Bitter Drink (11 page)

2–3 OUNCES RUM

JUICE FROM 1 LIME

2 TABLESPOONS SUGAR

2–4 SPEARMINT LEAVES

2–3 OUNCES SODA WATER

C
rush the mint leaves to release their flavor. Add the sugar and lime juice, and stir until you can smell the mint. Then pour into a highball glass with the rum and ice, and top off with the soda water.

The mojito made its appearance in the early twentieth century at Mariano Beach, a popular Cuban resort. But the drink didn’t become famous until Angel Martinez opened La Bodeguita del Medio. Ernest Hemingway discovered mojitos in this famous restaurant during his years in Havana, where he continued to live even after the revolution, no doubt so he could keep savoring this delicious concoction. The drink won over other famous
people like Brigitte Bardot, Pablo Neruda, Nat King Cole, and Errol Flynn, all of whom enjoyed it with “Maracaibo.”

__________________

I couldn’t face Kimberly House and Richard Burton just yet. I didn’t want to explain how his money had gone up in smoke. But Bobby La Salle didn’t have a choice. He told me that since I’d covered for him with the cops, he’d return the favor. He was a nice enough critter. You just had to keep him well fed.

He dropped me and Billy Joe off at the Rio Hotel.

The bartender was wearily presiding over a group of journalists from Chicago who were getting progressively drunker. Billy Joe paid the man for a round of mojitos and offered him such a healthy tip he was able to close up shop and call it a night. The journalists fell asleep at their table while we drank our mojitos.

“How did you get to be a bloodhound,
soldado
?” the old man asked me, point-blank.

“That’s a long story.”

“This time of night, I won’t find my
barata
whores, so I’ve got time.”

He was right. No whores for him and no Blondie for me; she was probably counting opium sheep by now. The old man and I would have to keep each other company.

“I was sixteen when I left my mother’s house,” I said. “Nothing personal. I just couldn’t spend my life attending
family reunions on Saturday and mass on Sunday. It’s against my religion.”

I didn’t usually feel comfortable talking about myself. Bloodhounds don’t do that; they just provide sarcastic back talk. That’s why they’re tough guys. But the events of the evening must have had an impact because I couldn’t shut up.

“I thought I’d be better off with my father. Everything was fine until I hit him back. At least the blood stayed in the family: mine on his fists and his in my mouth.”

“
Hermoso.”

“An old LA detective, Michael Carmandy, hired me. He’d been a private dick during Prohibition, one of the best. A loner and heavy drinker who couldn’t be bought off. By then he was already a brand name. He had ten assistants and three secretaries, one of whom was a doll, beautiful, in fact.”

“Your first heartbreak?”

“No, just irreconcilable differences. She wanted kids, a house in San Diego, and a vacation home in Acapulco. I wanted booze, fun, and recreational drugs. When she married an architect from Chicago—a Mexican to boot—I quit. Carmandy recommended me to his contacts.”

“You like him more than your father?”

“Mussolini would have been better than my dad.” I ended my story abruptly, closing the curtain on that act. “Now I work for myself. Pays for my vices and the rent.”

“A real winner.”

I didn’t like the old man’s comment. I didn’t like his smile either. But I really didn’t like my own life story.

Billy Joe and I retreated to my room. The bar had been closed for so long, the journalists were already snoring. I was certain that one of my bottles of gin still had something to offer. It was already three in the morning; the night couldn’t get any worse.

I was wrong. It got worse. It looked like a hurricane had touched down in my room. Although a hurricane wouldn’t have been so rough. One of my surfboards was even broken in two. Billy Joe was more upset to see the broken bottle of gin, though.

My clothes were such a mess it looked like the floor of my studio in Venice Beach, but at least there I would have known where everything was. Whoever did this did it with feeling. This had the stench of Mr. Antsy Underpants all over it.

I could just imagine him enjoying this little remodel.

“This wasn’t vengeance. You’ve got something. That’s why he didn’t kill you at the river,” Billy Joe declared.

“I have nothing of value,” I said. “I always carry everything with me, and I already lost the Colt Carmandy gave me earlier tonight.”

“You’ve got something,” Billy Joe repeated, lighting one of his British cigarettes.

I looked at the mess, annoyed. What little was mine was there. Unless, of course, they were looking for something that wasn’t mine.

“The roll of film,” I exclaimed. “The one I found at the house. I kept it because I didn’t want the cops to see it. Because of the girl’s mother.”

The old man gave me a knowing look, like someone who can tell you how the movie ends before he even enters the theater. Goddamned Santa.

“I’m going to sleep. Next time you got a date and need a good rifle, call me,” he said.

I wished him a very good evening and told him to dream of sweet little angels, like the kind Manuel Lepe paints.

2 OUNCES WHITE RUM

JUICE FROM 2 LIMES

1 TEASPOON SUGAR

10 DROPS MARASCHINO LIQUEUR

1 ORANGE SLICE

M
ix the rum, lime juice, sugar, and maraschino liqueur with ice in a cocktail shaker. If you prefer it frappé, mix in an electric blender. Serve in a wide glass garnished with the slice of orange. Then form a conga line and dance to the beat of Desi Arnaz’s hit tune “Babalu.”

The daiquiri is actually a whole family of cocktails, with its primary ingredients being rum and lime juice. There are as many kinds as there are fruit flavors, but the version that gained international fame was born in one of the most famous bars in the world: El Floridita in Havana, Cuba.

Daiquiri is actually the name of a beach near Santiago, Cuba, where a steel mill is located. They say a US engineer, Jennings
Cox, invented the first one, giving it the simple moniker of “natural daiquiri.” It was later perfected by Constantino Ribalaigua Vert, bartender and owner of El Floridita, and the joint came to be known as the “Daiquiri Palace.” Ernest Hemingway dubbed it the “Great Constant” after tasting Ribalaigua Vert’s version. The daiquiri continued to gain popularity through the decades, even inside the White House, where it was rumored to be John F. Kennedy’s favorite drink at mealtime.

__________________

The guy in charge of the hotel was nice enough to offer me another room. He didn’t like the current decor in the old one either. I slept all day and all night, and when I woke up the next morning, my injuries hurt worse than before.

For breakfast, I ordered a couple of huevos rancheros, yolks intact; refried beans with a touch of sour cream; toast; and a pot of coffee from room service. I devoured it all.

Then I took a long, luxurious shower, like a debutante before her sweet-sixteen party.

The man I saw in the mirror when I stepped out of the shower looked a lot like me. He had the same face, but he looked roughed up, tired, and bruised like a melon. The visage made me queasy.

I dressed and decided I better get back to work. The motorboat took me across the water to Mismaloya.

Arriving fashionably late to roll call that day, I noticed nothing was any different than it had been. Everyone was
hurrying around retrieving, transporting, or exchanging something. I crossed the set, headed for my usual seat at the bar, grateful Richard Burton wasn’t in this scene. He’d be tied up for safekeeping at Kimberly House by his lioness, no doubt.

I ordered a daiquiri, testing our bartender’s skill. It wasn’t half bad, though I’d drunk better urine in public bathrooms. I settled into my seat, said a silent prayer to the selfish God to make Blondie appear, and drank.

Lately, that was what I did best: drink.

I could see John Huston chewing on a cigar the size of a thimble and hear that Gabriel Figueroa had decided on the opera
Mikado
for today’s soundtrack. His Italian wasn’t any better than his English, but his voice made the bottles on the bar tremble. For an opera singer, he was an excellent cinematographer.

Much to my disappointment, Blondie didn’t show.

But I did spy a group of local Indians again, looking on in silence from the edge of the jungle. This time a family had gathered. The man was no older than I was, a sparse beard surrounding his mouth. The woman was pregnant and nursing a baby. Three children, mucus encrusted beneath their noses, were seated, resting. Their eyes were dark, deep, and hopeless.

My daydreaming was interrupted by a loud noise. The sound of objects creaking, then falling from high above. Noises that signal blood, pain, and maybe even death.

I saw members of the staff running toward one of the bungalows. I jumped from my seat, reached for my Colt, and then remembered I’d lost it.

One of the set balconies had collapsed, taking two assistants down with it. It didn’t look promising: the balcony had fallen down the cliff between jagged rocks. Two men were trapped among the rubble a few yards away from the crashing waves. One of them was Tom Shaw, the assistant director. I didn’t recognize the second man.

Tom looked worse off than his companion though. He tried to speak, but blood bubbled from his mouth. People were shouting, calling for help. All I could think was that we were a long way away from the beaten path, a long way for the Red Cross ambulances to come.

I shouted for a rope, and someone furnished one. Tying one end to a column and the other to my waist, and praying to the God of drunks that I’d live to taste one last martini, I descended down the cliff face.

Tom kept trying to call out as I moved carefully down the wall. His blood began staining the rocks, mixing with bird guano. Other men followed me down the rope. I reached the spot where he landed but was scared to move him. With the help of the others, I was able to carefully move him onto the waiting motorboat that would take him to Puerto Vallarta. The next motorboat, the one meant for his companion, was working its way toward shore.

I climbed back up the rope and returned to the scene of the accident. It was free of onlookers now. I could see the
construction was of poor quality. The only way to win at this game was to do things on the cheap. But no matter how bad a job the builders had done, there was no reason for this building to have crumbled like a sand castle.

Bending down to study the remains hanging from the demolished terrace, I could see that the rods holding the beams had been cut with a hacksaw. This was no accident; someone had wanted blood.

“Goddamned Indians. They build everything out of sand,” Huston grunted behind me.

I stood up and turned around. The director was only inches away; he could have easily shoved me off the precipice in this position. In fact, if he’d so much as exhaled, he would have. I swallowed hard. He was a full head taller than me.

Huston gave two chews to his cigar, regarding me silently. It was the kind of silence that comes after they hand down your sentence at a trial, or after she tells you she’s pregnant. Then he just turned and walked away, grumbling, “By God! We better finish this goddamned film before we all end up swallowed alive by the jungle.”

I found my breath again and quickly moved away from the edge of the construction, sure I’d wet myself.

2 OUNCES WHISKEY

½ OUNCE SWEET VERMOUTH

2–3 DASHES ANGOSTURA BITTERS

1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

M
ix ingredients with ice in a shaker, blending until frosted. Serve in a cocktail glass. Garnish with the maraschino cherry. Drink while listening to “I’d Like to Hate Myself in the Morning” by Shirley Bassey.