Bitter Drink by F.G. Haghenbeck

for cheap
putas
there. I saw your lights. It’s too cold to be a couple screwing…”
    “I wouldn’t know. Haven’t noticed any this trip,” I replied. My head had finally stopped buzzing. Now it was just pain I felt. “Rescued by an old wise guy. Sergeant Quintero’s gonna love hearing this one.”
    “Billy Joe’s always
listo, soldado
,” he said, getting into his car. “Follow me. Don’t die on the way,
por favor
. I still want
putas baratas
.”
    “You’re the champion jokester, mister,” I replied, my head still aching. I got back into the Cadillac and started the ignition. It took all my concentration not to drive off the road, though before reaching Puerto Vallarta, I did have to stop and throw up, making a terrible mess in the Cadillac. It was all that raicilla I’d drunk with Richard Burton. I was simply returning the favor.

1 PART GIN
    1 PART CAMPARI
    1 PART SWEET VERMOUTH
    1 LEMON TWIST
    S hake the gin, Campari, and vermouth with ice to chill. Strain into a cocktail glass with a few ice cubes, and garnish with the lemon twist.
    The negroni hails from Florence, Italy, and was invented in the early twenties in honor of Count Camillo Negroni, who asked a bartender to add gin instead of soda water to his favorite cocktail, the Americano. The negroni didn’t make its debut in the United States until 1947, however. Here’s a cocktail to whet your appetite while Sammy Davis Jr. sings “The Girl from Ipanema.”
    __________________
    Just as I’d thought, Sergeant Quintero loved my story. In his own reserved way, he was whooping and bouncing off the walls. Very much in his own way: he raised one eyebrow and said in his standard bored tone of voice,
“Mis huevos.”
    Of course, I spiced it up a bit. Like when you inherit a recipe. You add a little something, you take a little something out. And you always season to taste: Bobby La Salle and I were out practicing our aim, using river lizards as targets. That night there must have been a Rotary Club meeting or something, because there were no lizards to shoot. Then a gang of ruffians attacked us. It was highway robbery. It was a miracle I wasn’t killed. I would have been too, if not for the boxer’s courage. While trying to defend me, he took a bullet in the leg. The criminals took off, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Maybe they were late for that Rotary Club meeting. They left us in a sorry state: food for their colleagues, the lizards. Billy Joe had heard the shots and decided to investigate. And that’s how he found us.
    At least I didn’t lie about cheap whores
.
    “Mis huevos,”
Quintero repeated.
    Bobby lowered his head. He had a bandage that made him look like a gift-wrapped coconut. Another bandage covered the wound on his leg. He’d gotten off easy: only five stitches. It had cost me seven on the nape of the neck. They hurt more than the first kick in the nuts you get in grade school.
    Billy Joe smiled, using that Santa Claus expression of his. Goddamned Santa.
    “The
muchacho
tells the truth. Drunk sailors, maybe.” With that, the old man was done. It was like adorning Quintero’s drink with a paper umbrella to see if he’d swallow it whole.
    The old man smoked one of his cigarettes. Quintero, not wanting to be left out, removed a package of cheap, filterless Alas from his ridiculous blue shirt. Between the two of them, they puffed more smoke than a broken-down truck. Bobby Gorilla coughed. I liked the fact that he didn’t smoke; he was a true athlete.
    “Mr. Rogue, it’s been a long time since you gave us any trouble. Do you really want to stick your nose into this and end up with blood on your hands because of this pair of
pendejos
?”
    It surprised me that our friendly local Puerto Vallarta police officer was capable of articulating such a phrase; maybe he had gone to school after all, maybe even junior high.
    “Sergeant, that bells thing was Manuel’s goddamned idea.” I must have looked confused, because Billy Joe turned