Bitter Drink

by F. G. Haghenbeck

  The bed’s white sheets were splattered with blood from the wound I’d given to Mr. Antsy Underpants, and a naked girl was sniffling like a crushed cricket on top of them. She couldn’t have been a day over fifteen.

  1½ OUNCES GIN

  1½ OUNCES SWEET VERMOUTH

  2 DROPS FERNET BRANCA

  1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

  Mix the gin, sweet vermouth, and Fernet Branca in a glass with ice; chill. Serve in a martini glass with a cherry while listening to an operetta by Gilbert and Sullivan.

  The hanky-panky was Ada Coleman’s idea. Her benefactor, Rupert D’Oyly Carte, was the proprietor of the Savoy Hotel and produced Gilbert and Sullivan operas in London. She gained widespread acclaim for the hotel bar by serving Mark Twain, the Prince of Wales, Prince Wilhelm of Sweden, and actor Charles Hawtrey, the latter of whom once asked for something with a little punch in it. Coleman served him the soon-to-be legendary concoction, and Hawtrey drank it down in one swallow, pronouncing, “By Jove! That is the real hanky-panky!”

  __________________

  No one wants to deal with cops. They’re cold, perverse men with bad intentions. In Mexico, you can’t even give them that much credit. For a simple misdemeanor, they’ll kill you, rob you, and lock you up, in that order.

  Some might argue that there are exceptions and that sometimes, in a small town like Puerto Vallarta, they’re on the up-and-up and can’t be bought. But since my ticket to hell is already reserved, I’ve got no reason to lie. The cops here are just like all the rest: total sons of bitches.

  In Puerto Vallarta, there was no judicial police force. Every now and then a few would drop by from Guadalajara or San Sebastian, but not today. Here there were only local cops, in vulgar blue uniforms and white shirts.

  They showed up when I contacted the Red Cross Emergency Hospital via my bellhop messenger boy, who had appeared outside the house. Telephones were still rare household items in this town.

  An old ambulance arrived half an hour later, bouncing along the cobblestones. Blondie was just an overdose, although her face had been through a remodel. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed, though, with plenty of rest and a raw steak.

  As for the other girl, she turned out to be my bellhop’s sister. He of the fidgety underwear had picked her up on the seawall under the pretext of taking her to a party, a private party, as it turned out, that consisted of giving her drugs, getting her drunk on tequila, and then deflowering her.

  There wasn’t much to be cured there either, except for the sorrow of her mother, who wept as if her child were dead.

  But they weren’t going to let me off the hook that easy.

  The cops were rubbing their hands together at the thought of the political hay they were going to make. This house hosted a drug distribution network and had become a refuge for perverts. The scoop would sell like hotcakes to the mob of journalists searching for juicy prey.

  Sergeant Quintero, short and brown as a mushroom, was one of the top dogs on the force. His face wore the scowl of a sad old mutt. He wouldn’t take his hands out of his pockets, not even to say hello, and he walked with his eyes on the ground, as if life had already beaten him down. Sergeant Quintero explained everything so halfheartedly a mannequin could have done better.

  The sergeant posed for the journalist’s photos with his bored mastiff expression, and when they had taken their fill of pictures of the place, they moved the party to some bar down near the beach.

  It had been decided that the names of the victims would not be divulged, and when Sergeant Quintero and I were alone, he told me, “We don’t like people sticking their noses in, especially outsiders.” His tone was so nonthreatening I almost laughed.

  “I’m with the gringos, but I was born in Puebla.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Mis huevos!” he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

  “The man who shot me wasn’t American,” I said. “I couldn’t see his face, but I’m sure whatever he wanted to cover up with his underpants wasn’t stuck to some white guy.”

  “We don’t like smart-asses, either,” the sergeant reminded me.

  “I’m only here so the people working on the film don’t get into trouble. I’m sorry about the little girl, but that’s your business. As for sticking my nose in, you can take it, keep it, and water it every week,” I said, walking toward the door.

  “You already knew your girlfriend was a lowlife, verdad?”

  “No. But if you want to fill me in on the local gossip, just pass the soap and let’s do some dirty laundry,” I answered, turning around.

  “That blonde lady has been telling everyone she knows all about drugs. That she’s spent up to three weeks smoking opium. That she’s traveled the world in search of new experiences. Una especialista: a real gourmet on the subject.”

  “People can do whatever they want with their lives. I left mine behind in a bottle of tequila.”

  “The young lady has already been booked. Her boss, the child actress, is the one who’s made sure she doesn’t end up in Guadalajara with the judiciales.”

  “Don’t tell me that just because Sue Lyon talked pretty you sat up and listened?”

  “A donation always helps, compadre.”

  I looked down on that little bugger Quintero. I felt even more like squashing him when he smiled up at me.

  2 OUNCES GIN

  1 OUNCE LEMON JUICE

  1 TEASPOON REFINED SUGAR

  3 OUNCES CLUB SODA

  1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

  1 ORANGE SLICE

  Combine the gin, lemon juice, and sugar in a shaker half filled with ice cubes. Strain into a tall glass of ice and add the club soda. Garnish with the cherry and orange slice to the smoky sounds of Julie London.

  Some say the name comes from Old Tom, a brand of gin from the turn of the twentieth century that was much sweeter than today’s offerings. Others claim the drink was named after its inventor, an Irish immigrant who worked as a bartender in New Jersey. Collins apparently concocted it for his friends to enjoy after a long, hot day of work, something refreshing to raise their spirits. The drink became so famous that even the long, tall glass it’s traditionally served in is known as a Collins glass.

  __________________

  Less than a week later, Siempre! published a detailed feature article entitled “Infamous House of Vice,” focusing on the depraved lushes filming The Night of the Iguana. Something had unleashed the wrath of that rag. Perhaps our mere existence was enough to provoke vitriol. In Mexico you can be despised for less. “Our innocent children, ten to fifteen years old, are being introduced to sex, drinking, drugs, vices, and carnal bestiality by this group of Americans: gangsters, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics, and heroin-addicted blondes…” the article stated. The magazine even beseeched the government to expel John Huston and his group. “It’s not too late. Responsible, patriotic Mexicans can still save the beauty of Puerto Vallarta,” Siempre! intoned.

  “A long time ago, I stopped caring about attacks in the press. Besides, I’m too busy shooting a film to waste time on ‘carnal bestiality,’” Huston amusingly replied to an American journalist regarding the accusations. And with that pronouncement the interview was over. The entire crew laughed and applauded. I did the same from my security post at the bar. We had to live up to our fame as lushes after all. And besides, I was treating the pain from the head wound Mr. Antsy Underpants had given me with a cold Tom Collins.

  John Huston was no good at interviews, and this type of attention was a nuisance for him. Turning his back on the pesky reporters, he crossed in three long strides to the other side of the set, where his friend Guillermo Wolf, the engineer, was waiting for him. He was a chubby man. Robust but agile. The kind who’d run you over before you even got a look at the license plate. It was Wolf who’d convinced the great director to film a movie someplace as out of the way as Mismaloya in the first place.

  Now Wolf looked upset. He talked in rapid English peppered with dirty Spanish. Huston just quietly nod
ded his head. Both men were chain smokers, nervously lighting the next cigarette before finishing the previous one. Wolf’s diatribe had ended and Huston punctuated it with an expletive before returning to the group of journalists. This time it only took him two strides.

  A copy of Siempre! landed on the bar in front of me. Stark threw a few copies of the Los Angeles Times on top of it. Then he added some gossip rags to the pile. They were all talking about us.

  “Beautiful, Pascal,” he exclaimed.

  “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Story of my life.”

  “Today someone’s coming in from Paris to interview John,” Stark said. “In Europe everyone’s talking about the new Sodom and Gomorrah on the Mexican Pacific. I like it.” He squeezed my hand hard before leaving to give more interviews. Plenty of interviews.

  My naïveté hurt worse than my head. I applied more Tom Collins to the wound. Stark’s game wasn’t hard to follow: free publicity, invaluable if you’re an indie. How could I have been so stupid!

  “He must really like you, but I don’t think you’re my type after all, honey,” Gorman said as he sat down. This time he was wearing a knit blouse with so many stripes it looked like a TV with bad reception.

  “And what is your type, genius?”

  “The kind who prefer staying out of trouble. I make like I’m working, and they pay me for it.”

  “Lovely. Next time I’ll scout for gossip and you take the beating.”

  “I don’t think they’ll crack you, honey. Your head is harder to bust open than a walnut,” he said, flashing me a game-show-host smile.

  “With all you’ve heard, is there anything I’d be interested in hearing?”

  “Perhaps. And with all you’ve drunk, is there anything I’d be interested in drinking?”

  Gorman was taking advantage of the situation, but he was worth the trouble. He could fill you in on Ava Gardner’s shoe size. Or whether Richard Burton was as good a lover as Taylor bragged he was. Or even when Sue Lyon got her period.

  “Tom Collins,” I told the bartender.

  “For one of those, I just might let it slip that the production is experiencing financial difficulties.”

  “But they’ve got a contract with Mr. Huston’s friend,” I replied. “They supply three squares a day and keep the drinks coming. So far, I can’t see anything to complain about.”

  “Well, maybe next time Mr. Burton orders his bottle, they’ll be fresh out…”

  He threw me a kiss and marched off, scripts in one hand and cocktail in the other.

  “By the way, macho, Miss Lyon wants to see you. She’s in her dressing room,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  1½ OUNCES TEQUILA

  ¼ OUNCE LIME JUICE

  1 TEASPOON HONEY

  3–4 DASHES ANGOSTURA BITTERS

  Mix together all the ingredients in an ice-filled shaker to the tone of “(There’s) Always Something There to Remind Me” by Sandie Shaw, and strain over a couple of ice cubes into a cocktail glass.

  Lolita is the controversial novel by Vladimir Nabokov centering on the relationship between an adolescent nymphet and the middle-aged protagonist, Humbert Humbert. Published in the 1950s, Lolita became a near-instant classic, and a film by director Stanley Kubrick soon followed in 1962.

  This cocktail was said to be created by some sailors in a bar in the south of France. One can imagine the inspiration for the name probably owes more to the photo on the wall of Sue Lyon in a bikini than to the literary tastes of the regulars.

  __________________

  The bungalow that served as Sue Lyon’s dressing room faced the ocean. It teetered on a rocky outcropping, like a full tray balanced by a waiter at a wedding. The roof tiles were made of red ceramic, and it was crowned by a set of useless wrought-iron ornaments that were supposed to look Mexican.

  I stopped just outside the door, on a terrace sweetened by bougainvillea and colorful flowers. Music seeped through the open window. It was a song I’d heard on the radio several times. It was vying for first place on the hit parade against a foursome of snot-nosed brats from Liverpool. The song ended, and after a few clicks and clacks from the record player, it started playing again. Sue Lyon may be a famous actress, but she was still a teenager who enjoyed listening to hit songs on the radio.

  “If she plays that song one more time, I’ll have to shoot her with the pistol John gave me,” a voice from behind whispered. It was a voice not meant to be heard from far away. Just a few inches from your pillow. Raspy, but exciting somehow.

  It seemed to come from a hammock just underneath a palm tree nearby. My eyes had adjusted to the shade by the time I came to a halt beside her. She was the most beautiful creature in the world. Quite a bit of mileage on her, but well driven. One of the best-built chassis in Hollywood. And she knew it. To have been courted by many rich and famous men had given her a unique complacency. Her face had huge, deep, dark eyes, a firm jaw, the kind that doesn’t dent when you kiss it hard, and lips the texture of fine silk. Costly silk.

  Ava Gardner was wearing a dark blue cotton robe. Maybe she had on a bathing suit underneath. Maybe not.

  “If I kill her, would you arrest me, Mr. Security Man?” she said, that last bit hot enough to melt vanilla ice cream.

  “No,” I managed, suddenly nervous. “My job would be the opposite: to make sure no one arrests you, Miss Gardner, so that when the filming’s over you can go back to Madrid without a scratch, not even on your passport.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” she answered heartlessly. She smoked her cigarette despotically. There wasn’t much room left in that chassis for a sense of humor. And if there was, it was being saved for whoever could pay for it.

  “Would you like me to say something to Miss Lyon about her taste in music?” I replied as professionally as possible, considering the fact that I had Ava Gardner in a bathrobe right in front of me.

  “Leave her alone. That girl’s gonna need a hundred lovers and two thousand martinis before she understands the ways of the world. No doubt she’ll end up living with some criminal. But tell her that once I lose my temper, I have a hard time finding it.”

  The cigarette smoke dispelled any angelic aura she might have still possessed. In fact, it made her look rather malevolent.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” I tried to play nice.

  “Sure, you can go find all those weasels looking for their hundred-dollar snapshot and put a bullet into each and every one of them. They only invent affairs and romances in order to sell more magazines. Can you believe what they’re saying about me and that brute of an indio, Fernández?”

  “Sorry. I don’t read magazines; they insult my stupidity.”

  “They say I kissed him.”

  “And did you?”

  “Kid, everybody kisses everybody else in this disgusting business. It’s the kissiest line of work in the world.”

  I smiled. I’d gotten a laugh out of her for free. Others would pay thousands. Her eyes were boring right through me, but I didn’t move.

  “Aren’t they expecting you in there?” She said languidly, as if she were about to fall asleep.

  The conversation was over. And I had to admit it hadn’t been my smoothest encounter with a movie star. I turned around and headed back to Lyon’s bungalow.

  The same song was still playing. I stuck my head through the open door. The place looked empty, but there was a strong smell of ocean and sex. An aroma so sweet, they should bottle it and sell it as this summer’s fragrance.

  “Hello,” I called out.

  A bare torso appeared from behind the sofa. He gave me a “who, me?” look: Bugs Bunny caught stealing carrots. Lyon popped up next to him, her bra halfway off. I could see one of her egg-shaped breasts, her nipple a tiny yolk.

  “Just a minute,” she managed to say between giggles.

  I ducked back outside. While I waited for the lovebirds to change out of their Adam and Eve costumes and into something more suitable for the
movie set, my gaze sought out Gardner. The hammock was empty. She hadn’t even given me the pleasure of seeing her shins.

  “Please come in,” Lyon said in the schoolgirl voice she had down pat.

  Lyon was sitting in the living room. On a table before her rested a bottle of tequila and two marijuana joints, unsmoked. She reached for one, then made an old Zippo lighter—the one I’d already seen in Blondie’s hands—screech. She breathed in the flame and exhaled a thread of smoke, then passed it to me without saying a word. Her boyfriend was buttoning up his shirt and running his fingers through his hair, which stubbornly stood up on end. I guessed her mother wasn’t in.

  “He’s not one of us,” her boyfriend said with a nauseated expression from the other side of the room.

  I made the same face back at him and took the joint from Lyon’s fingers, gave it a big pull, and held the smoke until I could feel it invading my throat. Then I exhaled, reaching for the bottle of tequila on the table.

  “You called me. Here I am,” I said, taking a swig right out of the bottle, without taking my eyes off the boyfriend. He saw I wasn’t going to play his little game, lost interest, and picked up a magazine.

  “Forget it, Sue. He doesn’t understand what it means to be famous. I’m already an actor, and I’m going to direct a film just to get rid of losers like him.”

  “Yeah, he acted in a film,” Lyon said. “He played one of the zombies.”

  “Nominated for the Oscar, no doubt.”

  The boyfriend didn’t turn around. Either he hadn’t heard me or decided not to listen. He continued paging through his magazine.

  “I’d like to thank you for what you did for Eva,” Lolita whispered.

  “It was nothing. But I won’t be able to hold off the police for long. They can get annoying with all their silly questions about drugs, or about the guy who got away. I don’t have enough hush money for all that.”