Paco Taibo II - Mexico City Noir

I almost proposed on the spot.

We walked a few blocks, slowly entering the trendy new neighborhood where bars, restaurants, and shops vied to trap unwitting tourists: the Zona Rosa. We followed my nose for cocktails and chose a tiki bar named the Mauna Loa. I told her who I was, what I did, and I told her about my life. That took about twenty minutes. When it was her turn, she talked for more than two hours. I didn’t care: a mai tai accompanied by those black eyes was pretty close to paradise.

She told me she studied architecture at the university. In her free time, she worked as a nanny and belonged to a student group that liked to talk politics, smoke pot, and fix the country with their ideas. That’s where she’d met her boyfriend. His parents were dead and his only kin was an uncle who lived in Guatemala. She was independent, exciting, and beautiful. I’d just landed the top prize.

“… young people should come together, the future is in our hands,” she said excitedly.

“I don’t see how I could change the world. I’d need to be Superman and put on that cape to defend justice. So long as I don’t have superstrength and the power to fly, I think I’ll stick with surviving,” I confessed. It was pretty low-grade philosophy, but it was mine, and I wasn’t just going to give it away either.

“Maybe that’s what you should do: be a superhero and save the needy, not work for the oppressors,” she scolded. She was even more attractive when angry.

“Like your old boss, Mr. Moreno? Is that why you black-mailed him?” I went at her hard. I didn’t need to be that cruel but I had to earn my money.

“He only hired me to take care of his son. He was married to another woman and didn’t know what to do. I helped him with the boy after the suicide,” she said offhandedly.

“And there wasn’t an extracurricular relationship? He’s pretty famous.”

“You think I was involved with Mr. Moreno? You’re a pervert!” she said, but she was laughing at me. My case was falling apart. She wasn’t blackmailing him. “He paid for the funeral and the services when Miss Myriam died. I don’t know if he loved her but he kept his promise to take care of the boy without letting the scandal affect his wife. Even so, the police always tried to implicate him.”

“The police?”

“Yeah, those guys with the shields, the guns, and faces like dogs. If you don’t know them, I’ll gladly introduce you.” She sipped her drink with a sly grin and let herself be contemplated. She knew I was caught in her web. “And you? Do you have a woman?”

“Not that I know of,” I blurted, thrown off by the question. “Do you have a man?” she shot at me. She was getting her revenge.

“No, I don’t have anyone or anything-animal, vegetable, or mineral. What about your boyfriend?”

“That’s in the past. He studied philosophy and letters. He loved social causes more than me. That’s why I left him.”

“Wow, a real Superman. Did he use that old trick with the eyeglasses to make himself appear as a nerd? I can do that even without the eyeglasses.”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she made a face-half smile, half disgust. After a moment, she said, “I’m not the person who sent those notes to Mr. Moreno. Anyway, it’s been nice.

I need to get home. Pancho Villa hasn’t eaten.” She put her beret back on.

“The guy in the blue car could be waiting for you. It won’t be good for your health,” I said. That didn’t stop her. She was a rock.

“Well, I’d have to go back someday. If they want to hurt me, I can’t stop them.”

“Let me go with you. I could be your hero…” I mumbled as I dropped a couple of bills to cover the drinks. I followed her to the door. “Pancho Villa?”

“My black cat,” she said in a schoolgirl’s voice. I melted.

By the time we got to her building, the kids who’d rented the bikes were gone, probably drinking hot chocolate at home. Nighttime gave the neighborhood a different air, refreshing it with the sound of families murmuring around their TVs. The mechanic was still at the shop. He’d replaced the tamales with a bottle of beer, some tacos, and a buddy.

He waved when he saw us. While Andrea searched her bag for her keys, I saw an enormous black cat at the window-sill. I figured it was General Villa and smiled at him.

As soon as Andrea opened the front door to the building, my nose was assaulted by a strong garlic smell. I recognized it.

I knew it was emanating from an orangutan wearing a wide tie. When I tried to stop Andrea, King Kong Jr. leaped from a corner, gun in hand. He threw his arm around the girl’s neck like a snake. I cursed myself for having left the Colt in the car.

“I told you to keep out of this, gringuito,” the guy grunted. Andrea didn’t even try to make a move. She knew this man wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her.

“I know he gave you money to give to her. But this is my doing. She doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. You shouldn’t have interfered, you asshole,” he sneered. Andrea didn’t seem surprised.

“You’re the cop in charge of Miss Myriam’s case,” she deciphered. The gorilla twitched unhappily, but didn’t let go. For an instant, he looked upset about being fingered. Then he went back to what he knew best: being a motherfucker.

“Shut the the fuck up, you fucking hag! And you, where’s the cash?”

I raised my arms. I was at the threshold of the building entrance. “It’s in my car.”

“Don’t lie to me or I’ll kill her!” he screamed.

I raised my arms even higher. “It’s hidden in the place I normally stash my gun. That’s why you didn’t find it last time,” I explained. He turned to look at Andrea. Ever the rock, she just stared back at him with her black eyes, attacking him for having involved her in something so unseemly.

“Let’s go. Don’t pull any shit.”

We moved toward the street. I walked slowly. The bike mechanic and his buddy were in the midst of their partying. If we made it to the car, trying to take off with the money would surely get us both killed. I quickly glanced around, then lifted one of the bikes and threw it with all my might at King Kong Jr. He wasn’t expecting it. He let go of Andrea to aim his gun. The bike hit his hand and knocked the weapon toward him, but his finger was still on the trigger. The bullet crossed his eyes. Just like in the movies, the gorilla dropped dead to the ground. There was no blonde to cry for him. The mechanic got up and approached the body. “Hijo de la chingada!”

“It’s fucking good.” I brought the cup to my lips and slurped the margarita, then put it back on the silver tray. I looked around. The place was beautiful. We were in a colonial hacienda, on the patio, serenaded by chirping birds and a gurgling fountain. A waiter, as discreet as an obstetrician, had just brought our drinks. Cantinflas had his own assistant on hand. It looked as if the newly opened restaurant at the San Ángel Inn was the place to be. All of its patrons seemed to work in the movies, TV, politics, or had at least been involved in sex scandals.

I removed the bundle of dollars from my pants pocket and put it on the table next to my drink. Mr. Moreno stared down at the bills for a second, then they disappeared into his mustard-colored jacket.

“I took my fee from the money. I hope there’s no problem with that,” I told him as I drank the wonderful elixir.

“Then you can guarantee that I’ll never be bothered by that blackmail attempt again? I’m surprised you don’t need the money…” he said with a funny smile; he had erased all traces of his surgery for this public appearance.

“I guarantee it. That’s not your problem anymore. I recommend you find another one,” I responded, finishing off my drink. It was a fact: the San Ángel Inn was the best place for a margarita.