Bitter Drink (2 page)

And I was in hell.

Two days earlier they’d found one of those silver bullets in a body so dead not even the flies would land on it. One of the actors had done it. My job was to keep everyone out of jail. Let dead dogs lie.

The roar of a motorboat suddenly shook everyone at the bar out of their inebriated haze for a moment. A glowing Elizabeth Taylor, clad in an eye-catching pink bikini, disembarked. If she was the incarnation of sin, as the Catholic Church seemed to believe, then she was the juiciest piece of flesh since Mary Magdalene.

Richard Burton, still clutching his drink, was clearly aroused by the vision.

“See! Now she’s even dressed like a French tart!” he told the reporter.

The gossip-rag photographers started firing their cameras at the world’s most infamous couple. I finished my martini, enjoying the three-ring circus they’d staged.

The backdrop of the Mismaloya set was truly beautiful from any angle—the mountains, the sea, the deserted beach, all the sunrises and sunsets framed by still-virgin jungle—making the enormous tangle of cables and lights seem even more tawdry. Modernity had certainly overtaken this place, raping it like a vulgar sailor.

The director appeared next to me.

“Keep an eye on them, Sunny. There are more reporters in Puerto Vallarta than iguanas.” He threw his cigar into the tiny, listless waves that lapped at the rocks.

I didn’t say anything. Hardly anybody said anything to John Huston.

1 PART DARK RUM

1 PART LIGHT RUM

½ JIGGER OF BRANDY

1 PART ORANGE AND PAPAYA JUICE

1 PART PINEAPPLE JUICE

TWIST OF LEMON

1 PINEAPPLE SLICE

1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

1 MINT SPRIG

M
ix the rum, brandy, and juice in a shaker or blender with ice. Serve in a tiki glass with a twist of lemon. Garnish with the pineapple, cherry, and fresh mint. Enjoy to the 1963 Ventures’s hit “Let There Be Drums.”

Perhaps the most famous tiki drink, the zombie, was created in the 1930s by California restaurateur Donn Beach in his famous Hollywood establishment, Don the Beachcomber. Beach used
rum, a favorite of alcoholics and sailors, in his cocktails because it was cheap, but by mixing in fruit juice he tamed the rum’s strong favor, making it a more universally popular spirit.

The story goes that Beach first concocted the zombie for a regular customer who had a hangover. Returning to the Beachcomber a few days later, the lucky recipient claimed the drink made him feel like the living dead. Donn’s blends were esteemed by Clark Gable, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Groucho Marx, and Marlon Brando, making him the most famous mixologist in California, and the founding father of tiki culture.

__________________

The Cuban Missile Crisis had gripped the nation less than a year ago, but the world had gone back to normal since, and it almost seemed as if nothing had happened.

“I ordered you a zombie, Sunny,” Scott Cherries announced.

I’d just walked into the Luau Bar in Beverly Hills, and my drink was already waiting; the cherry welcomed me blushingly. In one corner of the bar, one of those new bands that bred like rabbits in California was trying to convince the small, jaded crowd that they were worthwhile by playing a catchy tune called “Surfin’ Bird.”

Scott Cherries was drinking from a ceramic tiki glass, the kind featuring a sphinxlike Hawaiian god or the face of a Tijuana cop, depending on your perspective. Scott flirted with the barmaid, a dark-skinned girl dressed like she was
from the Pacific Islands, though no doubt hailed from some little Mexican pueblo.

Scott and I were born the same year, but he looked older than me. His mileage gave him away: he’s the kind of Republican who has a haircut like Ike’s, and nearly as bowling-ball bald, and wears glasses with ruthless frames and a shirt with stripes like a racetrack.

I took a swig from my glass. The first sip was as refreshing as a splash of ice water. I almost asked for a towel to dry myself off. It wasn’t even five o’clock yet, but it was already too late in the day for a zombie, surf music, and Scott Cherries. Especially Scott.

Scott was one of those new independent producers that Hollywood was hatching almost as fast as surf bands. Since the recent downfall of the major studio empire, anyone with a camera could make a picture it seemed. Scott’s group had truly transformed cinema. Though, sometimes a cheap Roger Corman film was more effective than a couple of Valiums. At least in the drive-in, you could get a little fresh with your girl.

Scott took the movie business very seriously. He knew everything and everyone from Sacramento to Tijuana. He had a knack for public relations, hearty greetings, and cocktails. I stuck with the cocktails.

His angle was book rights: comic books, pulp fiction, even a tome on the life of Duke Kahanamoku, the original, and greatest, surfer. If a director wanted to do a movie on Mighty Mouse, he’d have to go through Scott first. In Movieland that was a flush. Royal, to boot.

Warner had just bought the rights to an old Dr. Seuss story from him. He used the dough to rent an office on Sunset Boulevard and buy a convertible Jaguar. I’d have given my Woody and both kidneys for that car. It’s a real dreamboat. They probably sell it with the blonde included.

“Did you bring the photos?” he asked eagerly. “I hope you kept your mouth shut. It’s sensitive.”

I didn’t argue. No one likes to appear in the papers in a photo taken in the men’s room of a restaurant in Ensenada. Less, when it’s not technically a restaurant, and even less, if the bathroom isn’t exactly a bathroom and the men aren’t altogether men. If you were Rock Hudson, it would be catastrophic. They’d let Doris Day get away with a tryst with some guy in a restroom but not her beau.

“I had to pay more than we’d agreed. Some judicial cops had the photos.”

Hollywood doesn’t like to do business with cops, especially not Mexican ones. That’s why they call me. If they needed to clean up a mess—like paying a bribe in Tijuana, or going to Rosarito because Sal Mineo flirted with a waiter there—call Sunny Pascal.
He’s a beaner, a greaser; he can get his hands dirty.

I hate them.

As if most gringo producers, stars, and politicians didn’t stink worse than a gas-station bathroom.

“Thanks, Sunny. I owe you one,” Scott said. He opened the envelope, careful-like, so no one else would see him. He asked the barmaid for an ashtray, and then burned the evidence right there.

Scott always gave me jobs like these. He knew a guy who knew a guy who knew somebody who could take care of sensitive matters. And that somebody was me. Don’t get me wrong, I was very grateful. It meant I could pay the rent on a nice little apartment in Venice Beach and send some money back home to Puebla. Mamá always told me she didn’t need it, but she never sent it back either.

“I was with a man the other night,” he said, changing the subject. Though, there was no need, he knew I’d never ask about the photos. “Ray Stark,” he said the name like it was as well-known as President Kennedy’s. “He produces Broadway shows. He’s married to Fanny Brice’s daughter.”

“I don’t like the theater,” I told him, taking another swig of the zombie. “I’ve got enough of my own family drama.”

“He made loads of money as a literary agent. A ton of dough. Worked with Raymond Chandler. He told me some stories.”

He gave me that look that only real friends can give, the ones entitled to smack you in the head and call you a jackass.

“Only someone as nuts as you would work as a detective in Hollywood just because you read his stories.”

“I don’t like the detective bit. I prefer ‘personal security.’ It’s on my business card.”

Scott was always laughing at my business cards. Printing the word
detective
on them was too cliché, but working in Hollywood as a detective was a cliché anyway.

Not long after I arrived in California to live with my father, I realized it wasn’t such a hot idea. So I struck out on
my own. I loved the movies, the surf, and a redhead in Culver City and saw no reason to go back to Mexico. The “personal security” bit had been Scott’s idea.

“We ended up talking about you,” he remarked.

“Why? You’re thinking of selling him the rights to my life story?”

“He’s going to start producing movies with outside financing, far from the long arm of the studios,” he continued without hearing a word I’d said. “And it’s gonna be big. He’s hired John Huston to do his first picture. He’s got the rights to a play by Tennessee Williams.”

“And you’re considering me for the main role? That’s sweet of you, but my left profile doesn’t look so great on screen.”

“He’s filming in Mexico. In a beach town. Portal Vallarta.”

“
Puerto
Vallarta,” I corrected him.

The gringos couldn’t care less about butchering Spanish. If Cervantes could hear half the things they say to me, he’d turn as pinko as Nikita Khrushchev. Together, they’d have bombed Washington, DC, Manhattan, and Disneyland by now.

“They want someone who can solve problems if anything should happen. You know, deal with local officials.”

“Why should there be any problems? It’s just a movie.”

Scott ordered another round. He didn’t answer me; he was wearing that smile that only the cartoonists at Warner Brothers can reproduce. The one Sylvester the Cat sports when he thinks he’s caught Tweety.

“Are you in? It’s easy money. They’re filming at this great spot; you can have a few margaritas, get in some surfing, and shack up with a local girl.”

He still hadn’t answered my question. Sylvester was written all over his face.

“Good money?” I asked.

“More than what you’d get from me, shoveling the manure of two-bit stars south of the border.”

The rum had done its job. Sylvester the Cat was looking pretty good after all.

2½ OUNCES KENTUCKY BOURBON

4–10 MINT LEAVES

1 TEASPOON SUGAR

1 PART MINERAL WATER

R
oughly chop the mint leaves to release their flavor, and combine with the bourbon. Add the sugar and mineral water. Serve in a short wide glass.

The venerable mint julep is the drink par excellence of the South and certainly without which no Kentucky Derby would be complete. Historians believe it first made its appearance as long ago as the eighteenth century and describe it as a fortifying drink of the well-to-do colonies in North America: “A refreshing cocktail for the little ladies and gentlemen of society, who enjoy it in the morning when vigor is what they seek.”

The mint julep was possibly derived from an Arabian drink called julab, which featured rose petals. The North American variety uses the less pretentious mint leaf. In the beginning, it
was prepared with whiskey or any other liquor on hand. But with the rise of the Southern distillery trade, using Kentucky bourbon became standard. The mint julep became as emblematic of Dixie as cotton plantations, Scarlett O’Hara, and General Lee. Enjoy it on a balmy afternoon on the veranda while listening to Elvis’s rendition of “Look Away, Dixieland.”

__________________

The job interview wasn’t held in any of the producers’ offices but at a table at the Beverly Hills Hotel restaurant. No secretaries were there to greet me, just a waiter who smiled like a toothpaste model. I’d made an exception regarding my standard-issue guayabera today. Instead, I wore a black suit, a starched white shirt, and a thin tie like the kind Steve McQueen preferred. But I hadn’t shaved. I didn’t want to look like I wanted the job that bad.

Ray Stark and John Huston were absorbed in a backgammon game when I approached the table. They drank mint juleps, like Southern plantation owners. I stood in front of them with my hands in my pockets, still wearing my dark sunglasses. The Los Angeles sun is harder than acid on the eyes, evidenced by the devastating toll it had taken on the judgment of the city’s hottest fashion designers, apparently.