Bitter Drink (3 page)

“Sunny Pascal,” Ray Stark said.

“You got it right on the first try. Congratulations,” I replied.

“The security guy?”

“I see today’s your lucky day; that’s two in a row. Maybe my business card was a big help.”

“Sit down. Just let me finish beating this fuckin’ Mick.”

John Huston didn’t say a word; he just smoked his cigarette. Stark moved a piece. Huston ground the butt into the ashtray and grunted.

“Do you drink?” Stark asked, signaling the waiter.

“Only on days that end in a number,” I replied with a smile. “I believe today is one of those…Martini, dry.”

The waiter took off like a shot. For service like that, I could only imagine the size of the tips Huston and Stark must leave those lucky devils.

“John is flying to Mexico tomorrow. The set is almost finished. We had a few problems with the bar concept, but the filming
is
going to revolve around it, despite statements to the contrary made by Mrs. Kerr and Miss Lyon.”

“Sue’s just a kid. She doesn’t know anything,” Huston spat out.

“They wanted a ‘vice-free’ set. But who wants that?”

I took a seat next to Stark just as my martini arrived. The olives were so big, they looked like boiled eggs. I thanked the God of alcoholics that they didn’t taste like them, though. It was a goddamned amazing martini; the kind they only know how to make in Beverly Hills.

“Scott Cherries told us a lot about you,” Stark said.

“Only good things, I hope. The rest is public knowledge.”

“We’ll be down there for about three months,” he continued. “I wanted to film in Acapulco, where the play is set, but
John insisted on Mismaloya. He and his Mexican friend are going to build a hotel down there. After we’re gone, they’ll be able to rent it to tourists. Isn’t that a sweet deal?”

“Better than selling ice cubes to Eskimos.”

“This Irishman managed to snag the best possible cast. But I don’t think they come in trouble-free gift wrap.”

Huston crushed another butt in the ashtray, which suddenly disappeared, a new one materializing in its place courtesy of our attentive waiter.

“We’ve got Richard Burton, fresh from
Cleopatra
, who’ll be traveling with the queen herself, Liz Taylor. They’re already living together, even though the ink on her marriage certificate with Eddie Fisher is barely dry.”

“Didn’t she convert to Judaism for that wedding?”

“Son, here in Hollywood the only religion that matters is the religion of fame. Anything else is just a pretext to skip parties on Sunday or Hanukkah,” Huston growled, taking me by surprise. I’d assumed he hadn’t been listening to our conversation.

“Michael Wilding will be there too. He’s Burton’s agent. He came very well recommended by his ex-wife, Liz Taylor. These Brits are really weird,” Stark concluded as he threw the dice, rolling a double four. “Ava Gardner is flying in from Madrid; she wants to make a comeback. She seems to have grown bored with bullfighters and Deborah Kerr’s ex-husband. She’s in the film too, by the way. The girl’s role will be played by Sue Lyon, who’s about to marry a married man.”

I finished my martini, and another magically appeared before me. This waiter was better than Houdini. Stark continued, “John’s more excited than a kid at Christmas. He loves the idea of making this movie with all these neurotic people. He even had pistols made for them!”

“Beautiful. Did you get them life insurance, too?” I asked, trying to be funny.

“That’s exactly what I meant. If they don’t kill each other, I just might.”

“And where do I come in?”

“You’re supposed to keep that from happening,” Stark said simply.

It was all clear as water. Crystal, one might say.

“I assume Scott spoke to you about my fee: it’s weekly, plus expenses.”

“You’re in. When can you get to Puerto Vallarta?”

“As soon as I receive my first check. Am I supposed to keep nosy reporters from snooping around?”

“
Au contraire
, they’re free publicity. We want them to find out about everything, but we don’t want anybody to end up in the hospital, or worse, a Mexican jail,” Stark said, turning back to the backgammon game.

As I tipped the last drops of my second martini into my mouth, it occurred to me that this might be the last peaceful drink I’d have in several months.

1 PART WHITE TEQUILA

2 PARTS COINTREAU

JUICE FROM 3 LIMES

SALT

1 LIME SLICE

B
lend the tequila, Cointreau, and lime juice in a shaker with ice until chilled. Serve in a wide glass rimmed with salt. Garnish with a slice of lime. Savor with the song “Tequila” by The Champs.

Despite popular misconception, the margarita isn’t an authentically Mexican drink; it was in fact created for or by Americans, depending on which story you believe. Its invention has been attributed to both restaurateur Carlos “Danny” Herrera of Tijuana, who first prepared it for actress Marjorie “Margarita” King, an exclusive tequila drinker; and Margaret Sames, a rich Texan, said to have offered it to guests at her Acapulco home. The invention of this drink significantly boosted the
consumption of tequila around the world. Regardless of its origins, the margarita has become synonymous with fun and relaxation on Mexican beaches.

__________________

Two days later I began my voyage south to my country. My homeland. My shabby suitcase was pathetic. It didn’t even deserve to be called a suitcase: all it contained was two bottles of gin, one of Lolly Pratt, a worn edition of Jack Kerouac’s
On the Road
, a week’s worth of guayabera shirts, a few changes of underwear, a bathing suit, and my Colt. I decided to drag my surfboards along as well.

I drove from Venice Beach to San Diego, parking my Woody outside the marina so I could see the big aircraft carrier docked there. It was enormous. I couldn’t help but whistle, the way you do when you look up at the Empire State Building, or when a wide-hipped, dark-skinned girl walks by in East LA.

My father couldn’t see me, but I knew he was there somewhere, either in the carrier or around town. I silently cursed his name and headed back to the car. Our father-son relationship would drive a shrink crazy. No Oedipal complex or anything like that, just a complex system of misunderstandings.

At the border crossing at Tijuana, the US immigration people didn’t even ask to see my papers. They thought they were finally rid of me. A Mexican guard did ask me if I was carrying any weapons. I didn’t answer, just quietly slid a bill
into his hand. My Colt never showed its face in customs; I wouldn’t want it to catch cold.

It took all afternoon to drive the dusty highways from the border to Tecate, where I drank two beers at a truck stop. The grimy, obese men milling about the place barely registered my existence. I guess my appearance wasn’t worth so much as a second glance.

I drove all night and part of the next day until I reached Hermosillo, keeping myself awake with coffee and shots of tequila. I finally collapsed in a ten-peso-a-night hotel and slept for nearly twenty hours. For five more pesos, I got a big slab of meat for breakfast that I could swear mooed when I cut into it. If I kept this lifestyle up, I wouldn’t be able to charge the production company much for expenses.

By the time I got to Mazatlán, my Woody—an old, rebuilt Packard with wooden panels and just the front seat remaining so I could load knapsacks and surfboards in the back—was overheating. The mechanic from the local repair shop gave it the thoughtful consideration of a wine taster and then said he could fix it. I decided to leave it with him, not because I trusted him but because he had a great photo of Natalie Wood in a bikini on the wall. Besides, what other choice did I have?

I would’ve liked to hit the waves while I waited, but it was September and the weather was bad. Actually, the weather is bad almost year-round in Mazatlán; it’s like the Chicago of the Mexican Pacific. Just to pass the time of day, I walked into an old bar near the seawall. The only other customer was an American tourist.

I ordered a margarita, deciding that would work nicely to shake off the dust from the highway and clear the cobwebs in my head. The bartender prepared it with all the grace of a juggler from Barnum & Bailey. After the first delicious sip, I realized why retired gringos prefer Mexico. It wasn’t the climate; the secret was this drink for little old ladies. One really does find the best cocktails in the oddest places.

I sat on the stool nursing my drink while the bartender listened to zarzuelas and a selection of songs by Agustín Lara on an old record player. Outside, the bad weather had already started ruining the tourists’ vacations, as palm trees bent like umbrellas in a gale.

“Bad day for flying,
soldado
,” the forlorn tourist offered in poor Spanish.

He was an elderly man, his thick beard as white as cotton, the tips of it yellowed from too much smoking. He wore threadbare army-issue shorts and a sleeveless shirt with so many stains you could see what he had for lunch last year.

“Yeah, you don’t have to be a pilot to figure that out.”

“I don’t fly either,
soldado
,” he said.

“I’m too young to have fought in the big one. And the Mexicans only sent one squadron, the 201st. Today they call them heroes.”

“Not in the army? Crap! I’ve lost my touch,” he said, disappointed.

The old man sat down beside me.

He spoke Spanish poorly, mixing it with hard English, like a border whore, and smoked long English cigarettes.
His eyes were as blue as a gynecologist’s robe. His skin was cured like old leather—a tone only gringos can acquire after years in the sun.

“Sorry to disappoint you. I only did military service. I don’t like wars. They say they’re bad for your health.”

“Not necessary to be in a war to fight,
soldado
,” he said.

“My father is a sailor in San Diego,” I offered. “I don’t know if that counts.”

“
Fantástico!
It’s in your blood.” He ordered another drink.

The bartender handed him a tall glass filled with ice, pouring a healthy amount of clear liquid straight from a bottle he’d removed from the cabinet, then topping it off with Jamaica flower water. My liver twisted spasmodically.

“Russian vodka, the best. Sold by Patricio. From Cuba,
sabes
,” the old man explained.

Patricio smiled, showing me the bottle with a trademark juggler’s flourish. It was Stolichnaya: the secret of Cuban-Mexican relations revealed in a Mazatlán cantina, and reason enough for the Mexican Secretariat of the Exterior to exist.

“He just wrecked it with that Jamaica water. But to each his own poison,” I replied.

The old man let loose a loud guffaw. With his big white beard, he reminded me of a dime-store Santa mocking some poor kid who’d asked for something expensive for Christmas. Goddamned Santa,
pinche
Santa.

“
Soldado
, you’re
gracioso
, but no more so than old Billy Joe.”

“That’s easy to see, señor.”

Two dog tags peeked out of the cleft in his shirt. Like the ones the US Army uses for postage stamps on bodies they ship back home.

“So you really are a soldier. Did you mistake Mazatlán for Saigon? They’re easy to tell apart; the whores are better here.”

“Nah, I’m retired now. No more crazy shit,” Billy Joe said softly.

“Yeah,” I said with a grin, “nobody needs that shit. Better to spend your retirement bucks on Mexican beer, no?” Steering the conversation back to safer ground.

“Umm. But you’re no tourist. Right,
soldado
?”

“Nah, I’m a babysitter to the stars. I keep them from peeing their pants and getting a bad rap for it.”

“Mazatlán
muy lejos
from Hollywood.”

“Yeah, but I’m down here to work on a film. It’s gonna be more fun than a carnival. I even bought myself some cotton candy,” I replied wearily.

“Have a good trip to Vallarta,
soldado
,” the old man said, climbing off his barstool and then added, “Bad day for flying.”

He lifted the box of vodka Patricio the juggler had prepared for him and disappeared out the door.

I finished my margarita. The conversation had left me uneasy. It was like leaving for a trip and trying to remember if you left the gas on.