Bitter Drink (15 page)

TEQUILA

2 CUPS FRESH ORANGE JUICE

3 TABLESPOONS GRENADINE

¼ TABLESPOON HOT SAUCE

1 CUP TOMATO JUICE

3 TABLESPOONS SALT

1 LIME SLICE

B
lend all the ingredients except for the tequila. Serve alongside the tequila in a separate glass with ice. Garnish with the slice of lime.

This recipe is a variation on the original sangrita and can be found at any bar in Texas or along the US-Mexico border. Its distinguishing ingredient is the addition of grenadine. Like the original, Jalisco version, this concoction has a strong, spicy flavor. While this combination would be sacrilege in Jalisco, folks along the border regions swear by it. It tastes even better accompanied by Elvis Presley’s “Mexico.”

__________________

I pulled up outside Kimberly House, the great mango tree still preying on unwary pedestrians. I stopped a moment just outside its wide canopy. I could tell it was laughing at me, just waiting for me to cross beneath. I didn’t fall for it, though, opting to walk around it instead.

I rang the bell by the door, and the tree sighed in frustration, a wormy mango dropping a few feet away from me.

I waited a few minutes, and then finally heard steps coming toward the door. It was thrown wide open, and I found myself standing before my favorite gorilla, Bobby La Salle. When he saw me, he smiled his boyish gap-toothed grin.

“Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor are down on the beach,” he said reflexively, before even greeting me. I pounded him on the back affectionately and entered the house through the noodle-sized gap left between him and the door frame.

“Good morning, Bobby. I’ll wait inside,” I said in Spanish. He didn’t stop me, just stood there trying to make out my words, as if I’d spoken to him in ancient Aramaic. I took long strides toward the patio, and Bobby trotted after me, apparently giving up on the translation. I went straight to the bar, found the bottle of raicilla, and poured two shot glasses’ worth.

“I think it would be better if you came back later,” he suggested.

“I don’t have much to do,” I replied. “Yesterday I shot the guts out of three men. Killing makes me thirsty.”

I slid his drink over to him. Mine had already disappeared down my throat. “Won’t you join me?”

Bobby Gorilla stared at the glass as if I were tempting him with the forbidden apple. His hands twitched nervously, his fingers intertwining like a ball of snakes.

“Maybe Mr. Burton wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s the spirit, compadre,” I said, again in Spanish, while pouring another. He choked it down like bitter medicine. I took a seat on one of the chintzy leather-and-wood chairs on the terrace, crossed my legs, and sighed. The day was hot, but a fresh breeze drove away the impulse to throw myself headfirst into the sea. Bobby didn’t sit down.

“I came to have a chat with Mr. Burton, myself, because the cops would like to ask him a few questions.” I tossed it out as if we were talking about the weather.

“What kind of questions?”

“The dead guy they found in the river was part of a gang of jewel thieves from Mexico City. The secret of Miss Taylor’s ring floated away down the river, next to that stiff.”

“Yeah, I bet that ring is long gone,” the gorilla grunted.

I stood up to serve myself another raicilla and thought how glorious it would be with a decent sangrita.

“Then again, the possibility occurs to me that the ring in question didn’t go far, I said, turning my back to him. “Maybe it just took a few steps, and it’s still here in this house.”

The raicilla spilled over the edge of the glass, leaving a white mark on the wooden bar. There was no noise behind me. Not even the sound of his breathing. All that silence
made me uncomfortable. I spun around. He was inches away, holding his breath.

I downed my drink.

Bobby started breathing again.

“Yesterday a certain lawyer told me that no one turned the ring over to him. So then I thought, does Bobby really think they’re gonna be able to fence it back in LA, like some trinket?” I gave it straight to him, figuring that even if he did have a baby face that was no reason to treat him like one. “That little item is worth a sum you’ll never see, not in your entire life, not even if you won the heavyweight championship three times over.”

His fists crunched closed. He wasn’t angry, though. His expression was one of fear and amazement. Heavy on the fear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is it a woman?” I asked. “Do you have gambling debts? I’m sure your boss would lend the money to you. I can tell he’s fond of you. You’re his three-hundred-and-fifty-pound mascot. You bring him the newspaper, you serve the margaritas, and you go deliver the ransom money for a piece of jewelry.”

The fear started to show in his eyes. Two veins the size of a highway jumped out of the back of his neck. His arm started swinging like a jackhammer. He was turning into a locomotive without brakes, about to run me over.

I hoped for a miracle.

That miracle had a pair of violet eyes. Liz Taylor appeared on the scene, dressed in a long red camisole and flanked by three children so caked in sand they looked like sugar
doughnuts. She roared into the house like a thunderstorm, barking orders to her children, who leaped around like forlorn little lambs. Richard Burton brought up the rear with the rest of the entourage, a bevy of assistants all carrying baskets, hats, and umbrellas.

Burton saw me. Wearing a big grin, he came over to where we stood. Bobby relaxed, but he didn’t take his eyes off me.

“You in a hurry? You couldn’t wait for me to get back to start knocking them back.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Bobby, get me two glasses of raicilla.”

Bobby didn’t move. Nothing, not a blink. His eyes were still glued to me.

The actor paused, then impatiently moved to pour the drinks himself.

“I’m here because I’ve got some good news,” I told him, raising my glass.

His mouth opened up like a well, and the liquor vanished inside. He slammed the shot glass down on the table, releasing a huge guffaw. He gave me a big bear hug that lifted me up off the ground.

“I knew I could trust you, son. Your kind never fails me. Did you find it?”

He set me back down on the ground and took a seat in one of the chairs. His entourage positioned themselves all around. One of them was Taylor’s ex-husband and the father of two of her children. Taylor continued ordering the children around. Bobby remained stock-still.

“I found it. Not without the help of Bobby La Salle,” I exclaimed. “That’s why I wanted to get here early, so I could thank him in person. Did you hear about the shoot-out?”

“Who hasn’t? You’re already a legend in Puerto Vallarta.”

“That’s where they caught the thieves. Bobby’s description was what led to their arrest.”

Burton turned to his favorite bodyguard. He looked like the proud father of the guy who just made the winning goal. Bobby couldn’t so much as swallow.

“I’d like to ask you a favor, Mr. Burton. I heard about John Huston’s gift, the gold pistols. I’d like to see yours. I’m a big fan of collectible weapons.”

Burton turned to his bodyguard. “Show it to him, Bobby.”

La Salle hesitated, moving one foot only slightly, as if struggling with himself, then he disappeared into another room, glaring at me as he left.

“I gave it to Bobby for safekeeping. There are children in the house. We don’t want any accidents.”

Bobby returned with a fine wood case. He opened it and reluctantly handed it to me. Inside, on a bed of felt, rested a gold-plated .22 pistol. It wasn’t as shiny as I’d hoped, but I couldn’t deny it was interesting. And inside the cylinder were bullets as silver as Taxco’s finest. One was missing. In its place was the shiniest piece of all, a ring with pearls and gems as big as a cluster of grapes. The kind of ring only Elizabeth Taylor would have. In one smooth movement, I set the box down on the bar and took up the pistol. It had a spicy smell…

“Beautiful piece.”

“It’s a twenty-two, only good for killing birds and frightening away thieves,” Burton said disdainfully.

“Don’t you believe it; from a few feet away, it can put a hole in your gut.” I turned to look at Bobby. The fear in his eyes had turned to admiration. He started trembling when I playfully pointed the gun at him.

“That madman Huston thinks it’s a funny joke,” Burton declared. “But to me it was the most idiotic thing he could have done. I’m keeping it as a consolation prize if they don’t give me an award for this film.”

I returned the gun to its case and closed it. I took one step toward Burton, holding out my hand. The ring was in my palm. He didn’t take it. His assistant picked it up with a handkerchief, as if it might be infected.

“I gotta go now,” I said.

“Good work, son,” Burton said, ignoring my outstretched hand. I was no longer a friend, just another member of the film crew. The same old story. I didn’t mind. I just headed for the door. I could feel Bobby breathing down my neck. I opened the front door. Outside, the mango tree was already waiting for me. From the threshold, Bobby called, “What happens now?”

“You go back to your boss; play a game of Ping-Pong. You’re going to have to come up with a good excuse to explain why one of those silver bullets is missing, other than leaving it in the body of some two-bit crook you hired to set up the whole ransom scenario.”

Bobby kept watching me from the other side of the door. “It wasn’t my idea. They asked me to do it.”

“I know, but it was your idea to keep the ring.” I wasn’t letting him off that easy. “You didn’t count on him bringing someone else along, someone who’d take us both on in order to keep the dough for himself. Bad luck; next time you’d better ask your partners in crime for references.”

I took several steps toward my Woody. Bobby ran after. He put one hand on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. He turned me around, took an envelope out of his pocket, and placed it in my hand. It was the cash.

“I killed him in self-defense. They didn’t take the money from me. I hid it in the car before we got to the drop-off. Keep it. I owe you one.”

I smiled. The gorilla wasn’t so dumb after all. With a few more classes, he might even learn to juggle and do tricks. I handed back the money.

“Pay that debt. If there’s any cash left over, drop by my studio in Venice Beach. You can buy me a couple of rounds at Trader Vic’s.”

I climbed into my Woody. A rotten mango dropped onto the hood.

1 PART GIN OR VODKA

3 PARTS GRAPEFRUIT JUICE

SALT

M
ix the gin with the juice in a tall glass with ice and salt around the rim.

A variation on the classic greyhound, the salty dog is a wartime creation, conceived in the Pacific theater, where grapefruit juice was abundant. In the 1950s, it made its debut at various golf tournaments in Palm Springs, offering a refreshing respite after long, eighteen-hole walks in the hot desert sun. Enjoy in the company of Dean Martin and his hit “Everybody Loves Somebody.”

__________________

The case was closed. Elizabeth Taylor’s renowned ring was back with its owner. The gang of lowlifes who made a buck by selling drugs, blackmailing people, and stealing their jewels
was either broken up or its members killed off as scores were settled. They had been the ones running “the Infamous House of Vice” and recruiting girls as prostitutes. Quintero even dared to name Mr. Antsy Underpants as none other than the man responsible for the Lucerna Street murder, a notoriously unsolved slaying in Mexico City. No one believed him.

Though everyone liked the story. Except me. But who was I to talk? I had other fish to fry.

I crossed the set without looking at anyone, not even Ava Gardner, who was once again resting her seductive butt on the hammock by Sue Lyon’s bungalow. Another hit was on the record player, but this time it was “Devil in Disguise.” Elvis Presley singing about a diabolical woman. He was always right.

Several flower arrangements decorated the joint, including some stunning lilies. The loveliest flowers always smell like death. Blondie was on a deck chair reading a novel in French. I didn’t understand the title, but I recognized the author: Anaïs Nin.

“Doggie, you’ve finally come to visit me,” she said, opening her olive-colored eyes.

She was wearing a striped sailor blouse and white shorts, short enough to make a man sweat. She’d pulled back her golden hair with a ribbon that matched the smile clenched around her cigarette, waiting for me to light it. But Blondie was a tough cookie; she wouldn’t wait for long.

A glass with two enormous ice cubes rested beside her. I raised it and took a sip: a salty dog. I wouldn’t have expected any less from her.

“I didn’t want to disturb you. In the end, it worked out okay. Just another bluff by a gang of lousy card players. One thing’s for sure: they should never have tried to play poker with John Huston,” I said by way of a greeting.