Bitter Drink (13 page)

“It’s bad manners to turn your back on the
licenciado
, asshole,” he said, without lowering his gun.

“What else do you want? You’ve got the ring and the cash,” I told the shadow. The Luger pressed between two of my ribs. I jumped when I felt its tickle.

“I want the roll of film, but I also want a piece of the pie. My clients are very upset. They don’t like being left out,” the shadow answered.

I smiled. Finally I had a pair of kings in my hand: They weren’t the ones who had redecorated my hotel room. They thought the roll of film was still in my possession.

“No,” I said.

The Luger dug in deeper. This time I didn’t jump. I was starting to get irritated by Antsy Underpants and his routine of hassling me every time we met.

“I want the ring, the money, and another ten grand,” I said boldly, feeling very macho as I laid out my bluff. The whale incident had given me courage. I heard laughter from the shadows.

Antsy didn’t like me getting so high and mighty, and he dug his weapon in harder, until I could feel the barrel grazing the innermost bend of my intestines.

Then I heard blows and shouting. Two more men appeared. One looked like a judicial or federal cop: white shirt, brown pants, and a crew cut, though the shield was missing. He carried a revolver in his hand. He probably got it cheap at Woolworth’s. The other guy was Gorman, looking quite a bit worse for wear.

The thug threw him at me. Gorman fell to his knees a few steps away. He was crying like a little girl whose dolly had been taken away. An ugly wound split his bald crown all the way to his forehead.

“Señor Pascal, you have no fucking idea what’s at stake here…Why don’t you explain it to him, Felix?” the shadow calmly declared.

I turned to look at Gorman. He hadn’t gotten to his feet and was still crying. His hand was clumsily bandaged with a bloody rag. I thought he might be missing at least three fingers.

“Felix tried to be clever, too. We don’t want it to end this way, right?” Antsy Underpants told me, showing his teeth.

“The ring, the money, and twenty grand.”

“You said ten, or maybe your memory ain’t so good?” Antsy complained.

“Plus interest for keeping me here. Another five minutes and it’ll be twenty-five.” I’d bluffed high. I couldn’t back out now. Much less with a gun inches away from my heart. “Shoot me if you want, but you’ll never get to see those photos. You know where I’m staying.”

I helped Gorman to his feet. We had to get out of there. My little number was held together with safety pins as stable as a house of cards.

“Señor Pascal, you’re descending into a sewer. If you’re not careful, you’ll get flushed out to sea,” the shadow warned.

We walked away without looking back. I expected no less than a shout, a shot, or another whale popping up in front of us.

Unfortunately, it was a shot. I closed my eyes anticipating the pain.

The bullet went wide. Gorman fell to the ground. A bloody moan issued from his mouth. Another bullet passed just inches from me.

Antsy Underpants hadn’t moved. He was as surprised as I was. His weapon hadn’t said a word. He wasn’t even aiming at me.

“There’s someone else here! It’s a trap,
licenciado
! Get out!” shouted the thug with the face of a judicial cop. His revolver filled the silence.

Without a second thought, I used Gorman as a shield. My Colt answered back. The bullets were all lost in the darkness of the jungle. For the third time, Antsy Underpants cleared out, leaving me behind. At least this time another guy had taken the hit.

I checked out Gorman. The bullet he took was through the forehead. Someone else had killed him.

I heard noises around me, footsteps moving off into the jungle. Others were running on the dock, and then I heard a motorboat moving away at top speed. Finally, the shouts of the technicians, roused out of bed by the gunfire, broke the night air.

I was pretty sure poor Gorman couldn’t hear any of it.

2 OUNCES WHITE RUM

1 OUNCE COCONUT CREAM

6 OUNCES PINEAPPLE JUICE, PREFERABLY FRESH

½ CUP ICE

1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

1 PINEAPPLE SLICE

S
et your blender on frappé to mix the ingredients. Serve in a tall glass, or a hollowed-out pineapple. Garnish with the maraschino cherry and pineapple slice.

The piña colada is a sweet cocktail, the perfect choice for days by the swimming pool and on the beach. It dates back to 1954, when a bartender from San Juan, Puerto Rico, tried to combine all the typical local flavors in a cocktail. He never imagined it would become such an international success. Today the piña colada is associated with nearly every tourist resort that offers picturesque beaches.

The drink was further popularized by Rupert Holmes, who released the fairly awful “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” in 1979.

__________________

For the first time, I did the job I was paid to do; no one ended up in jail. Officially, nothing happened. No police homicide reports were filed, and the balcony accident was chalked up to just another unfortunate mishap, all too common on a film shoot.

Two days after my encounter with the whale and Antsy Underpants, the cameras were rolling. Gorman’s predictions failed to come true: The supplies and food kept on coming. I even got some extra help on the job. Armed marines provided us with additional security by patrolling the vicinity in motorboats. Of course, they weren’t solving any problems; they were just keeping a lid on them.

Off the record, I was asked for a thousand bucks in exchange for registering Gorman’s body with the Red Cross as the victim of a traffic accident. A direct payment to Quintero. It took me a whole day to arrange. The production assistant yelled, grunted, and cursed, but finally got me in front of Stark. If Ray wanted to be in the news for the gossip, and not the murders, he’d have to pull out his wallet.

Ray Stark was not too happy to see me. The Gorman incident was bothersome enough, but when I told him there was a dead guy with one of the actors’ silver bullets in him,
all the color drained from his face. He coughed up the money pretty quick then, all in hundred-dollar bills.

John Huston’s priority was finishing the movie; it was always finishing the movie, and he wasn’t going to let a murder investigation stop him. Fortunately, in Mexico everything can be settled with dollars and a smile. You can even get a new governor that way.

Back on the film set, Stark regarded me cheerfully now that our unpleasant business was over. Richard Burton drank martinis and joked about how Liz Taylor looked like a French tart. The cinematographer Gabriel Figueroa sang excerpts from the opera
Carmen
at the top of his lungs. Deborah Kerr and Sue Lyon filmed a scene that would wind up on the cutting-room floor. And the gossip-rag photographers kept aiming their cameras at the world’s most famous couple. As for me, I was stationed at the bar, finishing my martini, watching the three-ring circus I’d helped them stage.

John Huston stood next to me and said, “Keep an eye on them, Sunny. There are more reporters in Puerto Vallarta than iguanas.”

I looked out over the bay. A lazy fog rolled out over the sea. A marine boat patrolled the area. Everything seemed calm, so I decided to take the first boat back to Puerto Vallarta.

When I reached my hotel, I requested a call be put through to Los Angeles. Scott Cherries didn’t sound so playful this time: “What the hell is going on down there?”

“Nothing. Everything I touch turns into trouble,” I replied, halfheartedly.

“I meant the film shoot. It’s independent money, from New York or Chicago. The kind you need to wash and iron along with the laundry.”

“The movie’s funded with dirty money?”

“Stark is backed by certain groups that want to take over the studios. Sunny, the gangsters aren’t like we show in the pictures anymore. No Cagney, Bogart, or Robinson. Now they’re the top dogs in Hollywood.”

“Thanks for the information. You can send flowers to my funeral. But no lilies; I’m allergic.”

“Don’t do anything rash. This isn’t the first time Hollywood has used that kind of dough. It’s the biggest washing machine in the world. This is basically a power struggle. If you do what’s asked of you, they’ll always be grateful. You’ll be set for life.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Die?” I asked.

“Easy, now. It’s just business; some of the cash is even coming out of Mexico. My friend at the consulate told me that the Mexican government issued a land-use permit: for all of Mismaloya, a big chunk of Vallarta, and several other beaches.”

“Well, I already knew they wanted to turn the set into a hotel. Stark and Huston are partners, no doubt about it. But it’s bigger than all that.”

“It’s as big as you want it to be. In the end, it’s just a movie. Do your job and don’t let any of those bullets cross your path. I’ll get the ice ready. You bring the tequila for the margaritas.”

“Find anything out about Billy Joe Rogue?”

“I already told you the good news. He’s the bad news. When I asked my friend in the military, he wanted to know who was asking. He told me if I didn’t want any trouble with the government, it would be best to learn a lesson from the cat. The one curiosity killed. All he could tell me was that Rogue was in the big leagues in the Pacific. Then in Korea. Then, after the Bay of Pigs, he turned into a spook. Stay clear of him; ghosts scare me.”

“I haven’t felt so much at ease since I got shot with a Thompson,” I said and hung up the phone. If that was good-bye, it stank. It might be the last time I’d hear my friend’s voice.

I sat down at the hotel bar and introduced my face to a couple of piña coladas. They didn’t do much for it, but they tasted good. Just as I finished draining my second glass, Sergeant Quintero appeared next to me. I should be more careful; I hadn’t even seen him come in.

“The fatal traffic accident reports reached my desk today. I didn’t like them.” He ordered a beer.

“The dead guy probably liked them even less…” I laughed.

He placed a bullet in the palm of my hand. Another silver one.

“Found between the second rib and collapsed lung of your friend Felix Gorman. Something tells me a third bullet might have your name on it. No one likes a busybody.”

“Neither do I, but I can’t kill myself.”

“This Gorman was mixed up with a gang of homosexuals, drug addicts, and gigolos in Mexico City. He was even
close to Villa and Javier Nava, main suspects in the Lucerna murder. They’re the kind of people we don’t want here in Puerto Vallarta. This is a family town; I don’t want to see it packed with perverts.”

“You better start building a wall then, because a whole bunch of them already got in.”

“Maybe you could lend me a hand.”

“Me? Now it turns out I’m good for something after all?” I marveled.

“That ring business was a Bernabé Jurado hit. He hires those guys to steal the rocks. His faggots make nice with the ladies and clean out their jewelry boxes. I suspected that little fuck from the first murder.”

“If I’m gonna be of any help at all, I’d like to know more about this Jurado guy.”

“Devil’s advocate. They’re assholes, but he’s the granddaddy of them all. He’s screwed his own people. He’s bailed out murderers, politicians, and perverts. The bastard weaseled his way out of jail through a loophole. He just got back from Argentina.”

“And you’re sure it was him?”

“Positive. He asked me to meet him tomorrow at La Palapa.”

With that little gem, he’d finished his piece, looking uncomfortable, as if he were playing the fakir and had swallowed a broken sword.

“If it was a loophole, bring along a pair of handcuffs as a present and put him away for life. You might even make the papers,” I suggested.

His tone of voice was flat, like he was counting boxes: “Things don’t work that way down here. He already paid me what he had to pay to keep me out of it. Maybe you could do something that would get me involved, give me a hand. If he killed someone, it would help.”

“Someone like me?”

“Like I said, we don’t want his kind in Vallarta. Let them go on over to Acapulco. That place is already full of lowlifes.” He got up, leaving a bill for his beer. “I’m just passing it along.”

If he had an appointment with the devil’s advocate himself, then I should bring along something heavier than my Colt. I’d need to call in some more favors, so I hopped into my Woody and went out to ask for a few.

A half an hour later, I pulled into a hellishly impoverished zone. It was all wooden huts and naked kids staring at me with big extraterrestrial eyes.

At the end of the road, on the riverbank, was a trailer home. Some forgotten furniture littered the yard, along with about a thousand empty vodka bottles.

Inside the trailer everything was surprisingly neat, though: a radio transmitter, plenty of books, and more bottles. A few photos for decoration. One showed Billy Joe shaking Kennedy’s hand; another, Castro’s. The one featuring Billy Joe with Marilyn Monroe impressed me the most.