Bitter Drink (5 page)

“Mexican modernity.”

“Thanks for the drink,” he said, standing up. “I’ve got to finish delivering scripts.”

“If you see or hear anything, I’ll be around.”

“Count on me, but be careful, macho man, aluminum bends both ways.”

I caught sight of a swift boat that had just reached the dock of the set. Several elegant people disembarked, all wearing dark glasses and expensive clothes. Two faces were of particular interest, the others, their assistants, were recyclable.

Liz Taylor wore a cotton robe that stuck to her perspiring body, and Richard Burton had completely unbuttoned his shirt against the oppressive heat. Behind them a retinue followed like a royal procession. They were accompanied by, among others, their agents Hugh French and Michael Wilding, Taylor’s first husband, now reduced to picking up after the horses in the parade.

A man just a hair smaller than a concession stand stopped at the foot of the stairs, his hands at his waist. He wore a guayabera that could have doubled as an awning, and sported a red bandana knotted at his neck and a pair of yellow snakeskin boots, as flashy as two neon signs. His straw hat was bigger than an umbrella, and his face was as wrinkled and cured as barbecued meat. If not for the mustache, you could eat it in a taco.

This was unmistakably the famous Emilio Fernández, better known as “El Indio.” Movie director, actor, typical Indian-Mexican character. Typical like pyramids, typical like tequila.

He gave a shout, opening his enormous arms wide to embrace Elizabeth Taylor. After he released the poor thing, you could have swept her up in a dustpan and thrown her into the nearest wastebasket.

“Come with me, Liz! All of you: follow El Indio. You’ll be all right if you stick with El Indio,” he announced.

Emilio Fernández took out a .45 bigger than a Nazi howitzer and aimed it at Richard Burton’s chest. Even from my perch I could tell that Burton cursed under his breath, no doubt in Welsh, and foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog.

The sight of the gun sent a wave of adrenaline through me. A wave I couldn’t surf, one that broke right in my face. And I jumped down from the bar stool and barreled toward the group, my Colt drawn.

Fernández, pistol in hand, continued pawing Taylor as if she were a piece of fruit at the market, as my right fist found El Indio’s jaw.

He dropped the actress, though my blow didn’t seem to affect him any more than that. He didn’t budge, not one inch. That was typical too, like the pyramids.

My Colt looked like a toy gun against the mass of this man. His two eyebrows joined in the middle to form a ferocious, King Kong expression. I didn’t relish the idea of being perforated by a .45. Those cannons cause wounds that don’t even hurt—because you’re too dead to feel them.

There was no shot, just a fist the size of a medieval battering ram right between my eyes.

Then a slow fade to black. I’d won myself an intermission.

1 PART DARK RUM

1 PART LIGHT RUM

1 PART ORANGE JUICE

1 PART MARACUYÁ JUICE

1 PART PINEAPPLE JUICE

1 PART SWEETENER

1 PART GRENADINE

DASH OF LIME JUICE

1 ORANGE SLICE

1 MARASCHINO CHERRY

M
ix all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker or blender. Serve in a high hurricane glass shaped like a lamp. Garnish with the cherry and orange slice.

The hurricane was invented during World War II in Pat O’Brien’s Bar in New Orleans. A creative barman decided to serve the cocktail in a hurricane lamp from a big candelabra,
the kind typically found in those parts, thus giving the drink its evocative name. The bar is still open today, boasting the one and only original recipe for this drink emblematic of the Big Easy. Enjoy on a warm night to the sounds of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

__________________

The lights came back on in my head. And as I opened my eyes, the glow was so intense I couldn’t stand it.

“Turn off the spotlight,” I cried.

“Sorry, the sun has a contract to be here for another six hours,” a female voice replied, brightly. She had the kind of voice that comes wrapped in a nice package. A diva’s voice, I concluded.

“So give him a big tip and maybe he’ll go away.”

I focused front and center. Not bad, not bad at all. She was blonde, the kind of blonde that’d make all the other blondes feel inadequate. Big green eyes, a dreamy expression. Lips like a ripe peach. Anything you asked for, whatever you wanted, she had it.

The beautiful face holding an unlit Camel between its lips came into focus. “Welcome to the world of the living. Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“Two tequilas. One for my mouth, the other for my cheek.”

I was lying down on an
equipal
, as life on the set went on around me. Nobody cared that I’d checked out for a while. Everyone was continuing business as usual, except for the
beautiful blonde and a smiling Gorman who was covering his mouth with a pink handkerchief.

“What happened to Miss Taylor?” I asked.

“She’s having a drink with Mr. Fernández,” Gorman answered, pointing toward the bar.

Around a table, the Indian bellowed with laughter alongside Richard Burton, Liz Taylor, and John Huston.

There I was stretched out on a sofa, my cheek so hot you could fry an egg on it. Some security guy I’d turned out to be.

“You kept him from squeezing her like a tube of toothpaste. You’re a hero,” Gorman exclaimed.

“What the fuck is El Indio Fernández doing here, anyway?” I grunted, touching my cheek. It felt as big as Texas.

“He’s the associate producer.”

“It would have been safer to form an association with Hitler. He wouldn’t have packed a cannon instead of a pistol,” I said, sitting up. The ground spun in circles, like when you get tossed by a wave, or a Tijuana cop demonstrates his boxing technique on your face.

“You’re a tough nut to crack,” the blonde said as she lit her Camel with a Zippo that screeched louder than a mattress in a cheap motel. “Maybe you ought to think about changing jobs. Yours is a pretty dangerous one. Taming lions or skydiving would be better.”

“Someone has to do it, and some days I get to meet beautiful women. I met my quota today.” Even playing the tough guy hurt.

“I can see you’re feeling better. The smart-ass in you is back already.” She exhaled a puff of smoke into my face.

It tasted oddly wonderful, carrying a hint of her perfume.

“Maybe a massage would set me right.”

“Don’t push it,” she said, rising to her feet and sending me an air kiss. “If I’m ever in trouble, I already know which dog will come to my aid.”

“Watch out for that dog; he bites.”

“I’ll be careful, bloodhound,” she said sweetly as she walked away. Her white cotton dress showed off the silhouette of her shapely legs underneath like a bar lamp. A bar lamp from a real fancy joint.

Fernández glanced at me. He was still laughing when he got to his feet. He put on his enormous umbrella hat, the shadow it cast darkening his skin even more, and crossed the sun-drenched patio to where I lay.

“You’re a Pascal,
pendejo
?” he exclaimed, spraying saliva. “Yep. Your father’s that sonofabitch
cabrón
Captain Pascal?”

“He’s a commander now, sir,” I replied, cringing at the weakness in my voice, but all the toughness had drained out of me as soon as that fist crossed my face.

“Well, if you’re that bastard’s son, come,
bébete un tequila
with me.”

He grabbed my shoulder and lifted me up like a wooden ventriloquist’s dummy. Oh, to be made out of wood right now would be a blessing, I thought. My shoulder ached. Everything ached.

“Your father is a real asshole. I met him in Santa Barbara when I was working for the gringos.”

“Nice to meet you,” I replied, unable to come up with anything intelligent to say to him.

With another affectionate slap on the back that almost cost me a lung, he asked, “Did he tell you why I was dabbling in the movies?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “That
hijo de puta
assassin Huerta exiled me.

“How ’bout that, Pascal? That asshole motherfucker thought El Indio was a troublemaker. So I threw my hat in with the gringos. Fucking around with cinema. That’s where I met that
cabrón
father of yours. We’d go to the fairgrounds and pick up
muchachas
. He used to knock up Mexican girls who worked picking oranges.”

“We don’t talk much,” I offered. “But I guess you know he was stationed in the Pacific.”

“That bastard only got more tail: Japanese. I bet you’ve got a yellow sister,
mijo
,” he cried, releasing his bellowing laugh.

Everyone around us echoed him. No one followed the joke, but they got the gist. They didn’t want to end up like me, ground beef. I’ve always prided myself on setting a good example.

“Send him my regards,
muchacho
. You all right?”

“I’m just fine. It only hurts when I breathe.”

“Wise guy,
chistoso
,” he said, and pulled me over to the bar.

“Don’t drag me, sir. I think I can manage on my own. I think I can even go to the bathroom without spraying.”

“Real funny, just like your old man.”

Two shot glasses of tequila were already waiting for us at the bar. He lifted one up to my mouth, the other to his own.

“If I’d known you were a Pascal, I would have punched you again, to knock
lo pendejo
out of you.”

He tipped the glass back in his mouth and started roaring with laughter again. His chorus of ass-kissers followed suit.

“So that bastard Stark hired you to take care of us? What a joke,
pinche chiste
.”

I tipped my glass back, the liquid gold sliding down my throat. “I’m sure you’ll find it amusing, too, when I ask you to hand over that pistol.”

The laugh track disappeared like magic. In the blink of an eye, we were alone and absolute silence fell. Even the birds stopped singing. They’d probably shat themselves in fear.

El Indio Fernández didn’t move a muscle, not a single inch of his body stirred. Nothing. He was as cold as a statue of Benito Juárez in a municipal park.

“You can’t take it away from me,
hijo
. It’s my virility.
Mis huevos
. It would be like cutting off Samson’s hair, like cutting off my balls,” he said slowly.

“Let’s make a deal then,” I replied, taking advantage of the liquid courage I’d just ingested. “I have to do my job. I don’t like it. It’s a bitch having to babysit these gringos. You know they can’t drink more than two tequilas without making a scene. But out of friendship to my father, you could give me a hand. I need to make them believe that no one is going to get
hurt out here. Keep the revolver and just give me the bullets. I’ll take care of them so they don’t catch cold or anything. If they start crying, I’ll give them back to you.”

Given the disastrous outcome of the fight, I had opted for diplomacy instead. Sometimes it worked. Not always. If you don’t believe me, ask Kennedy.

I closed my eyes and waited for the next blow. I suspected that it might hurt less this time. Not because of the impact, but because I already knew what to expect.

Nothing happened.

“Only because you’re Pascal’s son,
cabrón
.” He downed another shot of tequila and unloaded his gun. He slammed the bullets down on the bar. Then El Indio Fernández shrugged his shoulders, gave me a pat on the back that knocked the air out of me, and went back to his guests.

I was reaching for the bullets when John Huston appeared next to me.

“Emilio’s only weakness is shooting people he doesn’t like. For instance, his last producer,” he grunted. “You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you. That means he likes you. I’m sure he’ll settle his dispute with you some other way.”

Not the most reassuring words. Huston returned to his actors, and I was alone for a while. I could see in the jungle, beyond the thatched roof where my princess charming had awakened me, a group of Indians watching me with the same expression they’d no doubt had when they used to watch the Spaniards. You could see the question in their eyes: “What the fuck are you doing here?”

They had been relegated to manual labor on the set, these former owners, dispossessed of their lands to benefit the million-dollar movie industry and this film that might win a couple of Oscars. But not best picture, like Gorman said.