Hernán poured martinis into chilled glasses, put them on Memo’s tray. He left the bar and went over to the young men.
“Quibo. Why does it make me so nervous, seeing you two in my bar?”
“Cálmate, viejo. We’ve come to witness two historic events.”
“Two? One must be Tony and the other Beto. What’s with Beto?”
“He’s coming to celebrate with the movie people. He got a part in The Night of the Iguana. Real money. Lana.”
“No me digas! Good for him. So now he’s not just a beach boy. What’s the part?”
“Playing a beach boy!”
“Watch him mess it up. I already know the other event. Tony’s doing it to Ava Gardner.”
“That’s no event. Fíjate. There’s the event!”
A magnificent new Chris Craft sprayed into the harbor, rocking the sunset-lit magenta water. Tony stood and waved, let go of the anchor of La Ava. A small boy in a rowboat went out to get him.
“Híjola. She actually bought it for him?”
“Title’s in his name. She was waiting for him last night, naked in a hammock, had it taped to her tit. Guess what he did first.”
“Went to see the boat.”
The three of them laughed as the beautiful, unsteady Ava came down the stairs, smiling at everyone. She sat alone in a booth, waiting for Tony. Hernán was pleased that although everyone was looking at her and admiring her, nobody bothered her. My customers have manners, he thought.
Hernán went back to the bar, worked quickly to catch up. Pobrecita. She is shy. Lonely. He hummed a tune from a Pedro Infante movie. “Rich people cry too.”
Hernán watched like everyone else when the lovers kissed hello. Flash bulbs flickered like sparklers throughout the room. The Americans all knew her, the whole town loved Tony. He was about nineteen now. He had streaks of blond in his long hair, amber eyes and an angelic smile. He had always worked on the boats unloading, loading, cadging rides, saving money for his own boat, someday, to take tourists water-skiing.
The stories differed. Some people said it happened in a dice game, others said he paid Diego cash to let him take the boats of movie stars to the set in Mismaloya every day. After about three days of his golden eyes gazing into her green ones she started taking boat rides with him on her breaks, until, Tony said, fortune had smiled upon him. Memo said that Tony was the lowest, a gigolo.
“Look at him,” Hernán said. “He’s in love. He won’t hurt her.”
Across the room Luis called out to an older American woman passing by the bar.
“Madam, please join us. I am Luis and this is Victor. Help us celebrate my birthday,” he said.
“Why, I’d love to.” She smiled, surprised. She ordered drinks, paid the waiter with a fistful of bills. She was laughing, pleased by their attention, took out all her purchases to show them.
Luis had grown out of beach-boying. He had a tiny dress shop that was the current rage. He sold colonial paintings and pre-columbian art. No one knew where he got them or who made them. He taught yoga to American women, the same ones who bought all his dresses in every color. It was hard to tell if Luis loved women or hated them. He made them feel good. He got money from all of them one way or another.
Memo asked Hernán if the women paid him to have sex with them. Quién sabe? He suspected that Luis took them out, brought them home and robbed them when they passed out. The women would be too embarrassed to tell. Hernán felt no compassion for the women. They asked for it. Traveling alone, drinking, giving themselves to the first callejeros they met.
Beto came in with Audrey, a hippy girl of about fifteen. Silken blonde hair, the face of a goddess. Newsmen were popping flashes and the blonde actress grew sullen. Audrey moved like honey. She had the blind eyes of a statue.
Victor came up to the bar to talk to someone. Hernán asked him what Audrey was on.
“Seconal, Tuinal, something like that”
“You don’t sell to her, do you?”
“No. Anybody can get sleepers at the pharmacy. They keep her nice and quiet.”
Beto was sitting with the crew. They were toasting him, trying to speak Spanish. He smiled and drank. Beto always wore the stupid expression of someone on a bus that just got woken up.
Sr. Huston motioned to Hernán for a raicilla. Hernán took the drink over himself, curious to know why the director was talking to Audrey so angrily. Sr. Huston thanked Hernán, sent regards to his family. Then he told Hernán that Audrey was the daughter of a dear friend, a great stage actress. Audrey had run away from home last year.
“Imagine how her mother feels. Audrey was younger than both your daughters when she disappeared.”
Audrey pleaded with Sr. Huston not to tell where she was.
“Beto loves me. Finally somebody loves just me. And now Beto has a job. We can get an apartment.”
“What drug are you on?”
“I’m sleepy, you silly. We’re having a baby!”
She rose, kissed the old man. “Please,” she said and went to sit a little behind Beto, singing softly to herself. Sr. Huston stood, stiffly, knocking over his chair. He stood over Beto, began to speak, then shook his head and strode out of the bar. He crossed the street to the malecón, where he sat smoking, looking at the water.
Hernán noticed that the newsmen and women and the movie crew all knew Victor; many stopped to talk with him. Victor went to the men’s room often, before or after an American went in. He was the main marijuana connection in town, and had a few discreet heroin customers. This was different. No one went out afterwards for a stroll down the beach.
Hernán had heard that it had come to Acapulco. Well, now Puerto Vallarta has its own cocaine, he thought.
Sam Newman pulled up in a taxi, waved to Hernán as he went through the courtyard to register and have his bags sent up. He went over to Tony and Ava Gardner, hugged Tony and kissed Ava’s hand. He stopped at tables along his way to the bar, shaking hands, kissing the women he knew, checking out the new ones, who all visibly cheered up. He was a handsome, easy-going American, married to a wealthy older woman who kept him on a loose rein. They lived down the coast in Yelapa. Sam came to town every few weeks for supplies and a rest. Living in paradise wore him out, he said. Grinning, he sat on a bar stool, handed Hernán a bag of Juan Cruz’s coffee.
“Thanks, Sam. Socorro was missing her coffee.” Hernán mixed him a double Bacardi and Tehuacán. “You come over on the Paladín?”
“Yes, unfortunately. Packed with tourists. And John Langley. Guess what he said.”
“We’re all in the same boat.”
“He always says that. He’s got a new one. We passed the movie set and this lady grabbed his arm. ‘Sir, is that Mismaloya?’ Langley removed her hand from his arm and said in that English snob way of his: ‘Mr. Maloya to you, madam.’ So, besides, Tony’s boat, what’s happening?”
Hernán told him about Beto’s movie career and about Audrey being a runaway and pregnant and on drugs. He invited Sam to Amalia’s quinceañera party. Of course Sam would be there, he said. Hernán was pleased.
“Sr. Huston is coming too. He is a great man, a man of dignity.”
“It’s cool that you know that. I mean without knowing that he really is a great man. A famous