Bitter Drink

by F. G. Haghenbeck

  __________________

  The case was closed. Elizabeth Taylor’s renowned ring was back with its owner. The gang of lowlifes who made a buck by selling drugs, blackmailing people, and stealing their jewels was either broken up or its members killed off as scores were settled. They had been the ones running “the Infamous House of Vice” and recruiting girls as prostitutes. Quintero even dared to name Mr. Antsy Underpants as none other than the man responsible for the Lucerna Street murder, a notoriously unsolved slaying in Mexico City. No one believed him.

  Though everyone liked the story. Except me. But who was I to talk? I had other fish to fry.

  I crossed the set without looking at anyone, not even Ava Gardner, who was once again resting her seductive butt on the hammock by Sue Lyon’s bungalow. Another hit was on the record player, but this time it was “Devil in Disguise.” Elvis Presley singing about a diabolical woman. He was always right.

  Several flower arrangements decorated the joint, including some stunning lilies. The loveliest flowers always smell like death. Blondie was on a deck chair reading a novel in French. I didn’t understand the title, but I recognized the author: Anaïs Nin.

  “Doggie, you’ve finally come to visit me,” she said, opening her olive-colored eyes.

  She was wearing a striped sailor blouse and white shorts, short enough to make a man sweat. She’d pulled back her golden hair with a ribbon that matched the smile clenched around her cigarette, waiting for me to light it. But Blondie was a tough cookie; she wouldn’t wait for long.

  A glass with two enormous ice cubes rested beside her. I raised it and took a sip: a salty dog. I wouldn’t have expected any less from her.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you. In the end, it worked out okay. Just another bluff by a gang of lousy card players. One thing’s for sure: they should never have tried to play poker with John Huston,” I said by way of a greeting.

  “What? Huston? What’s he got to do with all this?”

  I ignored her question.

  “I guess I oughta thank you for not telling on me. The cops don’t like me; they can’t stand a free spirit,” she said with a touch of intellectual aloofness. Which didn’t bother me. On the contrary, her malice was what turned me on.

  “I know. But you can keep the thanks; I was just doing my job.”

  “I’ll have to find some other way to repay you then. Any ideas?” she asked, whispering.

  I moved closer and picked her up. I gave her a long kiss.

  “The women I want and the ones I get live in different worlds,” I murmured into her ear. She trembled. She was still holding her cigarette between her fingers.

  She said, “Why are you afraid of me?”

  “Because you’re the kind who kills. And I know you did.” I gave her a cold smile.

  “That…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a low voice, her expression turned feline, like a tiger ready to pounce.

  “To you, we’re stepping-stones in life. Throwaways you no longer have any use for, like poor Gorman. He just wanted to make a few bucks peddling dope to the film crew. It never occurred to him you wanted more. That’s why he took you to that house.”

  Blondie narrowed her eyes.

  “You must have owed them plenty to have to pay them that way. Sex for drugs is like bribery. But bribery doesn’t have such a foul stench.”

  “You’ll never get it. This is Hollywood. You need something harder than booze to be able to stand it.”

  “Tell that to Gorman,” I spat. “Sure, it would have been easier if you hadn’t shot him.”

  Her face had turned into a piece of bitter fruit. Poisoned.

  “You see, they thought he had the roll of film. It must have hurt quite a bit while they were asking him about it. Don’t bother explaining. I don’t really care if you killed him because he knew too much, because of your debts, or because you felt like it. You used Sue Lyon’s golden pistol. I realized that you two had a lot in common, your Zippo, the drugs, and the gun.”

  “What do you want to keep your big mouth shut?” she said, serious now, moving away from me as if I were a leper.

  “You were the one who sent the boy to tell me to come to the set, where Jurado and his thugs were waiting to drop me. I wanted you to know that I’m not just another guy you can throw away. I didn’t buy your little song and dance. I want the roll of film. That’ll do.”

  She took the golden pistol out of the desk and smiled at me.

  “I saved you. Fancher was with me. The second shot was for you. He wanted to impress his girlfriend.”

  “I’ll be grateful the rest of my life, doll.” I took two steps toward her. The pistol was still aimed at me. So were the olive eyes.

  “Take it easy. They’re not going to put you in a Mexican jail. Hand over the roll; the rest doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “What makes you think I have it?”

  I told her that only Antsy Underpants, she, and I were in that house. “The girl doesn’t count. You were the only one who could have gotten into my room to look for it.” I took another step. The pistol touched my stomach.

  “You’re still a loser. You always will be.” Her voice was no more than a sigh. Without lowering the weapon, she took the roll out of the desk and handed it over. Our faces were just inches apart. She lowered the gun. For a moment, I felt a great urge to kiss her again, but I turned instead and left the bungalow.

  She could have shot me in the back right then. I guess there must have been something between us after all, because she didn’t squeeze the trigger.

  I crossed the terrace in a rage. I wanted to get as far away as possible from the place; I’d go straight to Puerto Vallarta to drain the bar at my hotel. I felt dirty, covered in the kind of dirt you can’t wash away.

  But John Huston stopped me cold. Stark was right behind him with a flock of assistants. It wasn’t a good time to get in my way.

  “Pascal, I need you to go pick up Tennessee Williams at the airport. He’s pitching a fit because I gave his story a happy ending.”

  “I’m not in the mood today,” I said without thinking and pushing past him.

  “Excuse me? Stop fooling around and do as I say, wino.”

  Without missing a beat, I doubled back to face the director. I had to elevate my fist to connect a punch to his jaw. The bastard was as tall as a goddamned palm tree.

  To my surprise, I almost managed to knock him down; I knew he was an expert boxer. But when you’re really pissed off, you can get pretty rough.

  “This is all bullshit. You planned the ring heist to throw me off the scent. Even the goddamned ransom money came from the production. Not too many hundred-dollar bills circulating in this town, right?” I grunted, gritting my teeth.

  Stark simply closed his eyes.

  “The movie stuff is a smoke screen so guys like you can get rich off of other people’s land. Hollywood isn’t making a goddamned movie in Puerto Vallarta; it’s making its very own Puerto Vallarta.”

  “Pascal, you’re fired,” Huston told me, with all the majesty of a god crushing a mere mortal. Stark remained silent; to him, I was insignificant as well. Not even worth a retake.

  “Maybe you’re right. At least the movie gets to have a happy ending.” I couldn’t resist one last parting shot: “Besides, Mr. Huston, you’re a poor poker player. I was on to you by the time the second hand was dealt.”

  The pained look on his face was reward enough. Más o menos. I got the hell out of Mismaloya.

  6 PARTS VODKA

  1 PART VERMOUTH

  2 PICKLED ONIONS

  Mix the vodka and vermouth with ice in a cocktail shaker, blending until chilled. Serve in a cocktail glass. Garnish with the onions on a toothpick and the single “What Am I Supposed to Do” by Ann-Margret.

  The Gibson was baptized in the speakeasies in Chicago during Prohibition. The name comes from the drink’s small onions, thought to resemble the breasts of the ubiquitous Gibson Girl. During the tw
o first decades of the twentieth century, the Gibson Girl was rendered by the famous Life magazine illustrator Charles Dana Gibson, thus her moniker. The personification of feminine beauty at the time, many models posed for Gibson, including Anaïs Nin. Another illustrator, Harry G. Peter, used the Gibson Girl as his inspiration for the Wonder Woman comics.

  __________________

  Back at the hotel, I got a cold and lonely reception. Maybe I needed a pet, something to keep me company. That’s what I was thinking about as I started to pack my belongings.

  I decided I wasn’t going to let those bastards off that easy, though. Before leaving, I’d have my vengeance on them. I’d leave them such a huge bill they’d be able to film another Night of the Iguana with it.

  Down at the bar, I ordered a Gibson, a salty dog, and a gimlet. The drinks didn’t last longer than a heartbeat. I downed all three. And that was just the beginning.

  “If you really must drink all the alcohol in the world, you could have invited me along. I can be helpful when I want to be,” said the voice, the one best heard from up close. I raised my eyes and then drowned in her deep, dark ones. Ava Gardner sat down beside me. She didn’t need an invitation, for that or anything else she might want to do.

  Her dark hair was bound under a patterned scarf, and she wore a loose silk blouse that revealed her faultless cleavage and a wide skirt that showed off her perfectly engineered legs.

  “I figured I’d have to call your agent first and send him a list of cocktails for his approval,” I answered, unsmiling.

  Ava Gardner lifted her cigarette to her mouth with the delicacy of a hummingbird.

  “Don’t you believe it. Deep down I’m very superficial,” she quipped, gracing me with her best magazine-cover smile. The smoke trailed toward my face. It tasted glorious.

  The barman set down another three glasses in front of me and a manhattan in front of her. Gardner didn’t drink it right away. She reached for the cherry first, biting down on it seductively with lips painted the same dark red hue as the fruit.

  “I heard you’re unemployed.” She crossed her legs; I’m not sure whether it was meant provocatively or not, but it made me lose my train of thought.

  “News flies. Are they using messenger pigeons now?” I responded sarcastically. I’m not the kind of guy who gets dinner and a date with this woman. She was with me on a whim, like a cat at the dog pound. “I don’t mean to be rude. Your company is a million-dollar prize, maybe more. But you’re not here to have a drink with me.”

  “You think I’d never notice a man like you?”

  “I think we’re on different levels. About forty floors apart,” I replied. “In my experience, the people in the penthouse don’t generally scout out the basement.”

  “I was a country girl once. I’ve still got the simple tastes of a country girl.” She took a drag. “You’ve got something that could really get to me.”

  “I can think of plenty of things. If you want me to say something to make you blush, be more specific.”

  “The roll of film. I know you found it,” she said, looking off into the distance.

  “Is everyone on that roll of film?” I didn’t have anything to lose. I got up and flashed her a smile. “You’ve been in more beds than a traveling salesman: Sinatra, Hughes, and that bullfighter whose name I can’t remember. They don’t need to remind you of your reputation. Why would anyone want to blackmail you? For that, you need to be squeaky clean, something you haven’t been since sometime after the third martini.” I felt dizzy. My head was as heavy as a cement mixer.

  “You’re wrong. The less you’ve got, the more you pay for it.”

  That was the last thing I heard. That final drink was a little stronger than usual.

  When I woke up, I was back in my room and submerged in water. A few bubbles floated to the surface. The window across from me was dark. I raised myself up a bit, trying not to breathe, worried I’d drown. But I took in a great gulp of air anyway. The water wasn’t there, and neither were the bubbles. I fell back into bed and started laughing.

  A few minutes later, I mustered the strength to get up again. It hadn’t been such a strong narcotic after all. The drugs were no longer interfering with my senses.

  A pistol was. It was aimed directly at my face. It was my Colt, and behind it was Billy Joe, sitting on the edge of my bed. This time he wasn’t wearing his Santa expression. He’d exchanged it for a tough, military face.

  “Soldier, you had something that didn’t belong to you,” he told me, speaking exclusively in English for the first time. “It’s already been destroyed.”

  “Which side are you on? Ducks or hunters?”

  I really wasn’t surprised to see him there. Apparently, it was becoming a habit with him.

  “Nothing personal. We’re colleagues, soldier. You were in charge of making sure nothing happened on the set. I, on the other hand, was working to make sure everything here followed the script as planned. Today, it’s here in Puerto Vallarta. Yesterday, it was Paris. Tomorrow, it’ll be Turkey, or someplace or another.”

  “Who do you work for? The mob? The US government?”

  “I’m a free agent. I work for the highest bidder.”

  He gave me a look and handed me my pistol. My suitcase sat in a corner, just like the rest of my belongings. I was already history.

  “The photos in your trailer that night I went to ask you for help. I saw them. You weren’t lying to me about Kennedy. You worked for him.”

  “Yeah, in Cuba. Then in Berlin. Good man; he liked his martinis dry.”

  He got up and tucked his dog tags into his T-shirt. Then he smiled again, this time like the goddamned Santa Claus I knew so well.

  “Is this the end…? I can’t believe it. These people are going to destroy the place. They’ll buy hotels, properties, and they’ll stick you in jail. They think it’s just a Monopoly game.”

  “This is our world. If you don’t like it, you can get off whenever you want,” the old man said.

  “What was on that roll? Why did they want it so badly? It wasn’t just Ava Gardner. Photos of some big shot?” I asked, thinking that at least I deserved an explanation.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. It’s like when you picked up those pictures in Tijuana.”

  He knew about my last job. This guy knew more than the devil himself, and it wasn’t just because he was such an old cuss.

  He opened the door of the room and gave me one last, paternal look.

  “I’m getting too old for this shit. Maybe I could use a partner…You already know where I live.”

  He left without closing the door.

  6 OUNCES GIN

  5 DROPS TABASCO SAUCE

  2–3 DROPS LIME JUICE

  1 PEELED SHRIMP, GRILLED

  1 LIME SLICE

  Mix the gin with the Tabasco sauce and lime juice in a blender with ice. Serve in a cocktail glass. Garnish with the shrimp, the slice of lime, and the sixties hit “Surfin’ Bird” by The Trashmen.

  This drink was born in the 1960s in Puerto Vallarta, when the beach town became one of the main tourist attractions in Mexico after John Huston filmed The Night of the Iguana there. The romance between Richard Burton and Liz Taylor got a lot of press, providing great publicity for the resort. The creator of the iguana martini was a local restaurant owner who got his start with a small seafood grill, thus the creative addition of a grilled shrimp garnish. The inspiration for the cocktail came from one of the restaurateur’s best customers, an amateur surfer who worked as head of security for the famous film.

  __________________

  The sun rose behind me, illuminating the bay. I’d been waiting for daybreak on the beach just outside town so I could catch the early-morning surf. The waves were small, peaceful, as if they were playing at slower revolutions than the rest of the world.

  After several hours lost in my own world, I came back to reality, collapsing contentedly on the beach and reaching for my last bottle of gin. My Woody w
as waiting on the access road, along with what few belongings I had. Ready to go back home, or to whatever else was out there.

  Some of the rustic palapas that sold grilled seafood were starting to come to life. The smell of freshly made tortillas reeled me in to one. Inside it was hot from the grill, but I found myself surrounded by familiar faces. The family that had given me a ride on the boat that fateful night was there. When he saw me, the man smiled, and the kids ran around me, cheerfully shouting and laughing.

  The woman was preparing the tortillas, taking advantage of the fact that the baby was asleep by her side.

  “Buenos días,” I said, sitting down on an old wooden chair.

  “Buenos días, señor,” the father replied, still smiling. Seeing him made me remember our encounter with the whale. For me, it had been a magical moment; for them, just another day living in paradise.

  “And what are you doing here? Qué estas haciendo?”

  “Here, ya ve,” he responded matter-of-factly, as always.

  I ate beans and tacos with shrimp and octopus near the grill, the soft breeze off the ocean caressing my face. And hot coffee spiced with cinnamon worked its magic. I paid with a ten-dollar bill, refusing to accept the change.

  I stretched out my arms lazily, bottle of gin in hand, and walked toward the edge of the water. Mornings in Puerto Vallarta are beautiful. The place was worth every centavo, every drop of blood. I took another swallow, a long one, and threw the bottle into the sea as far as I could. I watched the waves drag it away until it was lost from sight.

  I hadn’t liked that last swallow. There are times when not even all the booze in the world can take away the bitter aftertaste of life.

  LAST CALL

  I first read Raymond Chandler when I was twenty-five. All of his novels, in one month. The next month, I read the entire Belascoarán series by Paco Ignacio Taibo II. When I went backpacking in Europe, I carried along a copy of The Long Goodbye and another of Some Clouds. They changed my life. I was falling in love with the genre. This novel is a tribute to both writers. I’d like to think that even after all the blending their flavor can still be savored.