Bitter Drink (8 page)

“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

M
ix 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.”

This last phrase made Lyon’s eyes open so wide they almost popped out of her head.

“She’s already spoken to the chief of police. They drugged her and kidnapped her. It was a miracle you were able to save her in time,” she said.

“Some people call me Sir Lancelot. I’m a knight in shining armor on Saturdays, Sundays, and days off.”

“She’s a good teacher,” she continued. “She’s expanded my mind. She knows a lot and has traveled a lot. She’s not a piece of shit like all the rest. She won’t let Hollywood ruin me like it has Liz and Deborah.”

“Yeah, it’s really crummy that they’re famous and earn millions of dollars. Someone oughta get the electric chair.” I was taking it out on her, but it was Blondie who deserved my sarcasm. “If you want to ruin your life, you don’t need Hollywood’s help, young lady. You’re already well on your way.”

To her surprise, I abruptly stood up. Hampton Fancher ran toward me, full of bravado.

“You’re being disrespectful to Sue. That’s gonna hurt.”

He telegraphed his attack. I used the same punch that the Indian, Fernández, had used on me: in the face, right between the eyes.

Fancher went flying over the sofa and landed on the coffee table. The tequila and joints floated in midair until gravity did its part. I was expecting a scream or at least some tears from Lyon, but her jaw just dropped. Another dumb blonde to swell the ranks of Movieland.

“Is Eva okay?” I asked in a conciliatory fashion.

Lyon answered, completely ignoring the curses coming from her boyfriend, who was trying to get to his feet.

“Yes. Actually she’s been asking for you.”

“Tell her something nice, something she’d like. On my behalf.”

I walked out, mentally erasing Sue Lyon from future sexual fantasies.

2 PARTS VODKA

1 PART COFFEE LIQUEUR, PREFERABLY KAHLÚA

MILK OR LIGHT CREAM

B
lend the vodka, chilled if possible, with the coffee liqueur. Serve in a short glass with ice. Slowly add the milk or cream to taste in order to achieve an appealing visual effect.

A cocktail for many occasions, the White Russian is named in honor of the “anti-Bolsheviks,” or supporters of the czar, from the 1917 Revolution. It isn’t a Russian cocktail, but it is prepared with vodka. The Black Russian came first in the 1940s, and with the addition of cream sometime later became “white” and sweeter, and a particular hit with the ladies. Mix one up and turn on the sweet sounds of Eartha Kitt singing “C’est Si Bon” to the accompaniment of Henri René’s orchestra.

__________________

The next day there was nothing more for me to do on the set. I went back to the hotel to get some shut-eye. With a little luck, my encounter with Sue and her hotheaded boyfriend would turn out to have been no more than a bad dream.

Two heavy knocks on the door woke me from my slumber. They must have been fairly hard, as up to now I’d been able to sleep right through the church bells next to my hotel. Coming to consciousness, I realized I’d fallen asleep in my street clothes and an empty bottle of gin was lying beside me. I would have preferred Blondie.

Again the pounding echoed in my ears like war drums. This time I was sure it could be heard all the way to China. Mao was probably wondering what in the hell was so urgent, too.

I stumbled toward the door. “Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see you,” a voice said in clumsy English, as rough as a Harlem garbage dump.

Standing before me was the largest man I’d ever seen. On his neck he carried something vaguely similar to a head. Big face, snub nose so broad it looked like the prow on a cruise ship, and eyes ridiculously small in comparison with his long, almost girlish eyelashes. His chest was enormous, like a Sherman tank, and I was sure his knuckles touched the floor. He wore a tight sport shirt, short pants, and tennis shoes that made him look like an orangutan outfitted for Wimbledon. Only the orangutan would have been better looking. His hand, so broad I could have pulled up and sat down on it,
grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me out of the room in one swift motion.