CHAPTER 1
Tragedy in Dubai, Poppy’s Return to Mexico
Puerto Vallarta International Airport
12:40 AM
Puerto Vallarta
had not experienced a violent, tropical storm like this one since 2002 when the
ocean surged into hotel lobbies on the Malecon.
The Gulfstream
550G made a third failed attempt to land, as a fierce crosswind hammered the
aircraft. Nose up, its silver skin sequined in dancing rain, it climbed out of
the turbulence and banked around the sheer face of the Sierra Madre Mountains.
The lone passenger sat in the opulent cabin staring out into the black abyss,
seeing not dangerous weather, but the sudden, dark turn of her life.
Just as the
tower prepared to abort the landing a break in weather brought the plane down
safely, taxing away from the terminal to the far corner of the tarmac where the
black Hummer waited. From her window Poppy recognized the tall, thin man,
silhouetted in the wet glare of the high beams. He stood erect under a black
umbrella that threatened to collapse in the gusting wind. Parked to his left,
in the shadow of a windowless hangar, was a silver SUV.
The aircraft door
swung open to the sultry perfume of the tropics startling Poppy’s sleeping
memories, the ones left behind a decade earlier when a life of splendor
whispered her name. But this wasn’t the hour for looking back. She must pay
close attention to what waited in the driving rain. Rising to leave, she felt
the stabbing effects of the tragedy which had brought her here from the other
side of the world.
The flight crew
awkwardly assembled for their passenger’s departure. In a few minutes they
would refuel and depart. Scattered thoughts played in the recesses of Poppy’s
mind as she walked to the front of the cabin; the countless trips shared,
circling the globe, sampling food, drink and exotic cultures. More than
employees the crew had become friends. Their lives, like hers, had been
consumed by one man’s power, money, and daring adventures.
A haggard Captain Dougherty stood next to Evan, his
co-pilot. At the open door was Michelle, the flight attendant. “I just want to
say that John was, well... that,” The captain’s stammer trailed off into a
whisper. “If there’s anything I can do…”
Poppy noticed
shock and disbelief etched on their faces. “It’s out of our hands now, Frank.”
She struggled to express so much more but the words were locked away. “Thank
you,” she added, and then simply walked down the stairs and out of their lives.
The man,
patiently waiting on the wet tarmac, held the umbrella as Poppy descended. She
placed her hand in his and felt the reassuring grip of her Godfather, Demetrio
Mendoza.
“Bienvenida a
casa a la Princesa,” he said as if their separation had been 10 days, and
not 10 years. He offered his arm tilting the umbrella to her favor and motioned
toward the mystery vehicle where two men stood watching.
“My apology, but
you must relinquish your passports now.” He saw the dark circles that dimmed
the youthful face he remembered.
“Nobody said
anything about that. Why?”
Demetrio nodded
toward the strangers. “The United States and Dubai have requested it until they
prepare an investigation. It’s…” He shook his head at the foibles of mankind.
“Fear insights over reaction,” he added, thinking it unnecessary to reveal the
confiscation of her passports had been more than a request.
Poppy reached
into her leather brief and extracted the documents. He handed off the umbrella.
“Remain here. I will take care of this.” He gently caressed her cheek. “And
then I will take you home.”
He walked to the
Mexican Immigration Officers and surrendered the evidence of her privileged
life. Both men looked beyond him, to Poppy, while examining the photos and
official stamps. With solemn authority, one of them announced that Poppy
Duprey, being a Mexican citizen, should anticipate an indefinite delay in the
return of her documents.
The shorter of
the two, a mestizo, reeking of cologne, with a large, government emblem on his
baseball hat, added with a hint of arrogance, “We will tell Señorita Duprey
ourselves so there is no misunderstanding.”
Demetrio sensed
their male curiosity about the tall, young woman; the kind of woman, men like
these only dream about. They knew that she was the famous image of Night of the
Iguana Tequila, a taste so exquisite and expensive that it would never touch
their lips. They could make out the silhouette of the ‘Goddess of the Nectar’,
the famous, long legs that appeared in glossy ads along with yachts and villas.
Tonight, these uniforms were in the presence of the emerald green eyes, a few
feet away on the slick tarmac. Rich, famous, and powerful men sipped Night of
the Iguana Tequila and had their way with a woman like that, while these
Latinos, standing in the wet wind, had to settle for being the minor authority
dispatched to confiscate Señorita Duprey’s important papers. Men chosen to
declare, in a menacing tone, that she was no longer on top of the world and the
mistress of a billionaire gringo. Now, she was just a puta mestizo after all.
It had been
cleared with a higher command that Señorita Duprey should not be exposed to any
inconvenience, but Demetrio figured these guys could push their miniscule power
beyond its limits. Hombres like these, with government insignias and automatic
weapons, bathed in cheap cologne, accrued cantina collateral, free beer from
their mano y mano amigos, in exchange for their bloated stories;
testosterone-laced tales about how they forced the famous Tequila Goddess to
suck their dicks on the tarmac because she showed them disrespect, and they had
to show who was boss now, remind her that she was not in Paris or New York
City, but back home in Mexico where bitches know their place. Yes, Demetrio
knew their game and responded with a courteous smile, masking his disdain.
“I assure you,
there will be no misunderstanding if you will allow me.” And then Demetrio
added, “Señor Rodriquez is a respected friend. I would do nothing to embarrass
him.” Rodriquez was their boss and the mention of his name was all it took.
The shorter of
the two men shifted his weight one foot to the other while his compadre closed
his eyes with the orgasmic pleasure of decision-making. Together they peered
once more over Demetrio’s shoulder at the female. “No hay problema. Just so there
is no misunderstanding.”
Demetrio thanked
them, returned to the Hummer and buckled Poppy safely into the passenger’s
seat. Driving away he checked the rear view mirror to see the men still
watching. Except for the meditative slap of the windshield wipers, he allowed
silence to cushion their ride. Unfortunately, the tragedy responsible for
Poppy’s return was only a part of what was unfolding. Demetrio, with a heavy heart,
glanced over at his passenger who barely resembled the young girl he
remembered.
Loretta Duprey,
tented in the sweet smoke of a cohiba cigar, waited for her daughter on the
covered veranda of Hacienda Iguana. “Que hora es?”
The Mexican
woman, sitting on the far end of the massive table, looked beyond the hurricane
candles, through the doorway to the ancient clock. “Two thirty five,” came her
answer in Spanish.
“I’ll have
another.” Loretta slid the slender glass caballito,’ etched with
the Night of the Iguana logo, to Angelina, her longtime friend and housekeeper,
who lifted the exquisite bottle and poured for them both.
“You think
Demetrio ran into trouble?” Loretta squinted into the black hole where rain
fell. “My baby girl doesn’t need any more of that.” She knocked back the
tequila and tucked a strand of waist long hair behind the silver iguanas
dangling from her pierced ears. The women sat listening to the swollen river
swirl toward the open sea while the flames flickered in the open fireplace and the
silver lizards shimmied with Loretta’s impatience. “I sure as hell hope he
didn’t run into trouble,” she repeated.
“Demetrio is
friends with trouble,” Angelina said as she picked up her tequila with a
well-worn hand. “He knows. Don’t worry.”
After all the
years Loretta had lived in Mismaloya, Mexico she still marveled at the simple
remedy Mexicans had for their problems. ‘He knows’ meant, ‘leave it to God.’
Until recently, Loretta hadn’t personally given God much thought, although now
she realized what a brilliant antidote ‘He’ was for a hard, Mexican life.
Suddenly the
familiar sound of the Hummer caught their attention as it pitched and rocked on
a ribbon of mud through the sentinel of palm trees. Angelina stood and peered
into the dark morning. “Alli, she comes!”
Loretta rose up,
tequila in one hand and the thin cigar in the other. “If I cry kick me in the
ass, Angelina.”
Angelina’s eyes
glistened in tears. “This is a happy time. God’s will...”
“Oh, Christ
Almighty!” Loretta interrupted. “Don’t give me any more of that. Just kick me
in the ass.” With that she stepped down on bare feet, feeling the sting of rain
and tears, and then the thought of him swept over her. John Madison, the man
responsible for Poppy leaving, and now for her sudden return, was blown to
smithereens. Without warning, a man like no other, had stepped across the
threshold of her life changing everything. Now he was gone and the hour was
late, maybe too late.
The Iguana
Compound gates yawned wide to her daughter’s return, and for the first time in
her unapologetic life Loretta stood on the precipice of raw fear.
CHAPTER 2
John ‘Mad Man’ Madison
72 hours earlier Poppy had
been sitting next to John Madison in Dubai. They were celebrating a crazy idea
that had morphed into an extravagant sale. Insane ideas that made fortunes were
John’s extraordinary gift.
A bottle of their Night of the
Iguana, Añejo Tequila opened the Dubai Auction high, and from there the bidding
rose to a feverish pitch until the gavel closed on the shocking bid of 280,000
Euro, from a Rio de Janeiro billionaire.
The first celebratory toast
was to Loretta Duprey, Poppy’s mother, the hard driving jefa of the Iguana Distillery,
without whom the most exquisite tequila
in the world would have been just another of John’s high flying schemes. But,
Loretta Duprey was as crazy as he was, with an insatiable appetite for the
impossible; challenges that might, just might turn out lucky. Yes indeed,
Loretta Duprey knew all the steps to that hat dance!
When Time Magazine chose John
Madison as Man of the Year, and inquired how he had accomplished what the
medical establishment deemed impossible, his answer was as organic as the heart
pump he had invented. “To me,” he shrugged, “impossible is impossible.”
Before his
meteoric rise, John had earned his nickname and reputation; Mad Man Madison.
Disillusioned early on he had dropped out of John Hopkins after writing a
dissertation slamming the medical community for its servitude to the insurance
industry. He self-published his blistering opinions and badgered the media
until his diatribes appeared above the fold in major newspapers. The public was
awed by his ‘no guts, no glory’ charisma. On the cusp of his new found
celebrity John stuffed a backpack with books and globe trotted for five years
while the seedling of an organic, heart
pump germinated in his fertile mind. He climbed in Peru, swam in Fiji, and
studied the diet of the Jaguar People in the Amazon.
By the time John met Loretta
Duprey in Mismaloya, Mexico he was a middle-aged billionaire: famous, estranged
from his family; a son, a daughter, and a French wife, all living in Paris.
The serendipitous meeting of
Loretta Duprey and John Madison had been powdered in magic fairy dust, the
heavenly confetti that floats down upon the certifiably bold and crazy.
CHAPTER 3
Where’s The Girl We Knew?
Poppy
awakened under a mosquito net wondering how long she could lie motionless under
the silent rotation of the ceiling fan until reality hunted her down. It felt
like she was in a free fall waiting for the splat. She barely remembered
arriving at the hacienda or her mother’s embrace and Angelina’s kiss in the
warm rain. They had guided her, like a wounded patient, to this enormous bed
where the scent of line-dried sheets separated her from herself until crowing
roosters and the sound of the surging river, beckoned.
She gazed around the room to
the towering, mahogany-framed windows, to the sunlight on the polished,
terracotta floors, to the bold tapestries and art mounted on white adobe walls.
It was her first time to see
all this. Ground had just been broken for the Iguana Hacienda when she left for
New York a decade earlier. She and her mother were still living in the camper,
with bottle cap curtains when Poppy went off to become the image of Night of
the Iguana, the Goddess of the Nectar. The whole idea had made her laugh, as
she was no Goddess, but a sixteen year old with long, skinny legs, and too much
attitude for a mestizo girl. Had she known then the grand scale of what was to
come, and of places like New York, Rome, and Monte Carlo, the cocky, immature
tomboy would have scampered into the jungle to hide until opportunity left
town.
Loretta had forged a life for
herself and Poppy before John Madison placed destiny on their doorstep with a
wild proposition to join him in creating tequila so expensive and exquisite
that few could afford the pleasure of its company. Back then, Loretta, a gringa from Kentucky, was making
backyard tequila, called raicilla. Nowhere close to what the tall
and lanky Madison envisioned. Yet, his was the kind of impossible dare Loretta
craved. Perhaps, Poppy thought, had the fine print of the Duprey future been
clearly written, her mother would have passed on Señor Madison’s offer.
The longer Poppy lie there
absorbing the personality of the bedroom; the vibrant colors and natural river
rock, the Mayan art mixed with a rustic provincial weave in the wall hangings,
she recognized her mother’s beauty and defiance in every inch. Her mother, a
force of nature if ever there was one!
CHAPTER 4
Loretta Duprey
Loretta Duprey was the third
of seven, skinny children, born to Kentucky moonshiner, Violet Duprey and a
Pentecostal preaching, good for nothing, common law bastard, named Jimmy
Perkins.
Loretta knew from the moment
thoughts first whistled through her head that she had to get the hell out of
the two-room cabin that leaned north on
a dirt road where sickly chickens and sad eyed mutts foraged. A terrible,
cosmic mistake had somehow wedged her into a pile of snotty nosed siblings for
whom she had no allegiance.
Early on Violet noticed that
Loretta had a sharp tongue and an eye for business. By the age of nine she was
selling her mother’s cataract inducing liquor on their warped porch with a fly
swatter and a pitcher of Kool-Aid her only ammo against the sweltering, summer
heat. Come winter, business moved inside, along with a cardboard box of newborn
chicks to protect from hungry raccoons and the brutal cold.
Business was brisk year round
leaving little time for Violet to perform her meager maternal instincts.
Loretta, with her siblings, survived on soda pop, canned Spam and soda
crackers. She rarely attended school and never wore shoes or underpants. She
was wild and free to do as she pleased. Unbridled behavior branded her life
along with sass and a strut to navigate the briar patch she had been thrown
into.
People, who didn’t have enough to think about, predicted that her
snappy turtle mouth would get her into a mess of trouble. No one was spared
Loretta’s rants against being squirted out into such a god-forsaken gravel pit
as Mayville, Kentucky.
“I’m gonna be rich and
famous,” she pledged to one and all.
People from places like
Mayville didn’t know jack about how the world worked, but Loretta believed,
with every bone in her body, that if she could just get to Hollywood the story
of her putrid life would rewind and start over.
It took nine years of
methodical skimming moonshine money for Loretta to reach her monetary goal for
escape. On a nothing special Tuesday afternoon she walked out the
front door, climbed into Bobby Ray Kincaid’s pickup, and
negotiated sexual favors if he’d drive her to Hollywood.
Rotten luck blew the
transmission two-hand jobs into their trip, but a bull headed Loretta Duprey
extracted her few worldly possessions and walked toward the sunset.
Mr. and Mrs. Henry Osmond were
to be Loretta’s first encounter with fate’s kind intervention. She overheard
the couple, in the adjoining booth at Bob’s Big Boy, discussing the best way to
get to Los Angeles, California, and then, lo and behold, Loretta recognized
their Pentecostal blessing whispered over brownies and vanilla topping.
“How do you do?” The couple
raised their prayer bent heads to see Loretta on bended knee peeking over the
booth. “I couldn’t help but hear,” she continued shyly. “And, well I was kind
of hoping I might join you in prayer.”
The wife let out a small sigh,
as if she were watching a baby take its first step. “Well, of course, dear
sister. Please, please come join us.” And so, Loretta did just that… all the
way from Utah to the Santa Monica Pier.
Shortly after escaping the
stifling confines of her life Loretta made the miraculous discovery that her
passion was not for oodles of money, but for heart pounding adventure and
unreliable men who play too close to the fire.
Kenny Lewis was a second
string Hollywood player, unscrupulous, a prescription drug supplier to the
studios. Schwab’s Drugstore was past its prime, as was Lana Turner, the only
‘discovery’ ever made on its worn-thin vinyl stools, but Kenny liked to spin
through, pick up a copy of Variety, and check out the new pussy on his way back
from MGM, where his cache of pharmaceuticals catered to the grueling demands of
television.
The day Loretta and Kenny met
at Schwab’s he had just come from dropping a delivery to the biggest bitch on
the Metro lot. It was hot and his Mercedes air was busted, but when he saw the
Hedy Lamar look alike sitting at the
counter in black, toreador pants, Ken took a hard right.
“How’s it going?” He stuck a
stick of Juicy Fruit gum into his mouth in a cocky way that told Loretta
everything she wanted to believe.
“Fair.” She thought him as
good-looking as they come. “Yourself?”
Kenny leaned his back against
the counter and looked at her tits. Coy was entirely absent from this one, he
thought. “Too damn hot if you ask me.” He couldn’t believe anyone in their
right mind would be wearing angora this time of year. “Aren’t you sweltering in
that outfit?”
“Air conditioning helps.”
Loretta wrapped her red lips around the coke straw. Her ensemble was from
Fredrick’s of Hollywood and had cost a fortune along with her red stilettos
kicked off under the stool.
Kenny switched his cigarette
from his right hand to his left. “Kenny Lewis.”
She power gripped his extended
hand. “Loretta Duprey.”
He winced slightly, attracted
to how this would translate to having sex. “Duprey, as in French?”
“As in Kentucky,” she
answered.
Kenny smiled big. “I meant
French settlers. You know, way back…like history.” Attitude and green eyes that
smoked, it was getting better by the minute.
“If the French were stupid
enough to plant their pole in Kentucky, then I guess I could be one of ‘em.”
She replied.
The way she massacred the
word, ‘them’, pronouncing it like ‘ovum’, made her scarlet lips pucker. Kenny
mentally canceled
the rest of his appointments. He bought her a grilled cheese with pickle chips,
told her about the big musical in production at Metro, and about the television
cowboy who was gay, before offering his professional assistance. That afternoon
Loretta moved her meager belongings into Kenny’s North Hollywood bungalow.
Kenny knew people, who knew
people, and proved it, making phone calls on Loretta’s behalf. She was bowled
over by his generosity although it led nowhere except to copious sex.
Unproductive weeks crawled by and it appeared as though their arrangement had
become lopsided to his favor, and then Kenny L came through!
“I got you a gig, Babe. You
ever been to May-hee-co?” Hopped up on self-importance, Kenny didn’t wait for
her answer. “J.H. is doing a picture called, Night of the
Iguana with Ava Gardner and Richard Burton. I told his AD,
a good friend of mine, but a complete a-s-s h-o-l-e, that you look just like
Ava Gardner, only younger.
“I thought you said I look
like Hedy Lamar. What’s it gonna be?”
Kenny strutted like a banty
rooster. “Hedy, Ava, who gives a shit. Tomorrow I’ll take you to meet Ricky, AD
a-s-s-f-a-c-e. Johnny, the director is legend, Babe. He’s a sucker for young
beauties. It should be fun.” He inhaled what was left of his cigarette and blew
a smoke ring as a grin parted his lips. “Liz, Richard, Ava, that’s like pulling
the pin on a hand grenade to see how long it takes to explode. You’ll need bug
spray and birth control. Don’t worry, I’ll get you both.”
One week later Loretta was in
a Mexican jungle as Ava Gardner’s stand-in, on John Huston’s motion picture,
Night of the Iguana. Quickly she discovered that no one called this director, Johnny, and that the
tedious business of movie making was not for Loretta Duprey. As for the raw
aphrodisiac of Paradise, well, that was another story…one with her name written
all over it!
CHAPTER 5
Adios Norte America
Ending up in Mismaloya, Mexico
with cockfights, mariachi music, and tequila shooters had been preordained. The
small, seaside village had patiently awaited Loretta’s arrival, like a boa
constrictor waits for its prey. She hung in there until the movie was a wrap,
and then, on a humid, summer night, made the defining decision of her life.
She was alone and restless.
The beach was deserted except for one fisherman throwing a net for bait where
the Mismaloya River snakes from the
jungle and kisses the sea. Loretta took a bite from a ripe mango letting the
sweet juice wet her lips while a curtain of summer rain undulated on the
horizon. Sweat trickled down the small of her back and the thick humidity
smelled of burnt matches. All of a sudden the coconut palms began to shimmy
with the coming storm while a flock of shrieking parakeet flapped homeward.
Damn, she loved this place!
The movie was finished. John
Huston and his entourage, including Ava Gardner, Elizabeth Taylor, and Richard
Burton had departed, leaving Puerto Vallarta in a state of recovery. At the
last minute Loretta had pressed her return ticket into Huston’s hand. “I had a
hell of a time, John.” She knew him well enough now to call him John. “I’m glad
I did it, but you can have it. I’m staying here, at least for a while.”
Huston’s face crinkled into a
portrait of mischief. “Well, darling girl, I wish you the best.” Then added
with his unquestioned authority. “Stay out of harm’s way.”
Loretta returned his wicked,
smile. “Harm’s way is my middle name?”
Mexico had presented the best
time of her life. The splendor of Mismaloya, rough and beautiful, puffed up and
unpredictable, endorsed a dangerous curiosity that a whole lot was going on
somewhere out in the world.
Lord knows she didn’t have
squat to go back to. After Mexico, Kenny and his postage stamp bungalow were
out of the question. There were hundreds of girls, with more ambition, dancing
on blistered feet, singing off key and tossing down diet pills. It was not the
life she had imagined while sitting on the broken steps of her Kentucky
existence.
Fame had not delivered the goods, but tedious hours on the Iguana
set with men who climbed between her legs for puny promises. Hollywood hadn’t
lived up to its reputation, and truth be known, she didn’t think making Night
of the Iguana was that big a deal. Ava had been fun, and boy that gal could
toss them back. Richard Burton was drunk most of the time, and John Huston,
whom Loretta liked a lot, had the hooded eyelids and demeanor of a rattlesnake.
Nevertheless, they were stars, while she was nobody, with a short attention
span, a hot libido and blind courage.
Loretta’s could change
direction faster than a dragonfly when it came to her carnal nature. Mexico hit
all the right buttons; peacock colored paradise, toe wiggling, white sandy
beaches and coconuts as big as baboon balls had her in a choke hold. Mexico was
a big pitcher of Sangria and she was one thirsty Señorita! Loretta Duprey, from
Nowhere, USA, was staying. Details, such as housing, employment, and not having
two pesos to rub together, didn’t cross
her mind. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning speared the sea, a celestial telegram
to accompany her into Mismaloya without
a whimper of a game plan.
The impending storm had
emptied the street. She sat down on the short, cement wall beside the closed mercado and lit a cigarette. On the
exhale she noticed a young, dark skinned man watching her from across the road.
Even in the fading light she was struck by his chiseled cheekbones and the
straight black hair that fell beyond bare shoulders. He leaned against a rail,
wearing nothing but a dazzling smile and Levis, low. A scrawny dog rubbed up
against his leg as the stranger slowly rolled a smoke and put it between his
lips. In the dim light she held his gaze, knowing it was on her. A slow rain
began to fall. He stood there, holding smoke in his lungs, and then exhaled,
signaling something more before disappearing inside a hut. She sensed the game,
put her hands behind her head, waited, and watched. It was then that the skies
opened up in a torrential downpour, but she remained seated, enjoying the heat
pirouetting in her groin. And, just as if she knew it would happen, the
stranger reappeared, holding up two bottles of cerveza, shouting something that the
hard driving water drowned out. She watched him lift one of the bottles to his
mouth and swallow long and deep while the narrow road between them swept mud
and water to the beach.
He took his time, letting the
rain soak them. She felt a rush, a thrill, as he put the beer down, stepped
into the rising water, and came to her. The stranger, with wet hair, smelled of
marijuana, sweat, and alcohol, as he silently lifted her up into his arms.
Without hesitation Loretta Duprey surrendered to the familiar catalyst of her
life.
CHAPTER 6
Latino Libido, Ole’
What a delightful discovery;
Latino men relished sex as much as she did! The boys south of the border made
love like they ate; never leaving anything on the plate.
In a matter of weeks Loretta
transformed a rusted camper into her peculiar idea of a home with beer bottle
tops strung together for curtains. The cramped quarters vibrated with loud
music, alcohol, and bad behavior. Numerous men begged for her hand in marriage,
some already betrothed, but she scoffed at their ridiculous proposals,
pronouncing matrimony a loathsome arrangement.
In spite of her misbehavior
the Mismaloya women liked Loretta. They remembered that the other movie gringos came and went while she chose
to stay and learn their language. She championed the underdog among them, often
an abused wife, ate menudo,
and yes, occasionally screwed one of their overheated, besotted husbands, but
mostly she was forgiven. Loretta was as wild as the surrounding jungle, but she
was unafraid, hid nothing, and for that they trusted her.
It was no surprise to anyone
when Loretta found out she was pregnant. As for whom the father might be, she
neither knew nor cared. Traditional family values were nothing she had ever
experienced. The Pentecostal hell fire of her childhood expressed all one
needed to know about the sanctity of the union between a man and a woman; the
man took his ninety percent, leaving ten percent for the other half. The same
math held true in Mexico. Therefore one hundred percent freedom, zero
compromise was her creed.
Poppy, named after the red,
wild flower that flourished in the Kentucky hills, slid into the world weighing
eight pounds, three ounces. The light-skinned mestizo baby staked her claim with flailing arms and legs, oozing
tears from beneath heavy, black lashes.
When Poppy was old enough to
wonder who her daddy was, Loretta told her truthfully, “Don’t know Poppina, but
he sure made me the most beautiful girl ever born.”
There were lots of kids who
didn’t know who their fathers were so it wasn’t a big deal to Poppy. Loretta
kept them high, dry and in tortillas distilling raicilla, the local Mexican moonshine.
The day Demetrio Mendoza saved
a newborn puppy from the unhinged jaws of a boa constrictor, Loretta decided
here was a man she wanted in the foxhole of her life.
CHAPTER 7
Demetrio Mendoza
Demetrio Mendoza was as calm
and dignified as Loretta was volatile and outspoken. He was a reader steeped in
Mexican history, did not drink, abhorred cockfights, and thought the Spanish
language was sufficient to express one’s self without the use of profanity. He
had the bearing of a proud Spaniard, blended with a spirituality rooted in
nature.
Demetrio was aware of a world
unavailable to the naked eye, a sacred place reached through silence. Yet, he
was a contradiction, a misread if someone were presumptuous enough to think
they had him figured out. He was Loretta’s first encounter with unflinching
integrity and the reason she allowed herself to love and respect him.
Loretta sought his council about a new game plan; her ‘secret
recipe’ for raicilla.
“This is not Kentucky,” he
cautioned. “A Gringa
who makes raicilla is bad enough.” He shook his
head. “I’m afraid Mexicans believe tequila is in their blood, and you are a Gringa, mi Amiga. To think that you can out
run your competition could be misconstrued as disrespect.
Loretta waved away his
objection. “Blood doesn’t have anything to do with it. I already make a pretty
good living.” She thought about what she had just said. “Well, maybe good
living is pushing it, but here’s the deal. My ‘new secret recipe’ raicilla will deliver more kick for
their peso.”
Demetrio smiled, “That’s a big
promise, but a promise without a plan is worthless.”
She was not fond of Demetrio
when he played devil’s advocate; actually it made her blood boil. She looked at
him squarely. “I’m going to trap the mescaline in the first thirty percent,
extract that, and bump up the rest of the batch with dried mescaline buttons.”
Loretta lit another Mexican cigarette with the short butt she was finishing and
leaned into her pitch. “Where’s the mescaline concentrate in the Agave
Lechuguilla coming out of Tuito?”
Demetrio knew the town of
Tuito had the best raicilla
in Jalesco, Mexico, but Loretta wasn’t looking for his answer. She was on a
roll.
“It’s in the first thirty
percent,” she answered. “But, I developed a process that bumps the mescaline
buttons into seventy percent. What do you think?” She leaned back in her
plastic chair, spreading her arms like wings.
Demetrio ran his hand threw
his black hair. “That would be Demonic del Diablo,
no question.” He rubbed his chin. “Pero, how do you capture the mescaline? Not so easy as the
worm in the bottle trick.”
Loretta brought her arms down
and gripped both knees. She was the only person Demetrio knew who engaged her entire
body into conversation. “Barrels, no metal drums like Tuito, the fermentation
has to be watched real close, turn the barrels, not leave it to have a mind of
its own, you know what I mean” Loretta disappeared into the camper and returned
with two shots of the new stuff. “Here,” she handed Demetrio a slender shooter
called a little
horse. “It’s
a rough cut but tell me what you think.”
“You know I don’t drink,” he
said.
She looked at him with total
disbelief. “This isn’t about drinking, Demetrio.” She tapped his glass with
hers. “There in lies my business plan and I need to know what you think.”
It felt like he had swallowed
a ball of fire. On regaining equilibrium and the ability to speak, Demetrio
suggested that with some minor adjustments Loretta’s ‘secret recipe’ was
powerful stuff.
Within the year they had
isolated the complexities of mashing the cactus root, a distant cousin of
peyote, with mescaline buttons. They called it Demonic del Diablo, and soon the whole state of
Jalisco knew of Duprey’s ‘Demon Devil.’
“Distilling good liquor is a
family talent,” she told her Mexican clientele. “Kind a like the Rockefellers
and investment banking.” They nodded agreement, having no clue as to what a
Rockefeller was, but for sure the Norte Americana’s raicilla was some good shit.
Thanks to Ava Gardner,
Elizabeth Taylor, and Richard Burton, the sexually charged movie set had been
front-page news around the world, lifting Puerto Vallarta and Mismaloya from
obscurity.
With her entrepreneurial
spirit on fire, Loretta came up with the idea of the ‘Night of the Iguana
Tequila Tour’. Buses loaded with tourists made the trip out to Mismaloya to see
where “Night of the Iguana” had been filmed, and to meet Ava Gardner’s movie
stand-in. Bare shouldered and bare footed, Loretta posed for pictures while
herding the starry-eyed ‘wallets’ to the Tequila Station to get swacked on
Duprey Demonic
del Diablo, served
by severely, underage bartenders; Poppy and Antonio DelToro.
Ava’s lipstick smudged
cigarette butts were treated as museum artifacts. Elizabeth Taylor’s lone
footprint, enshrined in dried mud, pulled in 100 pesos, while seeing the hammock ,
where an inebriated Richard Burton had recited Hamlet, was double that.
The Iguana tour was a winner
from day one and soon the whole village worked their moneyed captives, peddling
everything from fish tacos to bottle openers carved from seashells. Life was muy buena; Loretta and Demonic del Diablo were Mismaloya heroes.
Long before the tours began
the jungle had repossessed much of the film set. Exquisite hibiscus and
bougainvillea now hung like colorful Christmas ornaments on the stone steps
where movie legends once posed, now home to skittering crabs and Iguanas.
Time sweetened Loretta’s
memory of her cinematic adventure. When Poppy was a little girl they could be
found languishing together on the crumbling steps with Loretta acting out
scenes for her avid, little fan.
“Okay Child,” Loretta struck
her Ava pose on the very top of the stone staircase. “What comes next?”
Waves crashed on the jagged rocks, where Poppy, wet with spray,
squinted into the bright sunlight. “I can’t see you, Mamacita.” She shouted out in Spanish.
“No es importante. Speak English. Just do your
part as the famous director. Come on now. We’ve done it a hundred times.”
Poppy screwed up her face
trying to squeeze out the memory. “Don’t member.”
Loretta did a little impatient
jig. “It’s hot as hell up here, and I can’t come down till you say your part as
the director. Here’s a hint. If people are making noise what do you have to
tell them to do?”
“You tell them to shut up,”
Poppy blurted out.
“Well, you’re on the right
track. Mr. Huston always had someone else shout …Quiet on...”
Suddenly Poppy’s memory kicked
in. “Quiet on the set,” she boomed.
“Well, Holy Jesus!” Loretta
shouted exasperated. “Let’s get this show on the road!”
“I member now what to do,”
Poppy cupped her hands to her mouth. “Action!”
Loretta lit a cigarette
Ava-style, and placed it between her perfect, white teeth. This always sent
Poppy clapping like a performing seal, as her mother descended, one barefoot in
front of the other, toward the imaginary camera.
“Well you old son of a….”
Loretta tilted her dimpled chin, imitating Ava when she had delivered the line
to Burton. “Don’t make me take another step!” Poppy let loose with her
two-finger whistle while Loretta took a bow and a long puff on her cigarette,
bringing the curtain down.
“I want to be just like you,”
Poppy gushed as her mother placed a crown of palm fronds on each of their
heads.
Loretta took off in a dead
run. “Last one home has to go get cigarettes and beer.”
CHAPTER 8
Poppy
By the time she was nine years
old Poppy was as tall and thin as bamboo. She moved faster, swam further, and
climbed higher than anyone, boy or girl, in Mismaloya or nearby Boca Tomatlan.
There was a clear advantage to Poppy’s athletic prowess. She had legs, long
ones, along with volcanic energy that erupted from every cell in her body. From
dawn until pitch dark she was busy doing whatever kids do. It looked as if she
would be as beautiful and self-assured as her Caucasian mother was.
Antonio DelToro knew that Poppy was the most
beautiful girl in the universe. He was six months older than she was, and a
boy, which should have made him the boss, but Poppy’s will swept over him like
a rogue wave, so Antonio settled for loving her, a secret he kept to himself.
The two of them spent every
waking hour together and when that wasn’t enough they slept outside the Duprey
camper, under the canopy of stars. Antonio worshiped his best friend, but
wished she wasn’t so bossy. When he stayed over Poppy couldn’t just go to sleep
like normal people, but had to challenge his star-naming acumen.
“What’s that one?” Poppy
stabbed at the bowl of planetary lights overhead. They were lying side by side
on a bare mattress she had dragged from inside.
“The big…uh, something.”
Antonio’s unenthusiastic response was more than Poppy could bear. She rolled to
her knees and pinned him with one of her exasperated looks.
“I don’t know why I let you be
my friend.” She blurted out in English. “You don’t even try.”
“Si, I do,” he defended.
“There is nothing up there
that’s called the big something.” She collapsed onto the mattress with a
scissor kick. “I’m wasting time teaching you the Universe. It goes in one of
those big ears and right out the hole in your head just like English.”
“I don’t have big ears.”
“Mierda, holy shit!” She sprang to
her feet with mounting frustration. “Just forget it. Let’s smoke a cigarette.”
She stomped into the camper leaving a trail of expletives. Moments later she
was back with one of Loretta’s hand rolled smokes lit up, handing it off to
Antonio, they settled into passing the cigarette back and forth with the sound
of spitting tobacco their sole means of communication. “Sorry,” he heard her
apologize. “Your ears aren’t that big.”
Nobody frustrated Poppy Duprey
more than Antonio DelToro. How someone she never wanted to see again would be
the only person she deeply missed an hour later was a total mystery. He
wouldn’t learn English, couldn’t tell the Big Dipper from the little one, or
dive off of El
Tigre. Yet,
she couldn’t imagine life without him. She had friends galore; birthday
parties, soccer games, event to captain, but somehow Antonio was her favorite.
Although bossiness obscured
her true feelings for him, Poppy felt both love and sadness for the boy with
eyes so black that his pupils were hidden, just like his feelings. Antonio was
alone in the world except for Maria Luis, the crazy sewer. Both had lost their
families. Maria Luis’s six children and husband had capsized in their fishing panga and drowned. Antonio, an only
child, was eight years old when his mother died of a mysterious lump in her
belly.
Maria Luis had taken Antonio
into her house along with the stray cats she collected, giving him love, at
least as much as she was capable of in a world she no longer cared to live in.
The loss of her entire family
had robbed Maria of sanity without touching her genius with thread and needle,
for no one created a garment stitch for stitch like Maria Luis.
Antonio came to spend little
time at Maria’s and merged into the Duprey household, where his diet changed
from Maria’s cat food and Popsicles to Loretta’s pork rind and Cokes. Weeks
elapsed without his return to Maria Luis’s dirt floor, cat motel, but when he
was there he missed Poppy greatly, as if she had disappeared to one of her
stupid stars.
Lomas de Mismaloya cinched
their futures together, or so they thought. They discovered the breathtaking
hideaway one day, on a steep climb up the Sierra Madres. All of a sudden there
it was; a clearing beyond the waterfall, above a canopy of trees blossomed in
orchids, where the mountain crested,
and the ocean met the sky. It became their secret place, where over time they built
a primitive palapa and christened it Montana de
Mismaloya, the Mountain of Mismaloya.
They agreed never to allow
another soul into their secret retreat, believing it would tarnish the magic.
With fervent imaginations they built a beautiful, make-believe villa on their
haloed ground and pledged allegiance to each other forever.
“Look how high we are!” Poppy
exclaimed breathless from the steep climb. “This is where my bedroom will be,
Antonio. I can see all the way to end of the ocean.” She skipped to a spot
close by. “And this,” she announced, “is where you sleep so we can hear each
other tell stories.”
Antonio scowled disagreement.
Far below the fishing boats bobbed like toys in the blue lagoon. “I don’t want
a bedroom. I like to sleep outside.”
“Nope.” Poppy shook her head.
“You must have a room just to sleep. Mama says that rich people all have their
own bedrooms.”
Antonio let the bedroom thing
go for now, but felt the need to assert his wishes. “I want a horse, a white
one, to ride up and down so we don’t have to walk.”
“Sure. You can have a horse,”
she agreed generously. “Pedro’s got a new, baby one, but we need someone to
make us a road for our red car, with a radio so we can listen to music, but not
that ranchero stuff they play at the cock
fights.”
Antonio looked indignant. “I
don’t listen to no cock fight music.”
Poppy changed the subject.
“All the people we know will want to visit us so they can see how rich people
live.” Her eyes suddenly blazed with a new idea. “We can charge them to see all
the rooms, 5 pesos for each room, and 50 pesos to swim in our swimming
pool.”
“A swimming pool?” Antonio’s
look of surprise was caste in suspicion. Poppy was always changing things.
“When did we get a swimming pool?”
She kicked one of her long
legs into the air. “I told you!”
“Uh-uh, we decided on a
waterfall,” he countered, “like the one in the jungle with a rock slide.”
Poppy thought about it, and
agreed that a waterfall and rock slide was more fun. She came over and threw her slim arms around his
neck. “Look out there, Antonio. That’s our ocean and this is our mountain where we will live forever, listening to music
and telling stories until we’re old grownups.”
Antonio followed her gaze and
saw, as she did, their future playing on the screen of a child’s uncomplicated
imagination. He was careful not to move a muscle or say a word; afraid she’d
release him from her embrace. He loved her arms, damp from the climb, her
breath caressing his ear. Antonio DelToro’s heart belonged to Poppy Duprey, as
he felt the pulse of pure happiness.
There were times when
Antonio’s remarks made Poppy sad; like when he said, right out of the blue,
that people were good at being born and dying, but the part in the middle was
hard. When he said that, Poppy looked at him as if he were an old man. Kids
didn’t say such things. She figured Antonio was influenced by crazy Maria Luis,
and if he came to live with her and her mother he’d snap out of it.
Antonio took up residence in
their cramped quarters, hung his mother’s prayer beads on a nail, and lit a
candle, acknowledging her dying wish for him to be a good Catholic.
Before succumbing to illness,
Mrs. DelToro took her son and Poppy on the bus to the Cathedral in Puerto
Vallarta. The ornate building and melodious summons of the bell was the
cornerstone of the city and it dazzled Poppy who thought being Catholic was
tough, especially on people like Señora DelToro who was beginning to get real
sick.
When Mrs. DelToro got down on
her knees to crawl the length of a city block to put 4 pesos in the Jesus Basket Poppy
kicked Antonio in the shin for an explanation. “Why doesn’t she just walk up to
the front and put money in the Jesus Basket?” Her loud inquiry echoed.
Antonio waved his hand for her
to keep her voice down. “Jesus wants people to crawl,” he whispered.
Poppy scrunched up her face.
“Who says?”
“The old priests who live
here. Jesus tells them what people should do.”
Poppy looked puzzled at the vast rotunda bathed in
eighteen-carat gold sparkle and flickering candlelight. “What old priests? She
said in a loud whisper. “I don’t see no old men.”
Antonio took a deep breath,
making a mental note to leave her home the next time. “They’re not here right
now cause they spend a lot of time talking to Jesus and his mamacita, and then they come here and
put on dresses and little hats to get money from people to hear the rules.”
Poppy looked dumfounded.
“Rules…” She exclaimed totally perplexed. “For what?”
“Jesus rules.”
“I never heard of Jesus
rules.”
Antonio looked worn thin,
“Well, you better learn some.”
“Why?”
He sighed, faced with total
meltdown. “Poppy, you ask too many questions!”
Señora DelToro concluded her
pilgrimage none too soon, as her son fled onto the crowded plaza.
During the long ride back to
Mismaloya the two children sat engrossed in the city life passing by. Poppy’s
heart felt sad for the Mexican women begging with babies in their laps. She
could not imagine sitting all day long on hot cement, selling Chiclets. How
much gum did it take, she wondered, to buy leche and tortillas for a mama with two babies? She noticed many
of the tourists didn’t even see the women sitting on the sidewalk, their open
palms outstretched to the visitors snapping pictures and licking ice cream. How
wonderful, she thought, it would be to buy ice cream for all the unhappy mamas
and to watch as their mouths suddenly turn up into smiles like those of the gringos.
Finally their bus reached the
edge of the city, leaving noise and congestion behind. Across the aisle Senora
DelToro had fallen asleep on her son’s shoulder. Poppy leaned out the window to
let the wind blow her long braids straight out like dog ears. She loved her
life. She had the best, most beautiful mother, and there wasn’t any place
better than Mismaloya. She felt relieved that her mother didn’t know anything
about this Jesus stuff although she used his name a lot. Poppy smiled to herself and closed her eyes to the heady
scent of tuberose as the bus lurched beneath the green canopy.
CHAPTER 9
Jackals at the Iguana Gate
The morning following Poppy’s
exile back to Mexico Loretta struggled out of bed. The sleepless hours had been
weighted with pain and new worries. She and insomnia were tied at the hip.
Demetrio had insisted that they go to Guadalajara to find out what was wrong; inoperable,
pancreatic cancer was the diagnosis, months to live was the estimate.
She poured herself a cup of
strong coffee and licked a paper for another smoke; the marijuana had a
medicinal effect of dulling the pain so she could think. Demetrio suggested that
a diet of coffee and tobacco wasn’t exactly the elixir for her condition, but
Loretta’s eating habits had always been abominable. She figured it was a little
late in the game to initiate new habits. Inhaling deeply, her thoughts drifted
to how stunned she had been to see Poppy, changed from a spirited girl to the
thin woman who stepped out of the Hummer.
Soon, the human jackals would
gather to tear apart the spoils of the deceased. Loretta surmised that
Genevieve, John’s wife, would be the first to start the feeding frenzy. His
failure as a family man was a catastrophic blight on an otherwise dazzling
track record, and surely he would pay for that. Neither he nor Genevieve was a
good parent or partner, but dissolving the marriage would have been impossibly
complicated.
The sun had
just crested the Sierra Madre to the east heralding another day in Paradise.
Nowadays, Loretta took time to watch sunrises and sunsets, adding their numbers
to the precious time she had left. The sun tented gold across the Iguana
compound. Yesterday’s storm had moved on. The tropics were like that.
She wondered about John, his
body parts strewn across some goat-infested Arab desert. His vast financial
holdings were complex to say the least, and that included Night of the Iguana.
She had planned to tell him about her own bad luck when he returned to the U.S.
from Dubai, but the son of a bitch had upstaged her on this one.
A handful of painkillers and
the marijuana were doing the job, restraining pain so she could assess the
situation as it pertained to Poppy. If they thought, whomever the hell they were, that she was going down
without a fight, they
had another think coming.
Admittedly, John was the owner
of the most coveted tequila empire in the world, but he was dead. She, Loretta
Duprey, was still the physical force that made Night of the Iguana, and for the
moment, she was very much alive. By God! She would put the dogs in the yard, as
her mother use to say, to bite the ass of those who thought they could trespass
on what she had built.
Unfortunately, she and John
had never discussed what would happen to Iguana if either of them died. It was
not in Loretta’s DNA to seriously think about the future; legal ramifications
were for a more convenient day, another time down the road. John had Joel
Weintraub, his Beverly Hills, hotshot attorney, to carry out the tedious
business of covering his ‘ass-ettes’, that’s how John had referred to his
wealth. Foolishly, she had always assumed things would remain status quo
because they trusted each other. But it wasn’t about trust or friendship after
all. Like musical chairs, the music had suddenly stopped, and both of them were
left standing.
The possibility of her
daughter suffering because of Loretta’s negligence stabbed deeper than the
spreading cancer. The ultimate truth was in her face; she had not covered her
bets, done the prudent thing, and cared for her own. Now, oh yes now she
understood the shattering velocity of change. Who could have imagined John ‘Mad
Man’ Madison being vulnerable to death? As for herself, how dare her body shut
down, a trusted friend turned mortal enemy. After all they had been through
together. Well, to hell with it, she thought, there wasn’t time for this
maudlin crap. She must do everything in her power to fight for her daughter’s
sake. Without legal protection, which
there was none, the pack of two- legged jackals would soon be gathered at the
Night of the Iguana Gates, her gates.
CHAPTER 10
Destiny Lands in the Sand
One afternoon when Loretta and
Poppy still lived in the camper down on
the river bank, two strangers showed up on their doorstep, escorted by none
other than Poppy, Antonio and a parade of nosy bodies.
Loretta recognized one of the
strangers. A month earlier he had
gotten off one of the tour buses and introduced himself. He had looked out of
place with the shirtless ‘wallets’ as he gingerly descended from the
air-conditioned bus, a white handkerchief held to his nostrils. The midday sun
had turned his pasty complexion the
color of a red snapper. Loretta stood by, in her Ava
Gardner-off-the-shoulder-blouse, while he extracted a business card from his
suit jacket. She had not seen a man in
a suit since Kenny.
“My name is Joel Weintraub. I
represent an individual who is interested in a business venture with you”
Loretta’s ears perked up.
“What kind of adventure?”
“Venture,” he corrected, and
then went on to explain that he was not at liberty to ‘talk in depth’ about the
venture; he was there only to explore
the possibility of his client having that discussion face to face.
Loretta squinted suspiciously
at both the uppity embossed print on the card and the pudgy, red snapper face.
“Lawyer, huh?” She held out a complementary sample of Demonic del Diablo.
“Yes, si.” He declined the drink
as his complexion turned a dangerous purple.
“Better take a load off before
you have a stroke.” She led him to the shade, removed his jacket and loosened
his tie. As the bus prepared to leave, she reluctantly agreed to meet with his
mysterious client, never giving it
another thought. People like Joel what’s-his-name didn’t have a venture or
adventure that interested her in the least.
Before the parade to her
doorstep that afternoon John Madison had swooped down out of the sky like an
apparition, startling Poppy and Antonio from their lovemaking. They sprang to
their feet awed by the
red flying machine that made a low pass overhead, and then
watched as the Sikorsky S-92 banked out over the water and slid sideways onto
the swirling sand.
“Holy shit! What’s that,”
Antonio’s expression straddled fear and awe.
“Let’s go see.”
Sixteen-year-old Poppy bolted in a dead run down the beach to see two men
crouch beneath the giant blade.
“Hola.
Se habla English or Español? I speak both. Are you lost?”
Poppy fired away breathlessly. “Is this an emergency landing? We have a
telephone at mi
casa.
Years later John Madison
confessed that when he first laid eyes on her that moment, the words shooting
like arrows, her body pulsing with excitement and wonder, it felt like an
electric jolt. Her vibrant youth took his breath away, a feat he thought no
longer possible, as he was used to the crème de la crème females of the world;
royalty, movie stars, and models. But this whirlwind was like nothing he had
ever seen, a two-legged gazelle, charging down the beach, emerald green eyes
ablaze, her tawny skin glowing from heat and excitement.
He smiled and held out his
hand. “I’m John. This is Joel.”
Poppy pumped their hands
vigorously. “Mucho Gusto.” I’m Poppy Duprey. She sent a piercing two-finger
whistle to Antonio. “No es peligroso,” she shouted. “I told him you’re not dangerous.”
“You speak English and
Spanish?” John asked.
“My mother is from Norte
America, but I don’t know who my father is.”
John and Joel cracked a smile.
“Well, sometimes that can be an asset,” John replied.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“We don’t know.”
Joel Weintraub recognized
Poppy from his first visit. Loretta had introduced them. “I think we’re here to
see your mother, Loretta Duprey?”
Life was full of wonderment!
Poppy thought. She turned to Antonio who came forward with trepidation.
“They’re here to see Madre.
Can you fucking believe it?”
A crowd had gathered. John was
captivated. He had flown over from the San Pancho Polo grounds, an enclave of
rich internationals, who played one of the few competitive sports that held his
attention. Earlier that morning he had ridden his thoroughbred, a Brazilian
beauty, and now was looking at another spirited thoroughbred that had the
markings of a winner. John loved winners.
“Young lady,” he gestured to
Poppy, “lead the way.”
Loretta was stacking Demonic del Diablo in a shed when she heard her
daughter’s voice.
“Guess what?” Poppy shouted.
“These guys are here to see you. What do you think of that?”
Loretta leaned against the
frail support of her tarp-covered yard giving John the distinct feeling of
being unimpressed. She definitely struck him as someone who wrote her own
rules. He made note of the unconventional dress; khaki pants and man’s shirt
knotted at her waist. A kerchief, tied gypsy-style, framed high cheekbones and
green eyes, identical to her daughter.
“Well,” she began without
moving, “except for the Iguana Tours we don’t get many visitors.” She held out
a hand to John. “Loretta Duprey. I see you’ve already had the honor of meeting
my daughter.”
John was experiencing a
familiar excitement that proceeded a
fresh idea. So far this was more than he had expected; the village
surrounded by dense jungle, a tropical lagoon, bougainvillea, and orchids
growing wild. He had researched the woman from Kentucky, whose potent tequila
swamped the competition. He knew she
had arrived in Mexico with the Night of the Iguana movie bunch. He had reviewed
the whole back-story, and was now
beginning his analysis.
“I’ve been looking forward to
this,” John turned to Joel. “You’ve already met my lawyer, Joel Weintraub.”
Loretta shook her head at the
suit and tie. “This gentleman seems bent on having a heat stroke.”
John smiled. “Joel prefers the
comforts of his Beverly Hills office, but I like to have him along on
international discussions.”
“International, huh?” Loretta
lifted an eyebrow. “Sounds pretty big for Mismaloya’s britches.”
John grinned. “I think it’s
going to be a perfect fit.”
“Well then, let’s put your
hand to the fire. Come inside where we have some privacy.” She shooed away the
gathering. Antonio waited in vain to be
invited.
Loretta parted the bottle cap
curtain to the cramped quarters. “Not fancy, but the price was right.” Loretta
pointed to four aluminum, beach chairs. “Take a load off. Poppy, what can we
offer our guests?”
“Tequila, rum, cerveza, and … “
“How about a coke?” John
chimed in.
Loretta motioned for them to
sit. “Poppy, run over to
Enrique’s and get us four Coke-a-colas, cold ones.”
“Well, shit.” Poppy’s
shoulders collapsed with disappointment. “Don’t say anything till I get back.”
The bottle caps danced as she blew out the door.
Loretta rolled a cigarette.
“Either of you smoke?”
“You mean cigarettes?” John
asked.
Joel coughed, taking in a lung
full of her strong tobacco.
“Whatever you want me to mean.
Mi casa es su casa. I’m partial to Cuban myself,
but if doobie is your calling I got some Boca Gold that’ll make you feel
unconditional love.”
Joel’s eyes began to water
from the afternoon heat and tobacco. He didn’t understand half the things the
woman said.
“The cold drink will be just
fine.” He decided to get right to it. To an outsider, John Madison, going into
the tequila business was an insane idea. White guys didn’t know agave from
turpentine, but John’s track record, turning concept into cash, was
indisputable. He had the knack for catching lightening in the bottle so why not
tequila?
“Miss Duprey,” he began.
“Loretta,” she corrected.
John started over. “Loretta, I
want to distill the best, and most expensive, Añejo Tequila in the world, here
in Mismaloya. We’ll age it in imported, oak barrels for 5 years, bottle in
Baccarat Crystal. It will be the capstone of tequilas called Night of the
Iguana, after the movie. Consumer price tag…” Here he paused for effect,
“25,000 U.S. a bottle, except, it’s not a bottle, but signed art by Mexico’s
living legend, Miguel Rojos. We’ve secured the rights from the Tennessee
Williams Estate, and we want you to handle the distillery. That’s it in a
nutshell.”
Loretta slowly removed her
scarf, and shook her long hair loose. “Pretty ambitious,” she responded, as
much to say that she was in the presence of madness. “But, I’m not your
ticket.”
Just then Poppy appeared, and
saw that the proceedings had begun without her. “Well…thank…you.” Her voice
crackled with sarcasm.
“You didn’t miss much,
Poppina. These gentlemen are loco.”
Poppy rolled her eyes and
collapsed into a chair. “We know a lot of them.”
John jumped in. “I’m asking
your mother to manage my new high-end distillery here in Mismaloya.”
“High-end my ass!” Loretta
snorted, knocking back a swig of coke. “He wants to sell it for 25,000 a bottle
and that ain’t pesos, Precious, but U.S. of A.
currency. Who in the hell is gonna bang on my door with that kinda dinero in their jeans? I don’t care
how long it sits in a barrel or if Jesus Christ signs the damn thing!”
Poppy let out one of her
whistles. “That’s a lot of money! Señor Juan, no disrespect, but you landed on
the wrong beach. Even the rich gringos on the tour buses don’t carry that much. To tell you the
truth, even when we get em all fucked up on raicilla…”
“Poppy,” Loretta interrupted,
“don’t use fuck around people we don’t know.”
John sat back amused by these
exotic creatures, immersed in their small village mentality, oblivious to the
opportunity he was waving. This was not going to be easy, but he was beginning
to see mother, and maybe daughter, as integral parts of his vision. Poppy was
only now entering into the equation as his vision started to grow legs. He saw
an exotic and sultry innocence, the transition from girl to woman, the dazzling display of perfection
when a butterfly first spreads her wings. He saw what he wanted.
As for Loretta, John
recognized his own rebellion, knowing that it was anchored in the bedrock of
perseverance. Not many people followed their basic instincts. He knew the guts
it took to veer off life’s main highway and leave the pack. Yeah, he thought,
this was going to be fun.
Joel remained in the
background while John talked, but his attention too kept landing on Poppy. He
had known John since they were kids in Queens, sensed when his idiosyncrasies
and kinetic energy shifted the game plan. After years of being his best friend
and lawyer, Joel could tell things about the man before he himself was
aware. Sitting in this claustrophobic
shit hole, Joel could see that John wasn’t about to leave this nubile nugget on
the table...
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