Carlos Velázquez - The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories

San Pedro wanted very much to be the new gambling marquis. He had everything he needed for the role: contacts in the judiciary, a wide-tire truck in the preferred baroque style of the drug barons, and credit in Sinaloa. The only thing stopping him was Don Lucha Libre. The aging minotaur had years in the business, and it would not be easy to take over the labyrinth built on the downtown streets by his pushers.

In order to become the new Christopher Columbus of wholesale distribution and blind weigh-in, San Pedro planned to bribe one of Don Lucha Libre’s intimates. The list of untouchables included the bartender and, obviously, the aspirant to the title. The only available target was Sussy, The Cowboy Bible’s wife. With great sacrifice, the woman made burritos so that her husband could go against God and make a living as a drunk. San Pedro had only one card, and he played it.

As it turned out, Sussy was easy. She hated her husband’s celebrity. She angrily remembered when they had begun the burrito business together. The Cowboy Bible was a natural-born drinker. She’d chosen to put up with the situation and didn’t care one bit that he was an alcoholic. She trusted their profits could support his pastime. They never did too badly, as burritos were better than tamales and less hassle. Their first day, they got up early. Sussy prepared the stew, and he went to get a cooler. It was blue. Brand name Iglú. It had enough room for two hundred burritos wrapped in parchment paper.

The Cowboy Bible had known the bartender at La Cuauhnáuac since infancy; they’d been in elementary school and done military service together. When the future champion found out his buddy had a dive, he became a star client. Then the bartender gave him a chance to set up outside and sell his burritos. From the very first night on, the drunks would empty the cooler.

But their apparent prosperity was deceiving. About half their profits would disappear when they paid the tab The Cowboy Bible ran up at the bar. He was good at fueling up. When he got famous, he refused to help make the burritos. Sussy had made a last-ditch effort to save him from such a lack of productivity, but it was useless. The Cowboy Bible had become an underground rock star and spent all day at La Cuauhnáuac with a beer in one hand, wearing dark glasses, long hair, a two-week-old beard, sandals, and shorts.

When San Pedro approached Sussy, she turned out to be an excellent businesswoman and not much of a comfort to her husband. She was willing to cooperate but wanted a percentage of the pot — not just a generous cut, but the principal cut. San Pedro’s response was immediate: No way. Not only would he deny her such a sum, but he also refused to let her bet. That turf was reserved for the heaviest people; not even the nasty narco-retailers were allowed to bet. Only the heaviest heavies, and maybe one or two eccentrics who had a green light to bring trailers over the border, were on the list. To add a stranger would provoke suspicion. The cook would surely know that such an ingredient could ruin the stew.

Sussy told San Pedro to stop pretending, that he could include her at the betting tables. If you want to win, set me up. It was an insinuation, an insult directed at the drug baron. But he wasn’t bothered. He remembered the rules of the underworld: No sympathy for the devil. They closed the deal — a slot at the third table. They’d unleashed the dog. Sussy had committed herself to eliminating her husband. That poor sucker wouldn’t even be able to get up the day of the contest.

At the start of the year, the bartender suggested The Cowboy Bible go on a diet, a safeguard for his stomach. Never. The Cowboy Bible wouldn’t take any precautions. Men didn’t do that. For three years, he had been nourished on machaca burritos and would not modify his regimen. Sussy’s seasoning had made him what he was. The burritos were his Special K.

The burritos’ fame was almost as great as that of La Cuauhnáuac. They were known throughout the western side of the city. And as usually happens, they had been given the chance to expand their business. The first big order came from a young PAN loyalist who thought it would be cool to serve Sussy’s ice cooler burritos on her birthday.

Sussy had not counted on anyone to help her. The Cowboy Bible had said he would, but then refused: I’m hungover, vieja . You go at it, and if you manage to stay up all night, you’ll finish them. Whether more or fewer burritos, Sussy took care of the orders. In the meantime, The Cowboy Bible spent each afternoon shadowboxing at La Cuauhnáuac. The contest date was nearing. Rumors about an opponent who was up to snuff meant he had to increase his training.

In the next two weeks, the master burrito micro-industry went off the charts. The birthday girl told all her friends that the burritos from La Cuauhnáuac were fantastic. In order to keep up with trends, several very chic girls from her school asked their daddies for burrito parties. I can make them for you, one mother told her daughter. No, absolutely not. But it’s no big deal, hija . No, mama, they have to be street burritos. Do you understand?

The list of orders grew and Sussy could not keep up by herself. A week from the contest, the publicity campaign ramped up. The drug baron wanted his own Las Vegas at the corner of Madero and Villagrán, and he invested even more in propaganda. The Cowboy Bible dedicated the following week to finishing his training on the hill at La Campana.

San Pedro began to pressure Sussy, because The Cowboy Bible had not interrupted his training. It was looking like he would reign again as the idol of the gutless, the consul of the lumpen-depraved, the idiot drinker who would cost San Pedro thousands of pesos. It’s time to force a change, he said. We can’t lose.

Sussy wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep up her end of the deal. Preparing the burritos exhausted her, left her too wasted to plan the conspiracy they needed to perpetrate against the father of her non-existent children. She didn’t know what to do to keep her viejo from showing up at the contest.

But then The Cowboy Bible returned from La Campana in a physical condition that assured their victory. Don Lucha Libre wanted to underwrite a trip for him to Liberia so that he wouldn’t turn into a pimp, but they reconsidered, since his opponent had surely not even arrived in Villa Juárez to prepare himself. With a little visit to the Formula 1 spa, surely The Cowboy Bible’s motor would be able to get some rest.

Finally the day of the contest arrived. The excitement spread all over the city’s downtown. At ten in the morning, a parade officially kicked off the madness. A caravan sponsored by Coca-Cola led the way, polar bears included. Those in charge of logistics warned the narco that he’d look foolish. We don’t give a damn, we have more than enough bears, they taunted. For them, it was Christmas and New Year’s all year long. Besides, how would we be noticed without these red trucks? When have people not turned around to look at the colored lights on the damn trucks, soda cans painted on the sides?

At noon, a betting festival commenced at the Plaza de Armas. There was a food court, free sotol, and music by cumbia and norteño groups. At six in the afternoon, the show ended with Valentín Elizalde. People were already drunk and crazy, and everybody, including the street vendors from Oaxaca, had gathered in front of La Cuauhnáuac. As in every gala, there was a red carpet. The star hosting the event was the editor of the music magazine Furia . Carmen Salinas and the singer from Nilo Gallardo’s band, Mocorito, were among the distinguished guests. Also present were representatives from Noni Juice of Mexico, the technical director from Santos Laguna, and local superstar Wendolí, since phased out from the first generation of La Academia .