Bitter Drink by F.G. Haghenbeck Page A

to explain. “Arrested by the police the other night. Got drunk with
cabrón
Manuel Lepe. We went to ring church bells.”
    “At four in the morning,” Quintero added in an annoyed tone. I tried to contain myself, but the image of that old man playing childish pranks—like peeping at girls in the bathroom or placing a tack on a chair or ringing church bells in the middle of the night—made me laugh out loud.
    I’d met Manuel Lepe on one of my drunken sprees: he was a local
artiste
, a well-known character in town, who’d devotedhimself to painting canvases that looked like gorgeous pipe dreams: infantile drawings of children, little donkeys, birds; everybody grinning and flying around like angels. Heroin doesn’t generally provide such pleasant visions.
    “It’d all be beautiful if it weren’t for the fact that we picked up a stiff,” Quintero told us sadly, like a bad actor on a Mexican soap opera. “In the river, a few feet away from where you were. It was thrown off the bridge and ran aground alongside the highway. Lucky the current was slow.”
    “And does this body have a name?” I asked. Naïveté is the best weapon against cops.
    “Believe it or not, it does. A guy called José Antonio Contreras. From Mexico City. A real luxury model: wanted for murder, robbery, and beating up bunny rabbits on Sundays. Suspected in the infamous killing of Mercedes Cassola and Ycilio Massine, and a known member of gangs run by Carlos Zippo, Giuseppe Bari, and the Nava.”
    “This can’t be for real. You’re making those names up,” I said with a smile.
    “Sure. Just like the stiff.”
    “No big loss. Maybe just some poor brokenhearted soul who jumped off the bridge,” I concluded, trying to wrap up this mess.
    “Sure, the kind of suicide you only find in Mexico—with a bullet in the chest. A little present from one of you, perhaps?” Quintero asked.
    Silence. The street noise had suddenly died. Even the goddamned crickets awaited our answer.
    “It wasn’t us,” I protested, breaking the awful silence. “I was packing my Colt. It didn’t so much as cough.” The crickets started chirping again. “And how did you find out so much about a dead guy in less than an hour?” I added. “Even James Bond would be impressed by the Vallarta police force.” I’ve found that playing the funny guy also helps with cops. Especially when they’re pointing a gun at you.
    “We were already after this dude. His gang specialized in jewel theft. Our snitch said he was working for Bernabé Jurado here in town. With all these tourists, Puerto Vallarta is a thieves’ paradise.”
    He looked us up and down, like three kids getting scolded at recess. And then he must have decided to take pity on us. “Get outta here,” he barked, “before I find a reason to lock you up all week.”
    “No
problemo, soldado
. Though the coffee in jail is better than at the Hotel Rosita,” Billy Joe had to add. That really put Quintero in a bad mood. He cursed a blue streak as he escorted us out to the street.

2–3 OUNCES RUM
    JUICE FROM 1 LIME
    2 TABLESPOONS SUGAR
    2–4 SPEARMINT LEAVES
    2–3 OUNCES SODA WATER
    C rush the mint leaves to release their flavor. Add the sugar and lime juice, and stir until you can smell the mint. Then pour into a highball glass with the rum and ice, and top off with the soda water.
    The mojito made its appearance in the early twentieth century at Mariano Beach, a popular Cuban resort. But the drink didn’t become famous until Angel Martinez opened La Bodeguita del Medio. Ernest Hemingway discovered mojitos in this famous restaurant during his years in Havana, where he continued to live even after the revolution, no doubt so he could keep savoring this delicious concoction. The drink won over other famouspeople like Brigitte Bardot, Pablo Neruda, Nat King Cole, and Errol Flynn, all of whom enjoyed it with “Maracaibo.”
    __________________
    I couldn’t face Kimberly House and Richard Burton just yet. I