Bitter Drink (7 page)

I spied another open door on the far end of the room. It led to a nearly bare room decorated like a convent. The bed was unmade, and in one corner, wrapped in sheets, a figure, crowned by an unforgettable head of blonde hair, was moving.

She was lying there in the fetal position, sobbing. The stench of vomit made me take a step back. I reached for Blondie’s wrist and took her pulse. It was through the roof
and her pupils were so dilated, I would have had to use a magnifying glass to find the irises.

Blondie was all right, just a little beat up, and absolutely stoned. Of course, the odor that had welcomed me when I first arrived was opium. The pipe had been tossed aside, next to a broken syringe. Her veins were no doubt a traffic jam of opium, heroin, and marijuana—perfect conditions for a car crash.

“Hey, doggie! I’ve been expecting you…” she said rasping, her voice like sandpaper.

“Party’s over, Blondie. I’m taking you to a doctor.”

“Is he gone?”

“Who?”

It was then I realized that the noise I’d heard accompanying the music wasn’t part of the recording. It was someone breathing heavily, together with the unmistakable squeal of mattress springs. Blondie hadn’t been alone.

Squeezing the Colt, I turned around and started toward the patio.

“Don’t leave me!” Blondie cried as I left the room.

As I entered the music room, gunfire greeted me. The good news was that the man trying to put on his underwear was more concerned with getting dressed than aiming straight.

My Colt reacted instinctively. I hit the deck and was still rolling as I snapped off a couple of rounds. The man winced, and I was sure that one of my return greetings had at least nicked him. It hadn’t stopped him, though. He closed in fast
and kicked the gun from my hand. I took the next kick in the jaw as I tried to stand up.

I didn’t see little birds or stars, but it stunned me momentarily—just long enough for the man to get his underwear on and take off running.

By the time I got up, I heard the roar of a motor spreading its wings. The bird had flown the coop.

The room was as sparsely furnished as the bedroom had been, with two exceptions: a portable record player sat in the corner, playing a worn-out 45 over and over again, and next to it a camera was set on top of a tripod. The camera was open, and there was a used roll of film inside. I took it out and slipped it into my pocket.

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

M
ix 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

C
ombine 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 nodded 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.”