Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen

We hale a cab to the Blue Fox. I can still remember the famous Blue Fox from my good ole days in the Corps. It was the wildest or maybe it was the most successful and the most visible of the wildest, but whatever it was, it was a wild night club, strip joint and whore house known the world over for its famous donkey show. I’ve outgrown my need to see another Tijuana donkey show so I won’t share it with you, but you get the idea.

The place is more run-down and tattered than I remember it but then again I don’t ever remember seeing it in the daylight before. The door is open but there is no one at the bar. The chairs are all turned upside down on the tables and the only light is coming from an array of neon beer signs that hang eerily over the bar. The place is dead quiet and spooky. If you really concentrate you can almost hear the raucous laughter and the rowdy cat-calls of the sailors and Marines as those oh so sexy girls strut their stuff around the center stage and … and is that a donkey I hear braying off in the …

“Takatifu fuck.”

We take a seat at the dark bar and stare off into this cavernous two-story room with its center stage and dainty little cocktail tables surrounded by a dark and haunting balcony. I remember that this very club was once known not only for its donkey show but for the shameful practice of allowing their patrons to perform cunnilingus on the dancers during their performances. They boastfully advertised this practice on billboards, t-shirts and bumper stickers with slogans like Eat at the Blue Fox, The Blue Fox blue plate special, Tijuana Pussy Posse and on and on.

I’m reminded of that old line ― If these walls could talk. If they could what do you think they would tell us? Would they tell tales of the debauchery and depravity of the patrons or would they tell of the desperation and degradation of the young women driven by economic necessity to perform those humiliating acts, I wonder.

“Can I help you gentlemen,” inquires a bartender so old he was probably serving drinks here during the boom days of prohibition.

“Yes we’d like two Dos Equis and we’re here to see someone.” I say as I fumble in my pocket for Jose’s note. “Ah … Señor Antonio Gutierrez.”

“Who should I tell Mr. Gutierrez is calling?”

“Tell him that Jose Verde in California sent us and … er … we’re Boner and Bob.”

“Here’s your beer gentlemen, enjoy. I’ll tell Don Gutierrez that you are here.”

The old man shuffles into the darkness of the back of the room.

“Here’s to Josefina and César. May they be safe?” I say as I raise my beer bottle for a toast.

Boner clanks my bottle with his and mumbles through his grin, “Ni kuhusu wakati.”

Whatever that means.

We sip our beer quietly in the dark. I now know this place is haunted, and haunted with the ghosts of the summer of 1965. I can see Juicy Lucy as she bumps and grinds her shapely nude body on stage to the delight of The Few, The Proud, The Marines. I can still hear the elevated roar of the crowd as she shoves her neatly trimmed pubic patch into the face of some eager-to-oblige Marine. These are the ghosts of my long suppressed memories ― my memories of the Marines that never returned ― the Marines who’s last taste of womanhood was Juicy Lucy.

“Sir, Don Gutierrez will see you now. You can bring your beers with you. Please follow me.”

We fall in behind this geezer and it takes what seems all evening to get to a surprisingly nice office in the rear of the building. Antonio is seated behind his massive desk poring over what looks like a local newspaper. He doesn’t look up until we are squarely in front of his desk and the old barkeep says, “Don Antonio, may I introduce Mr. Bob and Mr. Boner.”

Antonio jumps to his feet as if on cue and extends his hand in a friendly but business-like fashion. We both shake his hand as he says, “Please call me Tony. I’ve been anxious to meet you every since Jose called. Please, please sit down.”

Tony is dressed like, I wanta say a stock broker … but no … he looks more like an insurance salesman all spruced up for his annual awards banquet. He’s wearing an expensive but not very tasteful business suit adorned with a tie so loud it screams—LOOK AT ME, I’M RICH!

“Jose told me you made a really big impression in L.A. in more ways than one.” He says with a chuckle.

Another asshole who laughs at his own unfunny jokes.

“Fuck wewe pia.”

“Huh?”

“Thank you for meeting with us … ah … Tony. We’ve come to you on a most urgent matter. We are in pursuit of my lady friend, Doctor Josefina Bernstein, and our pet goat, César, who we believe are traveling with an employee of yours we only know as Gustavo. Jose Verde told us that he had sent them on to you in regards to some business matter. Any information you have regarding …”

Tony interrupts me with, “They were here and I gave her and the one you call Gustavo a new assignment. He and your lady friend should be in Juarez by now working on this new project. I’ll tell you how to get in touch with them but first I’ve got something else I’d like to discuss with you.”

“I can assure you, sir we have no interest in your business or in any business activity that involves Gustavo for that matter. Our only interest is to rescue Josefina and César from that kidnapper and return them safely to our home in New Mexico.”

“Rescue is hardly the word I would use. You might persuade Dr. Bernstein to come home with you but she is far from needing rescuing.” Tony says with a sneer.

“Would you please explain why you think that she is not being held captive by Gustavo? And, do you mean to imply that she is operating of her own free will and not under the influence of her evil abductor.”

“Bob, you don’t understand at all, do you?”

“What’s not to understand?”

“Josefina Bernstein is now clearly in charge of that duo. She took over for Gustavo and he now works for her. I hired her not Gustavo for my next big job. She’s in danger, sure, but not from who you think.”

“I’ve got to get to her and talk some sense into her. This business of yours is way too dangerous for a college professor and imaginative chef and a master boner checker. Where can I find her in Juarez?”

“There is no need to panic. I just spoke to her and she’ll be laying low for the next few days. I’ll tell you how to get in touch with her but first I’d like to discuss a personal project of mine with you. I have been looking for ways to resurrect the old Blue Fox and return it to its glory as the finest establishment of its kind in this part of the world. When Jose called me and told me about Boner and his exceptional and magnificent talents I knew he is the key to the renaissance of the Blue Fox. People will come from miles around; gringos will cross the border again to see my new floor show featuring your friend Boner.”

“Takatifu fuck.”

“I can see it now … lots of beautiful girls … all in choreographed scenes with Boner. Boner will flaunt his size and staying power in a number sexy vignettes right here on this stage … all to the roar of a standing-room-only crowd. It’ll be like the old days with the donkey show but much better. What do you think?”

“We don’t have the kind of time it would take to produce a show like that even if Boner knew how to act. It will take weeks to put together a show and I’ve got to get on to Juarez and see what’s up with Josefina.”

“Bob, Bob I want to schedule this show for Saturday night one week from tomorrow. That will give me time to put together a show and to get the word out. We’ll fill the house and the old Blue Fox will be back in business again.”

“Ah, ah … I don’t think …”

“Bullshit Bob, you can and will do it. I’ve got rehearsals scheduled to start here a 10 tomorrow morning. I’ve booked rooms for you at the famous Hotel Caesar’s and I’ve already got my publicity machine in high gear.” He said as he handed me a flyer. “By this time next week everyone in Tijuana and San Diego and half of L.A. will know about our big re-opening premier and the Blue Fox’s rise from the ashes.”

“Takatifu fuck.”

The flyer is a cheaply printed handbill featuring an old photo of the Blue Fox and a headline reading:

“Takatifu fuck.”

“I agree with Boner. Holy fuck is right. We didn’t agree to do this show and you got all of this underway without our agreement or our consent. I think it was presumptuous of you to automatically assume that we …”

“No it’s you that don’t understand, Bob. You don’t have a choice.”

“Takatifu fuck.”