On Day in Early 1981

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By, Bill Reed
One day in early 1981, I was sitting with friends at Pichòn's beach restaurant when John Huston arrived offshore and hailed me from his panga. I had received word earlier that he wanted to see me, but I had put off going to Las Caletas because I didn't want to tangle with the Alacran. I went down to the water's edge to see what it was that John wanted. He tossed me an envelope. "There, Billy. That's the final payment on the book. That does it."

No mention of foreign rights, subsidiary rights, or other income to which I was entitled by our contract. Simply, "That's it!" Maid was sitting beside him, a triumphant smirk on her face. Of course this was all at her prompting. I had no time for such petty nonsense.

I said, "Yeah, John, I suppose so. That just about does it."

John Huston and I looked at each other quietly for a few moments, exchanged casual salutes, and went our separate ways. I opened the envelope. Inside was a check for $5,000 dollars. Added to what I had previously received, that check brought my total recompense for almost four years of work with John Huston to exactly $32,500. It occurred to me that during the same four-year period, my retirement income from the U.S. Navy had totaled three times that amount. Also inside the envelope was a statement from John's business manager, Jess Morgan, which neatly itemized – and deducted from the amount which was rightfully due to me - considerable monies that I had been advanced for research and travel expenses. Not everything had been deducted; there were some items which Morgan graciously indicated were gratis.

I recalled my original conversation with John Huston concerning the subject of expenses: "I want you to go where you think you need to go, Billy, and do whatever you have to do. Interview whomever you wish. There are no restrictions, and don't penny-pinch on this. We want to do it right, don't we? And don't worry about what it costs. I'll take care of everything!"

I then re-read that sneaky Clause 7 of our written agreement, and realized that legally they had me cold. It wouldn't do any good to scream "... but you said ..." nor would I demean myself to that extent. Nor would I embarrass John by even mentioning "contract violations." I am sure that Huston had nothing to do with that, and didn't even think about it; he was above such trivial and mundane things as contracts. The head office (Jess Morgan and his Hollywood lawyers) were behind that clever gambit. Well ... another experience cost. The expense column in my life-experience-ledger was mounting alarmingly. So much for the Big Time, Reed.

I only talked with John Huston once after that, at Boca de Tomatlan. We found ourselves waiting there one day for our respective pangas. We chatted for awhile. John said, "You know, Billy, I really miss Jerry Preston. Remember how he used to stand, with his arms folded over his chest, rocking back and forth on his heels, telling those marvelous stories about Cuba? Remember the way he used to grin, give that little jerk of his head, and say, 'Yep, John. That's the way it was!' He really was something, wasn't he? I wonder what ever happened to Jerry Preston?"
I didn't have the heart to tell him. Let somebody else bring that unpleasant news. I said, "I don't really know, John, but wherever he is, I'm sure he's happily engaged in a scam of some sort."

We laughed, for the last time together. We really had nothing to say to each other. I guess we never had.
And so it went; repetitive cycles of frantic-if-prosaic activity, comedy, and semi-tragedy worthy of a first-rate soap opera. The last four years had been one hellacious merry-go-round. I was determined that 1982 would be quiet, pacific and, if possible, totally uneventful for me. I needed a break. I got one. I started off that year by breaking my back in a parachute accident. Ho hum.