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He used to knock up Mexican girls who worked picking oranges.”
    “We don’t talk much,” I offered. “But I guess you know he was stationed in the Pacific.”
    “That bastard only got more tail: Japanese. I bet you’ve got a yellow sister,
mijo
,” he cried, releasing his bellowing laugh.
    Everyone around us echoed him. No one followed the joke, but they got the gist. They didn’t want to end up like me, ground beef. I’ve always prided myself on setting a good example.
    “Send him my regards,
muchacho
. You all right?”
    “I’m just fine. It only hurts when I breathe.”
    “Wise guy,
chistoso
,” he said, and pulled me over to the bar.
    “Don’t drag me, sir. I think I can manage on my own. I think I can even go to the bathroom without spraying.”
    “Real funny, just like your old man.”
    Two shot glasses of tequila were already waiting for us at the bar. He lifted one up to my mouth, the other to his own.
    “If I’d known you were a Pascal, I would have punched you again, to knock
lo pendejo
out of you.”
    He tipped the glass back in his mouth and started roaring with laughter again. His chorus of ass-kissers followed suit.
    “So that bastard Stark hired you to take care of us? What a joke,
pinche chiste
.”
    I tipped my glass back, the liquid gold sliding down my throat. “I’m sure you’ll find it amusing, too, when I ask you to hand over that pistol.”
    The laugh track disappeared like magic. In the blink of an eye, we were alone and absolute silence fell. Even the birds stopped singing. They’d probably shat themselves in fear.
    El Indio Fernández didn’t move a muscle, not a single inch of his body stirred. Nothing. He was as cold as a statue of Benito Juárez in a municipal park.
    “You can’t take it away from me,
hijo
. It’s my virility.
Mis huevos
. It would be like cutting off Samson’s hair, like cutting off my balls,” he said slowly.
    “Let’s make a deal then,” I replied, taking advantage of the liquid courage I’d just ingested. “I have to do my job. I don’t like it. It’s a bitch having to babysit these gringos. You know they can’t drink more than two tequilas without making a scene. But out of friendship to my father, you could give me a hand. I need to make them believe that no one is going to gethurt out here. Keep the revolver and just give me the bullets. I’ll take care of them so they don’t catch cold or anything. If they start crying, I’ll give them back to you.”
    Given the disastrous outcome of the fight, I had opted for diplomacy instead. Sometimes it worked. Not always. If you don’t believe me, ask Kennedy.
    I closed my eyes and waited for the next blow. I suspected that it might hurt less this time. Not because of the impact, but because I already knew what to expect.
    Nothing happened.
    “Only because you’re Pascal’s son,
cabrón
.” He downed another shot of tequila and unloaded his gun. He slammed the bullets down on the bar. Then El Indio Fernández shrugged his shoulders, gave me a pat on the back that knocked the air out of me, and went back to his guests.
    I was reaching for the bullets when John Huston appeared next to me.
    “Emilio’s only weakness is shooting people he doesn’t like. For instance, his last producer,” he grunted. “You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you. That means he likes you. I’m sure he’ll settle his dispute with you some other way.”
    Not the most reassuring words. Huston returned to his actors, and I was alone for a while. I could see in the jungle, beyond the thatched roof where my princess charming had awakened me, a group of Indians watching me with the same expression they’d no doubt had when they used to watch the Spaniards. You could see the question in their eyes: “What the fuck are you doing here?”
    They had been relegated to manual labor on the set, these former owners, dispossessed of their lands to benefit the million-dollar movie industry and this film that might win a