Bitter Drink (14 page)

“What can Billy Joe do for you,
soldado
?” the old man asked, hitching up his pants on his way out of the can.

1½ OUNCES WHITE RUM

1 OUNCE DARK RUM

¾ OUNCE LIME JUICE

1 OUNCE GRAPEFRUIT JUICE

1 OUNCE TRIPLE SEC

1 TEASPOON FALERNUM

2 DROPS ANGOSTURA BITTERS

1 PINEAPPLE SLICE

1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

1 MINT SPRIG

M
ix the first seven ingredients with ice in a blender for thirty seconds. Serve in an old-fashioned glass garnished with the pineapple slice, cherry, and sprig of mint.

The mai tai is the drink that made Oakland, California, restaurateur Trader Vic famous. Although the mai tai didn’t reach its peak until 1944, Don the Beachcomber claims to have invented
it in 1933. Their recipes are different, and the flavor changes. Either way, the mai tai is yet another symbol of tiki culture. At Trader Vic’s, they say that when the owner and famous mixologist Victor J. Bergeron prepared it one afternoon for some friends from Tahiti, one of them tasted it and exclaimed, “Maitai roa!” (very good!). A classic was born.

Enjoy with another classic, Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs’s “Wooly Bully.”

__________________

I walked down Olas Altas Street. The buildings were as bathed in sun as their inhabitants. The heat wasn’t as suffocating today, but I was drenched in sweat, nonetheless. I walked toward Pulpito Street, which rolled downhill toward the sea like a giant tongue. At the bottom stood a big palapa. My appointment was there, in that restaurant. Advertisements littered the street corners offering
pescado zarandeado
and
aguachile camarones
, typical Puerto Vallartan fare.

I ducked into the shade under the palapa roof, and cool air hit me like a snowball in the face. The restaurant was far from luxurious; even so, several swanky cars were parked outside. The entrance was on the street, but the joint also opened out onto the beach, providing a primo view of the surf. A few umbrellas were set up there, and some scantily clad bodies accompanied by cold piña coladas were catching some rays.

A girl in a crinoline skirt greeted me. She was pretty, her gray eyes contrasting with her tanned skin. Scott Cherries would have loved her.

“Welcome to La Palapa restaurant,” she said amiably.

“I’m Mr. Pascal. They’re expecting me.”

The girl picked up a menu and guided me to a table in the middle of the restaurant. At a nearby table, a family was eating shrimp cocktail out of big round glasses, the children noisily slurping down every spoonful. At another table a lawyerly fellow, his briefcase on the table, was conversing with a local. No one there looked like a hit man.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the dark-skinned girl asked.

“Mai tai,” I replied. Perhaps a little mint would freshen up this madness. The girl moved away, swishing her skirt like a rowboat lifted at high tide. The drink materialized beside me, courtesy of a tall, sullen waiter. I took a long swallow. I was still sweating.

“I’ve always thought that if you want to meet girls, you gotta know how to order drinks,” the man with the briefcase said. His companion had vanished.

I turned around, my heart in my throat. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he possessed the same voice as the man in the shadows the other night on the set.

“I like the type who can hold their liquor. You know what a woman needs to be a fun date, Sunny?”

No doubt about it, I was face-to-face with Bernabé Jurado, the devil’s advocate.

“No. But I’ll bet you’re about to fill me in,” I answered. Jurado picked up his glass and made his way over to my table, sitting down across from me.

“Booze and men.” He took a long drink from his glass. All of it went down his throat, even the ice. He signaled the girl over. “Women who don’t drink and don’t fuck aren’t worth your while.”

I quickly surveyed the scene at the restaurant. It had changed a little since I’d come in. In one corner, at the restaurant entrance, was the guy who looked like a judicial police officer. He wore the same clothes. Same face. Same pistol, no doubt.

At the next table, Antsy Underpants was unfolding his napkin. Two more men had taken their positions at the beach entrance, a few yards away from us.

The girl appeared, smiling.

“Cutie, bring us a
pescado zarandeado
. Ask the chef to sear the skin golden brown. And make it a big one, ’bout seven pounds.”

He turned back to me as if we were old friends. “Anything else?” he asked, adding, “I think we’ll have enough on our plate with the fish; it’s to die for. If you want, we can order some empanadas as an appetizer.”

“I’m good,” I said, as casually as I could muster.

“Bring us an order of crab empanadas while we’re waiting for the fish. And since you’re on your way to the kitchen, another round for me and Mr. Pascal, here. We’re dehydrating in this heat.”

He gave her a noisy smack on the butt, and the girl just walked away laughing. The man was charismatic, a real steamroller.

“This is the best place to eat. They make all the food for the set here.”

My face gave me away.

“No, I already figured out you don’t know anything,” he said.

“Enlighten me. I can be a good pupil.”

Bernabé Jurado laughed loudly. The family turned and stared. He winked at the kids.

“I think I haven’t let them kill you just yet because you’re funny, if meddlesome. In all honesty, I think I even like you, my friend.”

“You don’t have any friends, just potential clients.”

“I like that; you oughta be a writer. I know a few. I got one out of the joint. He drank like a fish, just like you. But different, ’cause he’d try anything. From heroin to young men at the jai alai courts.”

He grabbed my shoulder, as if we were drinking buddies. I felt nauseated, but I had to admit his voice was hypnotic.

“So the guy got hammered. Then it occurs to him to play William Tell with his wife. I guess you know that firing a revolver with three bottles in you is pretty much impossible. He left a hole the size of Yucatán in the woman. And guess what…”

The girl set the empanadas and drinks down on the table. Jurado smiled at her and continued his story: “That fucker Burroughs is free now. I got him out. Now he’s publishing with the gringos. He sent me a copy of his goddamned book the other day. Junkie-man, or something like that. For
an asshole, he isn’t half-bad. You should read him.” Jurado turned toward me, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t want to ruin your meal, but you do have the roll of film, don’t you?”

“I’m curious about the contents,” I replied. “It must be something pretty big, to kill two men over.”

“Kiddo, before I took an extended vacation to Argentina, I had a nice little racket going. A girl passes for an aristocrat. She falls in with a little rich kid from the capital. We set up a show about her getting pregnant, and he pays to shut her up. Now, that was big. This is just a favor for a friend.”

“And the stiffs?”

“That’s another story. What we’re talking about here is a lot of cash.” He downed his entire glass again in one swallow. He was better than I was. Better than Richard Burton even.

“Can you imagine if they’d sold you a piece of beachfront property in Acapulco before it was what it is today? That’s clean money!”

He stopped talking and devoured one of the empanadas, which were swimming in salsa, in three bites. He ordered another drink and turned to me. For him, this was just another business meeting.

“This goddamned place is a gold mine. That’s why they gave them the land permit to film the movie. All the little gringos are gonna want to come to Taylor and Burton’s love nest. The property is gonna cost more than the French Riviera. It’s the biggest tourist project of this administration.”

“And the soldiers invading the set?”

“The government wants to make sure the Mexican suppliers aren’t gonna fuck it up. They’ll never pay them what they owe for the film. The real investment is in the land. A whole lotta dough.”

“And you are…?”

“What, aren’t you working for Stark?” he asked, intrigued. “I represent the ones who want in on it: governors, senators, people from the political party. We wanna scare them a little so they’ll give us a piece of the pie.”

He ate another empanada. I took another look at Jurado’s thugs.

They were retired cops or, worse yet, active ones. I’d turn into a juicy pork chop among crocodiles once they found out I was bluffing about that roll of film. Not much could be done; I was officially the jackass of this picture.

“Stark told me there aren’t gonna be any handouts. That it’s a problem for the locals to handle. He’s going back to Los Angeles,” I said calmly.

It sounded believable enough. Not too different from what he’d actually say.

“We’ll see about that.
The Night of the Iguana
will leave Vallarta. We’re staying. Either the worst SOB or the prettiest one is gonna come out on top.”

He smiled. His face belonged to someone who didn’t give a shit about anything, who knew he was always going to come out on top. Whereas I’d lose the game no matter what the score.

“Now hand over that roll of film so we can eat in peace,” he said, tucking his napkin into the collar of his shirt.

“I want the ring and the money,” I ventured.

Jurado leaned over, exasperated. “What a jackass! That Marquise of Bourbon topaz deal was my doing. There you have it. For that foul-up, I had to go on the lam to Argentina. You think I’m dumb enough to steal a goddamned ring while I’m out on parole, when what I want is millions of dollars’ worth of land?”

The grim waiter arrived with a silvery tray. An enormous, gutted fish, fragrant steam rising off the dish, was in his hands. Antsy Underpants smiled at me. I already had my countdown. This would be my last supper.

Just then a new dinner guest entered from the beach. He was wearing a Santa Claus beard. Goddamned Santa. That was the signal. I jumped to my feet, grabbing the tray away from the waiter. The
zarandeado
hit Antsy Underpants smack in the face. His gun fell to the floor.

The two guys from the beach took out a shotgun and a rifle with a repeating mechanism. This was going to get noisy and ugly. Very ugly.

The judicial cop at the front door ran toward me, aiming his revolver. The shooting began. One bullet destroyed his jaw, throwing him backward. His face would never be the same. Not that I thought it mattered.

My instincts told me this wasn’t the best time to knock on St. Peter’s gate, so I threw myself down to the floor.

I upended the table to use it as a shield, blocking my view of my attackers as well. I prayed they weren’t behind me. The shotgun fired, and the table exploded into kindling. Some of the splinters found my face. My Colt was out of my pocket; it wasn’t going to catch cold today. I peeked around the table and saw the barrel of the shotgun aiming straight at me, the two black holes like the eyes of a rat. But before those eyes could do their damage, a bullet perforated another eye—the one belonging to the man holding the rifle. Blood mixed with the fish sauce.

The children’s screams distracted the other guy. He didn’t realize that my Colt can be fairly precise sometimes: two bullets to the chest. There were three on the ground now. Antsy Underpants must still be somewhere.

I ventured another peek. The screaming continued. People were running down the beach. Jurado was getting to his feet and swearing. There was food all over him. His impeccable suit was ruined; it hadn’t been a good business meeting.

I jumped to my feet. Right across from me I spotted the familiar acne-scarred face. Shooting him at close range was a pleasure. His skull, with pieces of fish still on it, exploded like a popped balloon at the fair. I just won the grand prize.

Calm descended slowly on the restaurant. I could breathe again. I looked toward the beach. Billy Joe was putting away his old marine rifle. He took his leave once the sirens could be heard. Quintero was late, as usual.

I turned to Bernabé Jurado and held out my hand to help him to his feet. He was still trying to clean the rest of his meal off himself.

“Are you nuts, you goddamned gringo?” he yelled at me, more upset about the food stains than the shooting.

“I’m Mexican,” I answered. “It’d be best if you took the beach route, seeing as how you’re on parole.”

For a moment he glared at me. Just for a moment. Then he picked up his briefcase, took out a card, and slid it into one of the pockets of my guayabera.

“If you ever need a lawyer, call me. I don’t have any enemies either, just potential clients.”

Attorney-at-law Bernabé Jurado descended the stairs to the beach. By the time the cops arrived, he was out of sight. He’d stuck me with the bill.