Bitter Drink

by F. G. Haghenbeck

  He grabbed my shoulder, as if we were drinking buddies. I felt nauseated, but I had to admit his voice was hypnotic.

  “So the guy got hammered. Then it occurs to him to play William Tell with his wife. I guess you know that firing a revolver with three bottles in you is pretty much impossible. He left a hole the size of Yucatán in the woman. And guess what…”

  The girl set the empanadas and drinks down on the table. Jurado smiled at her and continued his story: “That fucker Burroughs is free now. I got him out. Now he’s publishing with the gringos. He sent me a copy of his goddamned book the other day. Junkie-man, or something like that. For an asshole, he isn’t half-bad. You should read him.” Jurado turned toward me, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t want to ruin your meal, but you do have the roll of film, don’t you?”

  “I’m curious about the contents,” I replied. “It must be something pretty big, to kill two men over.”

  “Kiddo, before I took an extended vacation to Argentina, I had a nice little racket going. A girl passes for an aristocrat. She falls in with a little rich kid from the capital. We set up a show about her getting pregnant, and he pays to shut her up. Now, that was big. This is just a favor for a friend.”

  “And the stiffs?”

  “That’s another story. What we’re talking about here is a lot of cash.” He downed his entire glass again in one swallow. He was better than I was. Better than Richard Burton even.

  “Can you imagine if they’d sold you a piece of beachfront property in Acapulco before it was what it is today? That’s clean money!”

  He stopped talking and devoured one of the empanadas, which were swimming in salsa, in three bites. He ordered another drink and turned to me. For him, this was just another business meeting.

  “This goddamned place is a gold mine. That’s why they gave them the land permit to film the movie. All the little gringos are gonna want to come to Taylor and Burton’s love nest. The property is gonna cost more than the French Riviera. It’s the biggest tourist project of this administration.”

  “And the soldiers invading the set?”

  “The government wants to make sure the Mexican suppliers aren’t gonna fuck it up. They’ll never pay them what they owe for the film. The real investment is in the land. A whole lotta dough.”

  “And you are…?”

  “What, aren’t you working for Stark?” he asked, intrigued. “I represent the ones who want in on it: governors, senators, people from the political party. We wanna scare them a little so they’ll give us a piece of the pie.”

  He ate another empanada. I took another look at Jurado’s thugs.

  They were retired cops or, worse yet, active ones. I’d turn into a juicy pork chop among crocodiles once they found out I was bluffing about that roll of film. Not much could be done; I was officially the jackass of this picture.

  “Stark told me there aren’t gonna be any handouts. That it’s a problem for the locals to handle. He’s going back to Los Angeles,” I said calmly.

  It sounded believable enough. Not too different from what he’d actually say.

  “We’ll see about that. The Night of the Iguana will leave Vallarta. We’re staying. Either the worst SOB or the prettiest one is gonna come out on top.”

  He smiled. His face belonged to someone who didn’t give a shit about anything, who knew he was always going to come out on top. Whereas I’d lose the game no matter what the score.

  “Now hand over that roll of film so we can eat in peace,” he said, tucking his napkin into the collar of his shirt.

  “I want the ring and the money,” I ventured.

  Jurado leaned over, exasperated. “What a jackass! That Marquise of Bourbon topaz deal was my doing. There you have it. For that foul-up, I had to go on the lam to Argentina. You think I’m dumb enough to steal a goddamned ring while I’m out on parole, when what I want is millions of dollars’ worth of land?”

  The grim waiter arrived with a silvery tray. An enormous, gutted fish, fragrant steam rising off the dish, was in his hands. Antsy Underpants smiled at me. I already had my countdown. This would be my last supper.

  Just then a new dinner guest entered from the beach. He was wearing a Santa Claus beard. Goddamned Santa. That was the signal. I jumped to my feet, grabbing the tray away from the waiter. The zarandeado hit Antsy Underpants smack in the face. His gun fell to the floor.

  The two guys from the beach took out a shotgun and a rifle with a repeating mechanism. This was going to get noisy and ugly. Very ugly.

  The judicial cop at the front door ran toward me, aiming his revolver. The shooting began. One bullet destroyed his jaw, throwing him backward. His face would never be the same. Not that I thought it mattered.

  My instincts told me this wasn’t the best time to knock on St. Peter’s gate, so I threw myself down to the floor.

  I upended the table to use it as a shield, blocking my view of my attackers as well. I prayed they weren’t behind me. The shotgun fired, and the table exploded into kindling. Some of the splinters found my face. My Colt was out of my pocket; it wasn’t going to catch cold today. I peeked around the table and saw the barrel of the shotgun aiming straight at me, the two black holes like the eyes of a rat. But before those eyes could do their damage, a bullet perforated another eye—the one belonging to the man holding the rifle. Blood mixed with the fish sauce.

  The children’s screams distracted the other guy. He didn’t realize that my Colt can be fairly precise sometimes: two bullets to the chest. There were three on the ground now. Antsy Underpants must still be somewhere.

  I ventured another peek. The screaming continued. People were running down the beach. Jurado was getting to his feet and swearing. There was food all over him. His impeccable suit was ruined; it hadn’t been a good business meeting.

  I jumped to my feet. Right across from me I spotted the familiar acne-scarred face. Shooting him at close range was a pleasure. His skull, with pieces of fish still on it, exploded like a popped balloon at the fair. I just won the grand prize.

  Calm descended slowly on the restaurant. I could breathe again. I looked toward the beach. Billy Joe was putting away his old marine rifle. He took his leave once the sirens could be heard. Quintero was late, as usual.

  I turned to Bernabé Jurado and held out my hand to help him to his feet. He was still trying to clean the rest of his meal off himself.

  “Are you nuts, you goddamned gringo?” he yelled at me, more upset about the food stains than the shooting.

  “I’m Mexican,” I answered. “It’d be best if you took the beach route, seeing as how you’re on parole.”

  For a moment he glared at me. Just for a moment. Then he picked up his briefcase, took out a card, and slid it into one of the pockets of my guayabera.

  “If you ever need a lawyer, call me. I don’t have any enemies either, just potential clients.”

  Attorney-at-law Bernabé Jurado descended the stairs to the beach. By the time the cops arrived, he was out of sight. He’d stuck me with the bill.

  TEQUILA

  2 CUPS FRESH ORANGE JUICE

  3 TABLESPOONS GRENADINE

  ¼ TABLESPOON HOT SAUCE

  1 CUP TOMATO JUICE

  3 TABLESPOONS SALT

  1 LIME SLICE

  Blend all the ingredients except for the tequila. Serve alongside the tequila in a separate glass with ice. Garnish with the slice of lime.

  This recipe is a variation on the original sangrita and can be found at any bar in Texas or along the US-Mexico border. Its distinguishing ingredient is the addition of grenadine. Like the original, Jalisco version, this concoction has a strong, spicy flavor. While this combination would be sacrilege in Jalisco, folks along the border regions swear by it. It tastes even better accompanied by Elvis Presley’s “Mexico.”

  __________________

  I pulled up outside Kimberly House, the great mango tree still preying on unwary pedestrians. I stopped a moment just outside its wide canopy.
I could tell it was laughing at me, just waiting for me to cross beneath. I didn’t fall for it, though, opting to walk around it instead.

  I rang the bell by the door, and the tree sighed in frustration, a wormy mango dropping a few feet away from me.

  I waited a few minutes, and then finally heard steps coming toward the door. It was thrown wide open, and I found myself standing before my favorite gorilla, Bobby La Salle. When he saw me, he smiled his boyish gap-toothed grin.

  “Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor are down on the beach,” he said reflexively, before even greeting me. I pounded him on the back affectionately and entered the house through the noodle-sized gap left between him and the door frame.

  “Good morning, Bobby. I’ll wait inside,” I said in Spanish. He didn’t stop me, just stood there trying to make out my words, as if I’d spoken to him in ancient Aramaic. I took long strides toward the patio, and Bobby trotted after me, apparently giving up on the translation. I went straight to the bar, found the bottle of raicilla, and poured two shot glasses’ worth.

  “I think it would be better if you came back later,” he suggested.

  “I don’t have much to do,” I replied. “Yesterday I shot the guts out of three men. Killing makes me thirsty.”

  I slid his drink over to him. Mine had already disappeared down my throat. “Won’t you join me?”

  Bobby Gorilla stared at the glass as if I were tempting him with the forbidden apple. His hands twitched nervously, his fingers intertwining like a ball of snakes.

  “Maybe Mr. Burton wouldn’t mind.”

  “That’s the spirit, compadre,” I said, again in Spanish, while pouring another. He choked it down like bitter medicine. I took a seat on one of the chintzy leather-and-wood chairs on the terrace, crossed my legs, and sighed. The day was hot, but a fresh breeze drove away the impulse to throw myself headfirst into the sea. Bobby didn’t sit down.

  “I came to have a chat with Mr. Burton, myself, because the cops would like to ask him a few questions.” I tossed it out as if we were talking about the weather.

  “What kind of questions?”

  “The dead guy they found in the river was part of a gang of jewel thieves from Mexico City. The secret of Miss Taylor’s ring floated away down the river, next to that stiff.”

  “Yeah, I bet that ring is long gone,” the gorilla grunted.

  I stood up to serve myself another raicilla and thought how glorious it would be with a decent sangrita.

  “Then again, the possibility occurs to me that the ring in question didn’t go far, I said, turning my back to him. “Maybe it just took a few steps, and it’s still here in this house.”

  The raicilla spilled over the edge of the glass, leaving a white mark on the wooden bar. There was no noise behind me. Not even the sound of his breathing. All that silence made me uncomfortable. I spun around. He was inches away, holding his breath.

  I downed my drink.

  Bobby started breathing again.

  “Yesterday a certain lawyer told me that no one turned the ring over to him. So then I thought, does Bobby really think they’re gonna be able to fence it back in LA, like some trinket?” I gave it straight to him, figuring that even if he did have a baby face that was no reason to treat him like one. “That little item is worth a sum you’ll never see, not in your entire life, not even if you won the heavyweight championship three times over.”

  His fists crunched closed. He wasn’t angry, though. His expression was one of fear and amazement. Heavy on the fear.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Is it a woman?” I asked. “Do you have gambling debts? I’m sure your boss would lend the money to you. I can tell he’s fond of you. You’re his three-hundred-and-fifty-pound mascot. You bring him the newspaper, you serve the margaritas, and you go deliver the ransom money for a piece of jewelry.”

  The fear started to show in his eyes. Two veins the size of a highway jumped out of the back of his neck. His arm started swinging like a jackhammer. He was turning into a locomotive without brakes, about to run me over.

  I hoped for a miracle.

  That miracle had a pair of violet eyes. Liz Taylor appeared on the scene, dressed in a long red camisole and flanked by three children so caked in sand they looked like sugar doughnuts. She roared into the house like a thunderstorm, barking orders to her children, who leaped around like forlorn little lambs. Richard Burton brought up the rear with the rest of the entourage, a bevy of assistants all carrying baskets, hats, and umbrellas.

  Burton saw me. Wearing a big grin, he came over to where we stood. Bobby relaxed, but he didn’t take his eyes off me.

  “You in a hurry? You couldn’t wait for me to get back to start knocking them back.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Bobby, get me two glasses of raicilla.”

  Bobby didn’t move. Nothing, not a blink. His eyes were still glued to me.

  The actor paused, then impatiently moved to pour the drinks himself.

  “I’m here because I’ve got some good news,” I told him, raising my glass.

  His mouth opened up like a well, and the liquor vanished inside. He slammed the shot glass down on the table, releasing a huge guffaw. He gave me a big bear hug that lifted me up off the ground.

  “I knew I could trust you, son. Your kind never fails me. Did you find it?”

  He set me back down on the ground and took a seat in one of the chairs. His entourage positioned themselves all around. One of them was Taylor’s ex-husband and the father of two of her children. Taylor continued ordering the children around. Bobby remained stock-still.

  “I found it. Not without the help of Bobby La Salle,” I exclaimed. “That’s why I wanted to get here early, so I could thank him in person. Did you hear about the shoot-out?”

  “Who hasn’t? You’re already a legend in Puerto Vallarta.”

  “That’s where they caught the thieves. Bobby’s description was what led to their arrest.”

  Burton turned to his favorite bodyguard. He looked like the proud father of the guy who just made the winning goal. Bobby couldn’t so much as swallow.

  “I’d like to ask you a favor, Mr. Burton. I heard about John Huston’s gift, the gold pistols. I’d like to see yours. I’m a big fan of collectible weapons.”

  Burton turned to his bodyguard. “Show it to him, Bobby.”

  La Salle hesitated, moving one foot only slightly, as if struggling with himself, then he disappeared into another room, glaring at me as he left.

  “I gave it to Bobby for safekeeping. There are children in the house. We don’t want any accidents.”

  Bobby returned with a fine wood case. He opened it and reluctantly handed it to me. Inside, on a bed of felt, rested a gold-plated .22 pistol. It wasn’t as shiny as I’d hoped, but I couldn’t deny it was interesting. And inside the cylinder were bullets as silver as Taxco’s finest. One was missing. In its place was the shiniest piece of all, a ring with pearls and gems as big as a cluster of grapes. The kind of ring only Elizabeth Taylor would have. In one smooth movement, I set the box down on the bar and took up the pistol. It had a spicy smell…

  “Beautiful piece.”

  “It’s a twenty-two, only good for killing birds and frightening away thieves,” Burton said disdainfully.

  “Don’t you believe it; from a few feet away, it can put a hole in your gut.” I turned to look at Bobby. The fear in his eyes had turned to admiration. He started trembling when I playfully pointed the gun at him.

  “That madman Huston thinks it’s a funny joke,” Burton declared. “But to me it was the most idiotic thing he could have done. I’m keeping it as a consolation prize if they don’t give me an award for this film.”

  I returned the gun to its case and closed it. I took one step toward Burton, holding out my hand. The ring was in my palm. He didn’t take it. His assistant picked it up with a handkerchief, as if it might be infected.

  “I gotta go now,” I said.

  “Good wo
rk, son,” Burton said, ignoring my outstretched hand. I was no longer a friend, just another member of the film crew. The same old story. I didn’t mind. I just headed for the door. I could feel Bobby breathing down my neck. I opened the front door. Outside, the mango tree was already waiting for me. From the threshold, Bobby called, “What happens now?”

  “You go back to your boss; play a game of Ping-Pong. You’re going to have to come up with a good excuse to explain why one of those silver bullets is missing, other than leaving it in the body of some two-bit crook you hired to set up the whole ransom scenario.”

  Bobby kept watching me from the other side of the door. “It wasn’t my idea. They asked me to do it.”

  “I know, but it was your idea to keep the ring.” I wasn’t letting him off that easy. “You didn’t count on him bringing someone else along, someone who’d take us both on in order to keep the dough for himself. Bad luck; next time you’d better ask your partners in crime for references.”

  I took several steps toward my Woody. Bobby ran after. He put one hand on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. He turned me around, took an envelope out of his pocket, and placed it in my hand. It was the cash.

  “I killed him in self-defense. They didn’t take the money from me. I hid it in the car before we got to the drop-off. Keep it. I owe you one.”

  I smiled. The gorilla wasn’t so dumb after all. With a few more classes, he might even learn to juggle and do tricks. I handed back the money.

  “Pay that debt. If there’s any cash left over, drop by my studio in Venice Beach. You can buy me a couple of rounds at Trader Vic’s.”

  I climbed into my Woody. A rotten mango dropped onto the hood.

  1 PART GIN OR VODKA

  3 PARTS GRAPEFRUIT JUICE

  SALT

  Mix the gin with the juice in a tall glass with ice and salt around the rim.

  A variation on the classic greyhound, the salty dog is a wartime creation, conceived in the Pacific theater, where grapefruit juice was abundant. In the 1950s, it made its debut at various golf tournaments in Palm Springs, offering a refreshing respite after long, eighteen-hole walks in the hot desert sun. Enjoy in the company of Dean Martin and his hit “Everybody Loves Somebody.”