Paco Taibo II: Mexico City Noir

A woman crosses his path. She looks at him. Vikingo thinks her face looks familiar. He thinks he remembers her scolding him for being so dirty and stinking so badly, shooing him from the sidewalk, threatening to call the police if he didn’t go away. He wants to go around her but the woman stops to block him. He thinks about going backward, but he can’t remember how to do it; he only knows how to walk forward. The woman is so disagreeable. She comes toward him, grabs the cart, the wire grid.

“I knew you had to come this way, smelly. You’re not going to get away from me. I already know what you did last night. C’mon, show me what you’ve got in your cart.”

Last night. It wasn’t me. I’m nobody. Vikingo freezes. His legs buckle. His heart races wildly. The image of this Fernando in a bloody pool flashes in his memory. Fernando. That’s what the others called the guy they were after. “Fernando! Stop right there, cabrón! You want protection but you don’t want to pay for it? We’ve come to collect, you son of a bitch!” That’s what the guys in uniform were yelling at him. Then the shots. “And you, get outta the way, you fucking bum! And if you open your mouth, you know what’s gonna happen to you!” The images jump to Vikingo’s mind out of order, as if the woman’s scolding has triggered them. Fernando running. His belly spilling blood. I pushed him and I got covered with it. Fernando on the ground. Blood on my hands. And the bottle… They gave me the bottle. “You haven’t seen anything, you bum.” “No, chief. I didn’t see a thing. I never see anything. I don’t hear anything. I’m nobody.” “That’s how we like it, cabrón. Here, take this bottle. It’ll help you forget.” “Yes, chief.” “But we’re always going to remember you. And we’re the law. We can take you whenever we want. You understand?” “Yes, chief.” “What’s your name?” “I don’t have a name, chief. I’m nobody.” “Fine, I like that, now be quiet and get outta here.”

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t have name, chief. I’m nobody.”

“Don’t call me chief. I’m Mrs. Chávez, the head of the neighborhood association.”

“Yes, chief.”

“People are complaining about the drunks and drug addicts who hang around here. I just reported you. You’re the one they call Vikingo, right?” “I’m nobody.”

He tries to get her to let go of the cart, but she holds on as if she has claws. He tries again but with little success. Vikingo’s bones have lost their strength, they feel like putty, watered down, drained of energy. He wants to beg the woman to let him go, to tell her he has to keep walking, but the only things out of his mouth are the same words as always.

“I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything either. I’m nobody…”

“You’re gonna tell me you don’t know anything about the dead guy they found this morning near the government parking lot? They say there was a bum hanging around with a supermarket cart. And you’re the only one around here who’s always dragging a cart. Have you seen yourself? The least you could have done is washed off the blood after killing the man.”

“Fernando…”

The woman smiles triumphantly and her face twists into a malicious mask.

“Yes, Fernando Aranda. See, you do know. Now you’re gonna tell the cops everything.”

“I don’t know anything. I just…”

Desperation gives him strength to move the cart but he still can’t get the woman to let go.

“You’re not going anywhere, you criminal!”

“I swear, I don’t know anything.”

People begin to gather and listen to the argument. Some are from the neighborhood and they know both him and the woman. Others have only noticed them in passing. There’s some murmuring. Vikingo recognizes words like corpse, homicide, killer . He remembers how, whenever there was a dead guy, the uniforms used to come for him and his friends around Parque Delta and they’d interrogate them in the bowels of the police station. He remembers the wet towels stinging his skin, the electric shocks, water spurting into his brain. Screaming in pain. The mocking questions and giving the answers over and over until he was exhausted. The answers the only words left in his brain. In his fogginess, he also remembers that before the interrogations, he knew who he was. His name. His past. A big wave of fury and panic passes through him as he distinguishes the blue and red lights from a squad car on a nearby window. The murmuring increases. The dead, they say. He killed him . He jerks the cart forcefully to loosen it and the woman screams.

“Ay! Beast! You broke my nail!”

The onlookers part as he makes his way toward them, while the woman runs in the direction of the squad car. I don’t know anything, chief. I didn’t see anything. I’m nobody.

Two uniformed cops get out of the car. Vikingo sees them and realizes they’re the same guys who went after Fernando. Without hesitation, he grabs the liquor bottle, opens it, and drains the last bit. The alcohol makes his stomach tremble, then spreads a pleasant warmth through his body. Fernando, that was his name. They shouted his name. I didn’t see anything.

“Hey, you, cabrón! Stop!”

It’s the same voice from last night. They’re even the same words. The only thing missing is Fernando’s name. Fernando. Yes. But, unlike that guy, Vikingo doesn’t run: he just walks. “I don’t know anything, chief. I never see anything. I’m nobody.” He recites his litany as footsteps come up behind him. He figures that history repeats itself, that they’ll take him to the station’s bowels, or to some other cellar, to squeeze the truth out of him, that they’re going to stick him with the murder of a guy he didn’t even know, like they’ve done so many other times, and that after a few weeks or a couple of years in the penitentiary they’ll throw him back out on the streets, where he’ll have to find a doorway to sleep in again and a supermarket cart to keep walking. He wants another cigarette really badly. But there are no matches. “I swear, chief. That’s right.” When the footsteps slow down behind him, Vikingo recalls the face of the corpse from the night before. “I don’t know anything. I’m nobody. I just walk. A step. Another. Then one more.”

Vallejo

The set of jungle music Lizzy programmed on her iPod to wake her up went off at 7 in the morning. She stretched, untangling herself from the black silk sheets on the king-sized futon.

Just like every morning, the first thing she looked at when she opened her eyes was a painting by Julio Galán on the wall directly in front of the bed in her Polanco apartment.

Fifteen minutes later, her personal trainer was waiting for her in the adjoining gym with an energy drink in her hand. Helga was an ex-Olympic finalist from Germany who accompanied her everywhere.

“ GutenTag ,” said the blonde. Lizzy replied with a grunt. Lizzy did forty minutes of aerobic exercise and an hour of weights.

At 9, after a cold shower, Lizzy ate a bowl of cereal with nonfat yogurt and drank green tea while checking her e-mail on her iPhone. Alone in the immense dining room, she peered out her large windows overlooking Chapultepec Castle. Pancho brought her breakfast from the kitchen, where he had prepared it himself.

At 10, in her office parking lot in Santa Fe, Lizzy stepped out of her car, a black 1970 Impala with flames painted on the sides.

On her orders, the car had been salvaged from a shop in Perros Muertos, Coahuila, and sent to Los Angeles for restoration.

She busied herself during the morning hours with financial matters. Tired of the fiscal chaos left by her late father, she had sought advice from an investment counselor who suggested she diversify her portfolio.