a spook. Stay clear of him; ghosts scare me.”

  “I haven’t felt so much at ease since I got shot with a Thompson,” I said and hung up the phone. If that was good-bye, it stank. It might be the last time I’d hear my friend’s voice.

  I sat down at the hotel bar and introduced my face to a couple of piña coladas. They didn’t do much for it, but they tasted good. Just as I finished draining my second glass, Sergeant Quintero appeared next to me. I should be more careful; I hadn’t even seen him come in.

  “The fatal traffic accident reports reached my desk today. I didn’t like them.” He ordered a beer.

  “The dead guy probably liked them even less…” I laughed.

  He placed a bullet in the palm of my hand. Another silver one.

  “Found between the second rib and collapsed lung of your friend Felix Gorman. Something tells me a third bullet might have your name on it. No one likes a busybody.”

  “Neither do I, but I can’t kill myself.”

  “This Gorman was mixed up with a gang of homosexuals, drug addicts, and gigolos in Mexico City. He was even close to Villa and Javier Nava, main suspects in the Lucerna murder. They’re the kind of people we don’t want here in Puerto Vallarta. This is a family town; I don’t want to see it packed with perverts.”

  “You better start building a wall then, because a whole bunch of them already got in.”

  “Maybe you could lend me a hand.”

  “Me? Now it turns out I’m good for something after all?” I marveled.

  “That ring business was a Bernabé Jurado hit. He hires those guys to steal the rocks. His faggots make nice with the ladies and clean out their jewelry boxes. I suspected that little fuck from the first murder.”

  “If I’m gonna be of any help at all, I’d like to know more about this Jurado guy.”

  “Devil’s advocate. They’re assholes, but he’s the granddaddy of them all. He’s screwed his own people. He’s bailed out murderers, politicians, and perverts. The bastard weaseled his way out of jail through a loophole. He just got back from Argentina.”

  “And you’re sure it was him?”

  “Positive. He asked me to meet him tomorrow at La Palapa.”

  With that little gem, he’d finished his piece, looking uncomfortable, as if he were playing the fakir and had swallowed a broken sword.

  “If it was a loophole, bring along a pair of handcuffs as a present and put him away for life. You might even make the papers,” I suggested.

  His tone of voice was flat, like he was counting boxes: “Things don’t work that way down here. He already paid me what he had to pay to keep me out of it. Maybe you could do something that would get me involved, give me a hand. If he killed someone, it would help.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Like I said, we don’t want his kind in Vallarta. Let them go on over to Acapulco. That place is already full of lowlifes.” He got up, leaving a bill for his beer. “I’m just passing it along.”

  If he had an appointment with the devil’s advocate himself, then I should bring along something heavier than my Colt. I’d need to call in some more favors, so I hopped into my Woody and went out to ask for a few.

  A half an hour later, I pulled into a hellishly impoverished zone. It was all wooden huts and naked kids staring at me with big extraterrestrial eyes.

  At the end of the road, on the riverbank, was a trailer home. Some forgotten furniture littered the yard, along with about a thousand empty vodka bottles.

  Inside the trailer everything was surprisingly neat, though: a radio transmitter, plenty of books, and more bottles. A few photos for decoration. One showed Billy Joe shaking Kennedy’s hand; another, Castro’s. The one featuring Billy Joe with Marilyn Monroe impressed me the most.

  “What can Billy Joe do for you, soldado?” the old man asked, hitching up his pants on his way out of the can.

  1½ OUNCES WHITE RUM

  1 OUNCE DARK RUM

  ¾ OUNCE LIME JUICE

  1 OUNCE GRAPEFRUIT JUICE

  1 OUNCE TRIPLE SEC

  1 TEASPOON FALERNUM

  2 DROPS ANGOSTURA BITTERS

  1 PINEAPPLE SLICE

  1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

  1 MINT SPRIG

  Mix the first seven ingredients with ice in a blender for thirty seconds. Serve in an old-fashioned glass garnished with the pineapple slice, cherry, and sprig of mint.

  The mai tai is the drink that made Oakland, California, restaurateur Trader Vic famous. Although the mai tai didn’t reach its peak until 1944, Don the Beachcomber claims to have invented it in 1933. Their recipes are different, and the flavor changes. Either way, the mai tai is yet another symbol of tiki culture. At Trader Vic’s, they say that when the owner and famous mixologist Victor J. Bergeron prepared it one afternoon for some friends from Tahiti, one of them tasted it and exclaimed, “Maitai roa!” (very good!). A classic was born.

  Enjoy with another classic, Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs’s “Wooly Bully.”

  __________________

  I walked down Olas Altas Street. The buildings were as bathed in sun as their inhabitants. The heat wasn’t as suffocating today, but I was drenched in sweat, nonetheless. I walked toward Pulpito Street, which rolled downhill toward the sea like a giant tongue. At the bottom stood a big palapa. My appointment was there, in that restaurant. Advertisements littered the street corners offering pescado zarandeado and aguachile camarones, typical Puerto Vallartan fare.

  I ducked into the shade under the palapa roof, and cool air hit me like a snowball in the face. The restaurant was far from luxurious; even so, several swanky cars were parked outside. The entrance was on the street, but the joint also opened out onto the beach, providing a primo view of the surf. A few umbrellas were set up there, and some scantily clad bodies accompanied by cold piña coladas were catching some rays.

  A girl in a crinoline skirt greeted me. She was pretty, her gray eyes contrasting with her tanned skin. Scott Cherries would have loved her.

  “Welcome to La Palapa restaurant,” she said amiably.

  “I’m Mr. Pascal. They’re expecting me.”

  The girl picked up a menu and guided me to a table in the middle of the restaurant. At a nearby table, a family was eating shrimp cocktail out of big round glasses, the children noisily slurping down every spoonful. At another table a lawyerly fellow, his briefcase on the table, was conversing with a local. No one there looked like a hit man.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” the dark-skinned girl asked.

  “Mai tai,” I replied. Perhaps a little mint would freshen up this madness. The girl moved away, swishing her skirt like a rowboat lifted at high tide. The drink materialized beside me, courtesy of a tall, sullen waiter. I took a long swallow. I was still sweating.

  “I’ve always thought that if you want to meet girls, you gotta know how to order drinks,” the man with the briefcase said. His companion had vanished.

  I turned around, my heart in my throat. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he possessed the same voice as the man in the shadows the other night on the set.

  “I like the type who can hold their liquor. You know what a woman needs to be a fun date, Sunny?”

  No doubt about it, I was face-to-face with Bernabé Jurado, the devil’s advocate.

  “No. But I’ll bet you’re about to fill me in,” I answered. Jur
ado picked up his glass and made his way over to my table, sitting down across from me.

  “Booze and men.” He took a long drink from his glass. All of it went down his throat, even the ice. He signaled the girl over. “Women who don’t drink and don’t fuck aren’t worth your while.”

  I quickly surveyed the scene at the restaurant. It had changed a little since I’d come in. In one corner, at the restaurant entrance, was the guy who looked like a judicial police officer. He wore the same clothes. Same face. Same pistol, no doubt.

  At the next table, Antsy Underpants was unfolding his napkin. Two more men had taken their positions at the beach entrance, a few yards away from us.

  The girl appeared, smiling.

  “Cutie, bring us a pescado zarandeado. Ask the chef to sear the skin golden brown. And make it a big one, ’bout seven pounds.”

  He turned back to me as if we were old friends. “Anything else?” he asked, adding, “I think we’ll have enough on our plate with the fish; it’s to die for. If you want, we can order some empanadas as an appetizer.”

  “I’m good,” I said, as casually as I could muster.

  “Bring us an order of crab empanadas while we’re waiting for the fish. And since you’re on your way to the kitchen, another round for me and Mr. Pascal, here. We’re dehydrating in this heat.”

  He gave her a noisy smack on the butt, and the girl just walked away laughing. The man was charismatic, a real steamroller.

  “This is the best place to eat. They make all the food for the set here.”

  My face gave me away.

  “No, I already figured out you don’t know anything,” he said.

  “Enlighten me. I can be a good pupil.”

  Bernabé Jurado laughed loudly. The family turned and stared. He winked at the kids.

  “I think I haven’t let them kill you just yet because you’re funny, if meddlesome. In all honesty, I think I even like you, my friend.”

  “You don’t have any friends, just potential clients.”

  “I like that; you oughta be a writer. I know a few. I got one out of the joint. He drank like a fish, just like you. But different, ’cause he’d try anything. From heroin to young men at the jai alai courts.”