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  “Es bueno, no?” I said to Mamacita, indicating the television screen. Mamacita displayed her gums, thought for a moment, and then drew her lips back into a square.

  “Mai . . . dotter . . . beeg . . . star,” she said. The program resumed, this time with a heavily veiled villainess of the Theda Bara school, offering what must have been a drugged cordial to the heroine. Mamacita continued her gentle bouncing, and we tiptoed out.

  Starr and I followed Guadalupe up the resounding stone stairway, past suits of armor, tapestries, and portraits of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century dignitaries so imposingly patrician that they couldn’t possibly have been forebears of la Ximinez. I can only suppose that they, as well as the building itself, had been grabbed by Catalina’s general during the antireligious, anti-upper-class uprisings of the middle twenties.

  Finally we were ushered into the presence of Señorita Ximinez herself. For some reason she had chosen to receive us in her bedroom, and it was immediately apparent that she had been smitten by those movie magazine articles entitled “Homelife of the Stars” a long time ago and hadn’t been cured yet. The room was made up of equal parts of mirror, white bearskin, gilt furniture, and rose silk. Madame X herself lolled on a circular bed, peering ludicrously out from beneath pink acetate draperies that fell in dusty swags from a baldachin of molting ostrich plumes. She wore a magenta negligee garnished with silver fox—and lots of it. To surround herself with the menagerie of exotic household pets that were once the obligation of every movie queen, she had hastily summoned in Perro, still yapping but gussied up with a bedraggled magenta bow; Guacamayo, the insane macaw; a very pregnant old cat that had at some time been white and almost angora. The cat and Perro were not hitting it off very well. As a final touch Señorita had pinned the ma’kech by its jeweled leash to her bodice, where it foraged happily away at a large grease spot. There was an undeniable scent of sweat and musk.

  “’Ow nice off you to come,” she said, flashing her golden-glinted smile and languidly extending a stubby, not quite clean, hand, one talon of which had been hastily patched with adhesive tape. It was quite a show, and Catalina Ximinez must have felt that she was being overpoweringly seductive. Still, I would have been more aroused by a visit to a geriatrics ward.

  “Catalina, querida,” Starr said, seizing her hand and kissing it. “How lovely! Hermosa!”

  “Car-fool,” she said coyly, “mai duenna.” Turning, I noticed that Guadalupe had been engaged to remain in the room—standing primly with her hands folded across her stomach—to convey the impression that this aging concubine, bedmate of a gangster and of Starr himself, was very much the sheltered ewe lamb of a proud old creole family. It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest that her duenna might be excused to clean my kitchen, but then I didn’t want to cramp Starr’s style.

  And Starr’s style had altered quite a lot from that of his visit to Lady Joyce and Mrs. Maitland-Grim. His florid, stacatto delivery had been toned down to the simplest basic English, plus the 250 “-ion” words that are almost identical with their Romance-language counterparts. Armed with this vocabulary, he almost crooned it to Madame X as though she were a very sick child troubled by insomnia. He remarked upon the beauty and buoyant health of her mother, the old lady’s ardent passion for things cultural. Madame X accepted this with a winsome moue. He inquired as to the state of her automobile. With a pretty pout, Madame X allowed as how the damage had not been as severe as first anticipated and added that, rare, costly, and delicate as the Hispano-Suiza was, a patch on the tire and a bit of tinkering with the motor had rendered the machine roadworthy for another thirty or forty years. Then Señorita Ximinez hospitably passed around a tarnished silver dish of toxic-looking pink candies that gave off a repellent odor of roses, plucked up a soiled artificial gardenia, and sniffed at it langorously—an open invitation to silicosis—while Starr got down to the point.

  “My dear Catalina—querida—since you appeared in Yucatán Girl I have received letters—thousands of them—from your admirers all over the world—todo el mundo—desiring to see you again in a motion picture.”

  “Oh? May Ai see dem?”

  “They are in my bank in Paris, desafortunado, with all of my dearest possessions. And they are all in foreign languages—even some in Chinese.”

  “Ah! Los chinos! Que divertido!”

  “I now have another beautiful Mexican story. . . .”

  “Ah, yessss?”

  Flattery could get you almost everywhere with Catalina Ximinez, but it was slow going. Vain and gullible as she was, she still had a certain crafty shrewdness that was difficult even for an operator like Starr to get around. While she cared not at all about the script itself—which was fortunate, as there was nothing in it (as yet) that she could conceivably play save an old mestizo hag—she was insistent that whatever role she play would be that of a beautiful young aristocrat and that it be the starring role, with billing to match. She also suggested singing a song or two, and made a few tentative stabs at how her dressing room was to be decorated and by whom. It was pretty fancy talk for an aging caricature of the jungle girl whose only histrionic experience had been expressing mute attitudes of bovine placidity in one film thirty years ago, but I suppose that Starr was right: Once bitten by the movie bug, they never get over it.

  He was clever enough to let her do most of the talking without ever saying a definite yes or no to anything, so that she soon began answering her own questions to her own satisfaction and, eyes sparkling, cockatoo voice rising in excitement and triumph, she envisioned herself as the greatest dramatic actress in Latin America—a star of such magnitude as to put tried and true performers like Dolores del Río, María Félix, Katy Jurado, and all the rest of them into total eclipse. By the time she got down to money, she was so entranced by the idea of her name in lights that she would have paid to be in the picture, which was exactly what Starr had in mind. She became suddenly more realistic, as I was sure she would, but she had already done most of the damage herself. How, she probably figured, could a picture in which the unforgettable, the unutterably beautiful Catalina Ximinez makes her triumphal return to the screen fail to earn millions? Starr could hardly disagree with her, and he pointed out that as long as she had such confidence in herself and, of course, in the picture and him, a percentage of the profits paid out over years and years and years of return engagements would be a far sounder business investment than a flat salary of the five million pesos she had originally suggested. That was the clincher.

  She sent Guadalupe for pen and paper, and on two pink pages, reeking of cheap scent, drew up a simple agreement in Spanish, which she could barely write. She signed. Starr signed. I witnessed the signatures as did Guadalupe, who placed an “X” on the place indicated, and then rubbed her thumb with the pen and left a smudgy print beside it to prove that it really was her signature. Instead of a check, she gave Starr her whole investment in currency—after having deducted that week’s rent—and demanded a receipt. Catalina Ximinez was in the bag. All that remained to do was to leave and to think up some sort of part she could possibly play. Starr made elaborate leave-takings with heel clickings and hand kissings. I took the limply extended hand and shook it so fervently that it set Madame X’s head to rocking like a Chinese figurine’s. Out in the corridor we ran into Mamacita lurking in the shadows. Once again she said, “Mai . . . dotter . . . beeg . . . star.” With that we were off.

  Out in the patio Starr riffled ostentatiously through the wad of banknotes he had received from Madame X and crammed them into a pocket.

  “I see that you don’t mind much about the hang of your suit as long as you’ve got plenty of money in your pocket,” I said.

  “Filthy stuff,” Starr said, “a check would have been so . . .”

  “Hey, Starr! Mr. Starr!” We turned and saw Mr. Guber wearing his underwear and standing in his doorway.

  “Why, Mr. Guber,” Starr said. “Bienvenido! Welcome to Mexico. Vacationing I suppose?”


  “Wait a minute, Mr. Starr. I want a word with you.”

  “So sorry, but I’m late for an engagement just now. Adiós.” Quickening his pace, he said, “Come, dear boy, don’t dawdle.”

  Mr. Guber raced out of his apartment, met the horrified eye of Miz Priddy, glanced down at his hairy legs, and dashed back into the apartment.

  “Buenas tardes, gintlemin?” Miz Priddy began. “The Doctor and Ah have jist attindid the most in-tristing licture on . . .”

  “You must tell us all about it someday,” Starr said. “Hurry, Patrick.”

  By the time Mr. Guber had put on some trousers and got out to the street, the Pomeroy limousine was rounding the corner on its short trip back to Casa Ortiz-Robledo. Starr tipped the chauffeur and the footman each five hundred pesos and walked into the house as though he owned it.

  From somewhere the English-language channel was blaring away on a television set. Following our ears, we came to a darkened room and stood in the doorway. Flickering away on an enormous screen were a stately pair of models climbing gracefully up one of those rolling metal stairways that lead into the maw of an airplane. The woman on the screen was wearing a sable coat and said in cultivated tones, “Yes, Derek, I always fly nonstop Mexicanadian Super Jet. It takes me direct from my hacienda in Mexico City to my ski lodge in the heart of Montreal.” The man with her, dressed for the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, said, “How right you are, Daphne, and in just five pleasure-filled hours. Imagine!” “Oh, but that’s not all, Derek, the large, roomy, reclining seats on Mexicanadian and those delicious Mexicanadian meals aloft, brought to you by courteous, attentive Mexicanadian flight stewardesses—caviar, pâté de foie gras, filet mignon, and the finest vintage wines.” “Not to mention Mexicanadian’s delicious cocktails, aperitifs, and cordials, Daphne.” In unison: “That’s why those in the know always go Mexicanadian!”

  “I like it,” a familiar voice said. “It’s got class.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy, but it’s not selling any tickets.”

  “I still like it.” In the gloaming I saw Clarice squinting at the television set through her lorgnette.

  “Well, Clarice,” Starr said, “are we interrupting your favorite kiddies’ program on the boob tube?”

  “Oh, Leander and Paddy. Woo hoo hoo! I didn’t even hear you come in. You can turn it off now, Mr. Overton.” The lights went on in the room, revealing Clarice in a pair of stretch slacks that had been stretched to the bursting point. “Just in time for a little drinkie. Have fun on your picnic, Paddy?”

  “What?”

  “Din’tchew say something about going on a picnic with some people name of Purdy or something like that?” I realized that Clarice never missed a trick.

  “Oh. Oh, yes. I just left Miz Priddy.” At least I was being perfectly truthful for a change.

  “They any relation to Priddy Petroleum Products? She was a Gerstadt and he . . .”

  “Oh, no. Miz Priddy was a Drain—and still is.”

  “Then I wouldn’t know ’em. What’ll it be?”

  “Uh, Clarice,” Starr began a bit uneasily, “I wonder if we could discuss the, uh, matter I mentioned to you last night?”

  “Ya mean . . .”

  “I mean my film.”

  “Well, you couldn’t of picked a better time to do it, sweetie. Mr. Overton, meet my dear friends, Leander Starr, the great director, and Paddy Dennis, the writer. I’m sure you heard of ’em both. Mr. Overton handles my financial affairs in Mexico.”

  Mr. Overton was one of those young men who just happened to be born old. He looked at us over the tops of his spectacles as though we were in the police line-up (and I must say that in Starr’s company I often felt as though I soon might be), ignored our outstretched hands, and bowed briskly from the collarbones. “How do you do?” From the tone of his voice it sounded like an unfinished sentence that might well have read, “How do you do things like murder, extortion, arson, rape, check kiting, and second-story work, and still manage to stay out of jail.”

  “Wait a sec while I put on some music,” Clarice said. “Paddy, you mix up some dakkeries, sweetie.” Clarice, who had gone Latin with a vengeance, put “Fiesta del Cha Cha Cha” onto an enormous record player, turned the alta fidelidad on full volume and wiggled her behind, occasionally calling out “Cha-cha-cha!”

  Mr. Overton looked displeased but, raising his voice, laced right into Starr. What with Clarice and las orquestas Aragon, America, and Enrique Jorrin, I couldn’t make much of what was being said, but ominously businesslike phrases like, “. . . your capitalization . . . bank references . . . a full financial report, naturally, Mr. Starr . . . legal representation in this country . . . meeting with the attorneys of the other backers . . .” kept looming up over the bongo drums and maracas. For someone who hadn’t the slightest notion of what such difficult terms as “audit,” “profit,” and “loss” meant, Starr bluffed his way better than could be expected, but I could sense that he wasn’t making much of an impression on Mrs. Pomeroy’s Mr. Overton—or at least not a good one. Clarice didn’t seem to be paying much attention, constantly jumping up to change a selection or to make the overpowering noise still louder or higher or deeper, but I have since learned that Mrs. Pomeroy, addlepated as she may seem, allows very little to escape her.

  At eight-thirty I rose wearily to my feet. “I’m sorry, but I really have to go,” I said. Starr shot me a look of pathetic desperation.

  “Oh, stay, sweetie. I’ll send the car fer yer cute missus an’ we’ll make a regaler party of it.”

  “I’d love to,” I said dishonestly, “but,” I added quite honestly, “some friends of ours are here from Acapulco on their way back north, and we’ve promised to have dinner with them.”

  “Bring ’em all.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t. They’ve got to catch the late plane for Chicago.”

  “. . . and so you see, Mr. Starr, that I would be totally unable to advise Mrs. Pomeroy to go forward without a complete examination by our Mexican certified public . . .”

  “Good night, and thank you,” I said. “Good night, Leander,” I added with special feeling.

  It was early—for Mexico—when my wife and I got home that night. There was a big moon and it was unusually warm and still, so we decided to mix nightcaps and drink them out in the patio. We had just sat down when the light flashed on in Starr’s living room and the door opened. A voice I could recognize as Bruce van Damm’s was saying, urgently, insistently, “It’s early, Emily. Couldn’t I stay just a little . . .”

  “No, darling. Really, no,” Emily whispered. “Daddy’s out, and I don’t know when he’ll be home. He might not like it. So go now. Please. Please before I . . .” Just what she was afraid of doing I shall never know. The two of them went into a fervent embrace that cleared up quite a lot of questions in my mind.

  Chivalrously I coughed a couple of times, cleared my throat, and lit a cigarette, brandishing my lighter as though it were the torch of the Olympiad. Instantly they sprang apart, assuming the stiff, unnatural attitudes of the models who pose for etiquette problems in Elinor Ames’s “The Correct Thing.”

  “Well, good night, Emily,” Bruce said, in a well-bred baritone.

  “Good night, Bruce. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “I do hope I’ll be able to say yes. I’ll ask my father.”

  “May I call you?”

  “Please do.”

  There was a pretty handshake—one almost expected a dancing-school bow and curtsy—and Bruce came marching in our direction like a guardsman.

  “Good evening, Bruce.”

  “Oh, good evening, sir. Mrs. Dennis? I had no idea you were here.”

  “So we gathered,” my wife said. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening and good night. I didn’t know how late it was getting. Well, buenas noches.” With that he was off.

  A few moments later, Emily, lipstick replenished, hair freshly combed, wa
ndered out to where we were sitting. “Good evening. I haven’t seen either of you all day. I seem to be out of cigarettes and wondered if I could . . .”

  “By all means,” I said. “If you wait a minute, I’ll go in and get you a whole package.” She’d become so much more human that I refrained from adding that they were just a Mexican imitation of American filtered cigarettes.

  “Oh, no. Please don’t. Just one. Then I’m off to bed. Thank you. You don’t happen to know where Daddy’s been all day, do you, Mr. Dennis?”

  “I certainly do, because I’ve been with him almost every minute of it. He’s been racing around town getting his new picture started.”

  “Is Daddy really going to make another movie? How thrilling! And Mummy always said . . . Well, I’m very glad he’s going to be active again. He was gone before I got up, and he wasn’t home when I came back to change for dinner, and I just wondered. . . .”

  “Have no fear. Your poor father is dining with Mrs. Worthington Pomeroy.”

  “Oh.” Her face became hard and disapproving once again. “Mr. Dennis. Do you like Mrs. Pomeroy?”

  “Lord, no. Nobody does.”

  “Then what do you suppose Daddy sees in her? She’s common and vulgar and loud and pushy and . . .”

  “Money, my dear.”

  “What?”

  “Money. Your father’s interest in Mrs. Pomeroy is purely a business one. He wants her to invest in his new film. There’s nothing between them.”