Read Online Bitter Drink by F.G. Haghenbeck - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: F.G. Haghenbeck
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the 1917 Revolution. It isn’t a Russian cocktail, but it is prepared with vodka. The Black Russian came first in the 1940s, and with the addition of cream sometime later became “white” and sweeter, and a particular hit with the ladies. Mix one up and turn on the sweet sounds of Eartha Kitt singing “C’est Si Bon” to the accompaniment of Henri René’s orchestra.
__________________
The next day there was nothing more for me to do on the set. I went back to the hotel to get some shut-eye. With a little luck, my encounter with Sue and her hotheaded boyfriend would turn out to have been no more than a bad dream.
Two heavy knocks on the door woke me from my slumber. They must have been fairly hard, as up to now I’d been able to sleep right through the church bells next to my hotel. Coming to consciousness, I realized I’d fallen asleep in my street clothes and an empty bottle of gin was lying beside me. I would have preferred Blondie.
Again the pounding echoed in my ears like war drums. This time I was sure it could be heard all the way to China. Mao was probably wondering what in the hell was so urgent, too.
I stumbled toward the door. “Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see you,” a voice said in clumsy English, as rough as a Harlem garbage dump.
Standing before me was the largest man I’d ever seen. On his neck he carried something vaguely similar to a head. Big face, snub nose so broad it looked like the prow on a cruise ship, and eyes ridiculously small in comparison with his long, almost girlish eyelashes. His chest was enormous, like a Sherman tank, and I was sure his knuckles touched the floor. He wore a tight sport shirt, short pants, and tennis shoes that made him look like an orangutan outfitted for Wimbledon. Only the orangutan would have been better looking. His hand, so broad I could have pulled up and sat down on it,grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me out of the room in one swift motion.
“Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see you,” he repeated in the same tone.
“I heard you already. Got any other sentences? Or did your record get scratched?” I answered. My feet were dangling several inches above the floor by this point, but my question must have thrown him off, because he dropped me. I took advantage of the opportunity and stepped quickly back inside the room.
“Are you Sunny Pascal?” he growled.
“Only when it suits me.”
This time he was thoughtful, not knowing what to do.
I was starting to like our little exchange. It gave me enough time to clean myself up while the big ape reflected on his bananas. A final look in the mirror assured me that I was presentable enough for an audience with the famous couple and headed back over to King Kong.
“You said it.”
“What did I say?” he asked me, scratching his head.
“Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see me. After you.”
For the first time, he saw the light and gave me a goofy grin that was short one tooth. I couldn’t help thinking he looked like a fat kid who’d just been given a piece of candy.
This fat kid had one nice ride, I’ll give him that. A beautiful Cadillac convertible waited outside the Rio Hotel. I barely managed to get in before King Kong took off like a madman,hitting every pothole in Vallarta. Two dogs and a donkey almost met their maker as we careened up the vertiginous streets. At least they would have died with class: this was one exquisite car.
We reached a cobblestoned street in the upper part of town. The river ran along one side, murmuring peacefully. King Kong parked the car across from an enormous white facade with ashlar masonry. The entrance was protected by a huge mango tree brimming with fruit just waiting to drop on unwary pedestrians. A few mangos lay smashed on the ground, and the sickly sweet odor of fermented fruit crept into my nostrils.
An elegantly lettered sign made of ceramic tiles read “Kimberly House.”
King Kong placed his hand on my shoulder and propelled me
__________________
The next day there was nothing more for me to do on the set. I went back to the hotel to get some shut-eye. With a little luck, my encounter with Sue and her hotheaded boyfriend would turn out to have been no more than a bad dream.
Two heavy knocks on the door woke me from my slumber. They must have been fairly hard, as up to now I’d been able to sleep right through the church bells next to my hotel. Coming to consciousness, I realized I’d fallen asleep in my street clothes and an empty bottle of gin was lying beside me. I would have preferred Blondie.
Again the pounding echoed in my ears like war drums. This time I was sure it could be heard all the way to China. Mao was probably wondering what in the hell was so urgent, too.
I stumbled toward the door. “Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see you,” a voice said in clumsy English, as rough as a Harlem garbage dump.
Standing before me was the largest man I’d ever seen. On his neck he carried something vaguely similar to a head. Big face, snub nose so broad it looked like the prow on a cruise ship, and eyes ridiculously small in comparison with his long, almost girlish eyelashes. His chest was enormous, like a Sherman tank, and I was sure his knuckles touched the floor. He wore a tight sport shirt, short pants, and tennis shoes that made him look like an orangutan outfitted for Wimbledon. Only the orangutan would have been better looking. His hand, so broad I could have pulled up and sat down on it,grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me out of the room in one swift motion.
“Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see you,” he repeated in the same tone.
“I heard you already. Got any other sentences? Or did your record get scratched?” I answered. My feet were dangling several inches above the floor by this point, but my question must have thrown him off, because he dropped me. I took advantage of the opportunity and stepped quickly back inside the room.
“Are you Sunny Pascal?” he growled.
“Only when it suits me.”
This time he was thoughtful, not knowing what to do.
I was starting to like our little exchange. It gave me enough time to clean myself up while the big ape reflected on his bananas. A final look in the mirror assured me that I was presentable enough for an audience with the famous couple and headed back over to King Kong.
“You said it.”
“What did I say?” he asked me, scratching his head.
“Mr. Burton and Miss Taylor wanna see me. After you.”
For the first time, he saw the light and gave me a goofy grin that was short one tooth. I couldn’t help thinking he looked like a fat kid who’d just been given a piece of candy.
This fat kid had one nice ride, I’ll give him that. A beautiful Cadillac convertible waited outside the Rio Hotel. I barely managed to get in before King Kong took off like a madman,hitting every pothole in Vallarta. Two dogs and a donkey almost met their maker as we careened up the vertiginous streets. At least they would have died with class: this was one exquisite car.
We reached a cobblestoned street in the upper part of town. The river ran along one side, murmuring peacefully. King Kong parked the car across from an enormous white facade with ashlar masonry. The entrance was protected by a huge mango tree brimming with fruit just waiting to drop on unwary pedestrians. A few mangos lay smashed on the ground, and the sickly sweet odor of fermented fruit crept into my nostrils.
An elegantly lettered sign made of ceramic tiles read “Kimberly House.”
King Kong placed his hand on my shoulder and propelled me
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