Acapulco Heat (The Havana Affair Trilogy #1)

Chapter 1

The plane gained speed as it raced down the runway. Scott McCoy, sitting in an aisle seat, felt his phone vibrate:

We’re done, hope your plane crashes

Who the hell leaves their gf alone on Xmas!!!

I want my speakers back

That’s how Taylor dumped Scott, just before the wheels of the plane left the ground at JFK Airport, on a plane bound for Acapulco, Mexico—the day before Christmas Eve.

Scott’s phone vibrated again. Taylor’s final text: the middle finger emoji.

Scott slumped back in his chair as the plane took flight. Across from him sat an attractive blonde flight attendant.

He smiled. She responded with an icy stare, then pointed to his phone. Translation: Put that phone away before I bitch slap you. And thank you for flying La Caba?a Airlines.

Taylor and Scott’s relationship took a nosedive faster than Santa’s reindeer on Vicodin when, earlier that day, Scott told Taylor that he had to leave for Mexico on a last-minute business trip. She hung up the phone before he even had a chance to explain.

Scott sighed, closed his eyes and tried to relax.

The trouble started that afternoon over wings and beers with his boss, Henry Winkle, at the Poet’s Pub in Midtown Manhattan, a popular drinking hole for New York’s real life Mad Men, just across the street from Central Park.

Henry was sitting across from Scott at one of the high tops near the stone fireplace in the back of the bar.

His boss was short and bald and looked older than 60 even though he wasn’t quite 50.

New Amsterdam Advertising was a one-man operation before Henry hired Scott a few years ago fresh out of college.

Scott was tall with dark hair, a chiseled face, and a quiet confidence that belied his age. Before meeting Taylor, girls always asked him, how are you still single? But if Scott was a stand-in for Keanu Reeves, his boss was more of a George Castanza type, a round-faced, lovable New York chatterbox.

But today, Henry was not himself. The fire crackled as Henry stared at the flames, his mind gnawing at something like a dog with a bone. “Henry, stop stalling,” Scott finally said. “What is it? Are you firing me just before Christmas?”

Henry turned his attention toward a painting next to the fireplace, a portrait of Charles Dickens, the immortal author of A Christmas Carol.

Henry smirked as if he just thought of something.

But, before he could speak, in walked a dozen well-heeled men and women from one of the rival ad agencies led by a silver-haired fox in a black overcoat. He had a deep tan and a beaming smile.

They were from the Office of Benjamin and French, and the suave leader of the pack was none other than Bill French himself, whom everyone called Frenchy.

He ran a silk-tie ad firm that looked down on scrappy shops like Henry’s.

Benjamin and French had clients like big soda companies with red cans and cursive writing, car makers with spokesmen from Hollywood, and cereal brands whose jingles were seared into kids’ brains by age five.

New Amsterdam Advertising, on the other hand, lived off mom and pop shops, startups, and other businesses too small for the big guys on Madison Avenue, the scraps, as Henry affectionally called them.

Just last week, Henry bought a round of drinks when Scott landed an account with a Las Vegas air-conditioning company whose tagline was, “Your girlfriend is hot. Do something about it.”

“Give them the filet mignon, Scottie,” Henry was fond of saying. “I’ll take the chuck eye. More flavor.”

Frenchy’s associates were young and fit and graduated from schools covered in ivy.

They made six figure salaries, had expense accounts, and attended splashy parties hosted by The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, and Giorgio Armani.

The men’s hair shined with gel. They wore Italian suits and Gucci ties.

The female associates wore Prada, carried Chanel bags, and got their hair styled at Makino.

Frenchy brushed the snow off the shoulders of one of his associates before handing her a long-stemmed glass of prosecco. She was a petite red head with freckles and a long black coat. He whispered something in her ear and she laughed.

“He keeps finding them younger and younger,” Henry said to Scott.

Frenchy spotted Henry across the room. “How’s the year looking for you, Henry?” he called out.

“We’re doing just fine, Frenchy,” Henry’s fake politeness fooled no one.

“I bet you are,” Frenchy said. “Stay out of trouble, Henry.” He turned back to the redhead.

“Choke on it, Frenchy,” Henry said under his breath, then took a long drink from his red ale.

Just then an energetic waitress with emerald green eyes and a bright smile approached the table. Her ponytail whipped like a rope as she turned toward Henry and said, in a plucky Irish accent, “Another round of wings for ya, boys?”

“Absolutely,” Henry said, slapping the wooden table for effect. The waitress dashed off.

“For fuck’s sake, play some defense!” a girl at the other end of the bar yelled at the TV. Those around her groaned in frustration as the camera zoomed in on a player dancing in the end zone.

Henry turned back to Scott. “Here’s the deal, Scott. I’m flying you to Acapulco tonight to meet with Contessa at the Christmas party.” Contessa was the owner of the Las Olas Hotel, the loveliest boutique hotel in all of Acapulco and an account Henry coveted.

“Time is of the essence, Scott,” he continued. “We need to speak with her before she sells the hotel, and only you can pull this off.”

He was right. Scott had known Contessa since he was a kid, having vacationed there with his late father Chip McCoy every Christmas since he was 2. She was like a second mother to him and the hotel like a second home.

A few months ago, he had gotten a call from his old friend Tom Finley, another guy who grew up going to the hotel.

An international broker friend of his told him that Contessa was looking to sell.

Rumor had it that business was slow. Being in advertising, Scott immediately told his boss about the rumored sale, knowing that Henry lived for these opportunities.

Of course, Henry loved the idea. Henry and Scott had worked with several boutique hotels this year and had a simple but proven formula for turning around struggling hotels: (1) hire social media influencers, (2) run an advertising blitz on vacation booking sites, (3) create content that went viral on Tik-Tok.

Number Three was the most important. With the right Tik-Tok content, Henry and Scott helped four hotels go from red to black this year alone.

If Contessa was selling the Las Olas Hotel, it could only be because the hotel wasn’t turning a profit. Otherwise, she would never sell the hotel that her father built.

“But you’re asking me to leave the day before Christmas,” Scott said. “My girlfriend will kill me!”

“Listen, Scottie, I know it’s last minute, but, like you said, Contessa always goes to the hotel’s Christmas party, so this might be our last chance to talk to her. God knows she doesn’t return my calls.”

“I told you,” Scott said, “she’s old school. She doesn’t talk business over the phone.”

“That’s fine. I’m old school too. But time is running out, Scottie. We need to stop her from selling. Once those big brands get ahold of the hotel, they won’t even look our way. They’ll hire shrimp-dick Frenchy for the job.”

It was hard to argue with him. Only Scott could pull this off.

Besides having known Contessa since he was a kid, Scott knew the Las Olas Hotel like the back of his hand.

He knew the best place to see the sunset: by the pool deck.

The best place to read a book: in the hammocks next to Café Del Mar.

Where to find shade by the pool when all the umbrellas were taken: under the palm trees by the lagoon.

To top it off, his Spanish was good enough to fool most locals.

The hardest part would be going to Las Olas Hotel without his father, who died in a jeep accident last summer.

Having lost his mother to cancer when he was young, his dad was all he had.

He tried not to think about him. Everyone’s father dies at some point, but that didn’t make it any easier, and the months since his death hadn’t gotten any better.

“The iron is hot, Scottie. Time to strike! You’re booked on a non-stop to Acapulco out of JFK this evening.”

“But I can’t—my girlfriend.”

The clickety-clack of hooves on pavement echoed from outside as a horse drawn carriage passed by. “Scottie, let me tell you something about that girlfriend of yours Tina?—”

“Taylor.”

“Right, Taylor. I want you to look at something.” He reached into the breast pocket of his ruffled brown jacket and pulled out a card. “Tell me what you see.”

Scott smiled. It was the Christmas card that Henry and his wife sent out this year, the same card that Scott put on his refrigerator to entertain his friends.

Intertwined green wreaths framed the edges of the card which showed Henry and his wife Marybeth sitting on a park bench holding hands.

Between them was their fluffy cockapoo Garfield, his floppy ears covering his eyes like a Muppet.

The dog wore a red sweater that looked like it belonged on the Norwegian Ski Team.

A pair of reindeer antlers sat upon the poor creature’s head.

As the theory goes, dogs often look like their owners, and this was definitely the case with Garfield, whose fluffy hairdo matched Marybeth’s down to the bangs covering her eyes.

With big smiles, red cheeks, and ugly Christmas sweaters, the chubby couple were so full of holiday cheer they looked ready to burst.

Scott bit his lip. “Go ahead and laugh all you want, Scottie. I know how ridiculous I look next to that dog who hates me almost as much as I hate him. But I have a reason for doing that Christmas card every year. Can you guess what it is? I mean, after all, I’m Jewish.

I don’t even celebrate Christmas. So why the heck would I send out a Christmas card every year, especially one where I look so ridiculous? ”

“I don’t have a clue, Henry.”

“I’ll tell you why. My wife loves three things in this world: that mangy dog, Christmas, and most of all—me.

I fell in love with a choir girl at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, what did I expect?

And because I love my wife, I learned to make compromises.

Happy wife, happy life. Do you get what I’m saying? ”

“Sure,” Scott said.

“But you know what else, Scottie? I’ve learned to love Christmas, too, so much so that I load up my Spotify playlist with Christmas music. Thank God Jimmy Buffett made a Christmas album!” Henry slapped the table as he laughed at his own joke. “So now do you understand why I do what I do?”

“Compromise,” Scott said.

“That’s right.” He held out both his hands as if weighing two sides of things.

"I go on long business trips; she gets a dog. I play golf on the weekends; she goes to Napa Valley with her sorority sisters. I pretend to love that dog and send out that embarrassing Christmas Card; she agrees to have sex with me.” He slapped the table again.

This time Scott laughed along with him. “Too much information?”

“Just a little bit,” Scott said.

"Compromise. It’s a beautiful word, Scottie. And if your girlfriend is the right one, then she’ll learn to compromise, too. Now, tell Tonya?—”

“Taylor.”

“I mean, Taylor. Tell her she can come along. I’ll pay for the both of ya.”

“And what if she says no?”

“Then there’s a woman who can’t compromise, and she’s not for you.”

“And then what’ll I do?”

“Oy vey, Scott, do I have to think of everything for you? You find another girlfriend. You’re going to Acapulco, after all.

Tons of girls at the beach, in the bars, at the strip clubs.

” Another burst of laughter. “Better keep that last one off the company card. But really, Scottie, some of the greatest moments in life happen only in Acapulco.” He drained the rest of his ale and stood up and adjusted his pants, which were always in a state of falling down. “C’mon, I’ll walk you out.”

Henry blathered on some more about seizing opportunities, the importance of timing, and—of course—compromise.

There was no point in pushing back. And anyway, Scott did want to save the hotel, and this might be his only chance.

He got on the train and headed uptown to his tiny apartment in Spanish Harlem to pack his bags.

The wheels of the plane hit the ground in Acapulco, jolting Scott awake.

He rubbed his eyes and looked out the window at the bright landscape of swaying palm trees and Bermuda grass as álvarez International Airport appeared in the hazy distance. It was Christmas Eve.

A bell dinged, prompting the passengers to stand and gather their bags. No turning back now, Scott thought. Two deep breaths. He was a new man in a new land: depressed, single, excited, unsure, here, I, go.