joke all they want about Mexican gardeners and field workers and illegal immigrants but what they don’t get is that Mexicans think about those people as Indians and look down on them,too.
This is Mexico’s dirty secret: the darker your skin, the lower your status. Which sort of reminds you of … of …
Uhhhh …
Anyway, lighter-skinned Mexicans look down their noses at darker-skinned Mexicans, but not as much as they look down on Americans.
(Black Americans? Fucking forget it.)
Yeah, okay, so Elena thinks that this “Chon” is an
animale
, but a dangerous
animale.
The “Ben” has his uses, but refuses to use them. In any case, she cannot brook their disobedience.
“So do you want them killed?” Alex asks.
Elena thinks it over and her answer is
Not yet.
74
Not yet.
Because a Dead Ben couldn’t cultivate the excellent herb that produces so much potential profit. And a Live Ben would never do that if they kill his friend Chon. And this Chon, if past is prologue, has certain uses of his own.
So, wasteful to kill them.
Besides, it is better that these two be seen by the rest of the world to obey.
So—
INT. ELENA’S OFFICE – DAY
ELENA
What we need to do is force him to come work for us on our stated terms.
ALEX
How are we going to do that?
ELENA
(smiling cryptically)
I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.
75
Yeah, it’s a goddamn shame that Elena is allergic to feline dander, because it would be great to have a cat on her lap at that moment, but in reality she wouldn’t fuck up an expensive dress with all that cat hair anyway.
But basically that’s what she said.
Which begs a question
Doesn’t it?
76
Elena knows that love makes you strong
And love makes you weak.
Love makes you vulnerable.
So if you have enemies
Take what they love.
77
O
looks fantastic in your basic little black dress that nevertheless must have cost a mortgage payment. Sheer black stockings and black fuck-me shoes. Her hair cut and dyed back to its “natural” blonde, shiny and sleek.
“Wow.”
Ben says.
Chon nods his agreement.
She smiles at their approval, revels in it, basks in the sunshine of their admiration.
“You went all out,” Ben says.
“I did,” O answers. “I’m going out with both my men.”
78
They take a limo to the Salt Creek Grille.
Hard to get a table there at short notice unless you’re Ben the King of Hydro and then you could get a table at the freaking Last Supper if that’s what you want. Yeah, they’d rush Jesus through dessert to accommodate Ben (“The gentleman at the end already took care of the bill, sir. With cash. Come back and see us again soon”), so table for three is
no problema.
Beautiful there under the strings of lights on the PCH.
Nothing not to love.
Fine soft spring night, the air smells like flowers and O is beautiful, smiling, and happy. The food is great although Ben just has the miso soup, which he seasons with Lomotil tablets, the chemical cork, as any Third World sojourner knows.
Not O—she fired up some of Ben’s appetizer boo and eats like a pregnant horse. Starts with the calamari then hits the French onion soup, the grilled ahi with cracked pepper crust and aioli, garlic mashed potatoes, Gujerati green beans, then the crème brûlée.
The wine flows.
No bill, no tab, no receipt but they leave a liberal “as-if” tip, then go out to the limo, blaze up, and hit the exclusive hotel bars—the St. Moritz, the Montage, the Ritz-Carlton, the Surf & Sand. Apple martinis and O grabbing glances everywhere, she’s so hot with her two men.
“It’s like that movie,” she says, standing on the patio of the Ritz looking out at the moonlight hitting the breakers.
“What movie?” Ben asks.
“That old movie,” O says, “with Paul Newman when he was alive and Robert Redford when he was young. I was home sick one day from school and it was on cable.”
“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,”
Chon kicks in.
This is Mexico’s dirty secret: the darker your skin, the lower your status. Which sort of reminds you of … of …
Uhhhh …
Anyway, lighter-skinned Mexicans look down their noses at darker-skinned Mexicans, but not as much as they look down on Americans.
(Black Americans? Fucking forget it.)
Yeah, okay, so Elena thinks that this “Chon” is an
animale
, but a dangerous
animale.
The “Ben” has his uses, but refuses to use them. In any case, she cannot brook their disobedience.
“So do you want them killed?” Alex asks.
Elena thinks it over and her answer is
Not yet.
74
Not yet.
Because a Dead Ben couldn’t cultivate the excellent herb that produces so much potential profit. And a Live Ben would never do that if they kill his friend Chon. And this Chon, if past is prologue, has certain uses of his own.
So, wasteful to kill them.
Besides, it is better that these two be seen by the rest of the world to obey.
So—
INT. ELENA’S OFFICE – DAY
ELENA
What we need to do is force him to come work for us on our stated terms.
ALEX
How are we going to do that?
ELENA
(smiling cryptically)
I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.
75
Yeah, it’s a goddamn shame that Elena is allergic to feline dander, because it would be great to have a cat on her lap at that moment, but in reality she wouldn’t fuck up an expensive dress with all that cat hair anyway.
But basically that’s what she said.
Which begs a question
Doesn’t it?
76
Elena knows that love makes you strong
And love makes you weak.
Love makes you vulnerable.
So if you have enemies
Take what they love.
77
O
looks fantastic in your basic little black dress that nevertheless must have cost a mortgage payment. Sheer black stockings and black fuck-me shoes. Her hair cut and dyed back to its “natural” blonde, shiny and sleek.
“Wow.”
Ben says.
Chon nods his agreement.
She smiles at their approval, revels in it, basks in the sunshine of their admiration.
“You went all out,” Ben says.
“I did,” O answers. “I’m going out with both my men.”
78
They take a limo to the Salt Creek Grille.
Hard to get a table there at short notice unless you’re Ben the King of Hydro and then you could get a table at the freaking Last Supper if that’s what you want. Yeah, they’d rush Jesus through dessert to accommodate Ben (“The gentleman at the end already took care of the bill, sir. With cash. Come back and see us again soon”), so table for three is
no problema.
Beautiful there under the strings of lights on the PCH.
Nothing not to love.
Fine soft spring night, the air smells like flowers and O is beautiful, smiling, and happy. The food is great although Ben just has the miso soup, which he seasons with Lomotil tablets, the chemical cork, as any Third World sojourner knows.
Not O—she fired up some of Ben’s appetizer boo and eats like a pregnant horse. Starts with the calamari then hits the French onion soup, the grilled ahi with cracked pepper crust and aioli, garlic mashed potatoes, Gujerati green beans, then the crème brûlée.
The wine flows.
No bill, no tab, no receipt but they leave a liberal “as-if” tip, then go out to the limo, blaze up, and hit the exclusive hotel bars—the St. Moritz, the Montage, the Ritz-Carlton, the Surf & Sand. Apple martinis and O grabbing glances everywhere, she’s so hot with her two men.
“It’s like that movie,” she says, standing on the patio of the Ritz looking out at the moonlight hitting the breakers.
“What movie?” Ben asks.
“That old movie,” O says, “with Paul Newman when he was alive and Robert Redford when he was young. I was home sick one day from school and it was on cable.”
“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,”
Chon kicks in.
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