Mexico City Noir by Paco Ignacio Taibo II Read Free Book Online
Authors: Paco Ignacio Taibo II
business. El Mandarín knew that if all the cars stolen in one year in the Valley of Mexico were lined up, they would reach Cuernavaca, more than seventy kilometers away. That was why it was great business.
El Mandarín was eighteen years old, the senior member of his gang, which was an immense responsibility, so he didn’t steal cars on Tuesdays or Thursdays because he was too busy studying Russian. He’d heard a few things: that Volkswagens sold well in North Africa because they were air-cooled instead of water-cooled; that small trucks did well in Guatemala; and that Dodge was all the rage in Eastern Europe, where everybody spoke Russian.
Manterola and José Daniel found him at the entrance to his high school and he made no move to run. It would have been different in his own neighborhood, but he had no idea where he could run around here.
“I guess I’m fucked,” he said, and resigned himself to a simple smile.
You only go back at night when you want something. I return to the dark so that it’ll keep me from the day’s perverse routines, from the failures of love. José Daniel Fierro was writing on his keyboard when the doorbell got stuck. He bitched all the way to the door because one of his legs had fallen asleep. It was 4 in the morning.
Manterola measured him with a killer gaze.
“You want to have a charanga or a chimichurri or a chimiganga or whatever the fuck you call it—a masked ball on that corner? That’s all we need—you let them wear masks while they rob us, you give all those assholes an excuse to dress up as wrestlers so they can fuck with us.”
Fierro sighed and pulled out a cigarette.
The festival was one of the biggest successes in the history of the Neighborhood of Doctors. Years later people would still be talking about how well Tania Libertad sang, how delicious the carnitas were, how beautifully the kids read their poetry, and especially about the endless conga started by El Mastuerzo when he screamed out, “Viva Emiliano Zapata!”
There were no problems with the police. Community members stopped two domestic disturbances, kept kids from drinking beer, and even caught a bike thief who’d come over from Buenos Aires.
José Daniel Fierro gave the corner a leading role in the last few chapters of his novel; he even violated his own literary sensibilities and ended the story with an over-the-top kitschy description of two teens kissing at dusk at the intersection of Doctor Erasmo and Doctor Monteverde.
Agent Vicente Manterola was arrested in Puebla for raping a queen who was friendly with the local governor. While he was detained, a prisoner who didn’t like how Manterola was looking at him took one of his eyes out with a scrap from an empty soda can.
El Mandarín ended up in North Africa, driving a gypsy cab in Casablanca.
The corner was no longer cursed after the festival. The multicolored pins moved malevolently to other corners of Mexico City.
The owner of the Flor de Gijón retired and, since he’d saved a small fortune, went to live in the country of his birth. The day he left Mexico, he nearly bumped into José Daniel Fierro at the airport, but the writer didn’t recognize him since he was too busy buying duty-free cigarettes.
THE UNSMILING COMEDIAN
BY F.G. H AGHENBECK
Condesa
I heard Andrea Rojas’s name the same day I met Cantinflas. She was nice, smart, and had a fine sense of humor. Not Cantinflas. He was like the other stars at Cinelandia:
simply a star.
While President Lyndon B. Johnson prepared to send a man to the moon, I decided to stay for a couple of months in Mexico City. I wanted to do pretty typical things: go to a wrestling match; bet on the bull in a bullfight at Plaza Mexico; drink a bottle of tequila at a bar in Tenampa; and enjoy a banana split at the Roxy. I also wanted to do an atypical thing: take care of my mother while she recovered from surgery. Her convalescence had yanked me out of my half-life as a beatnik bloodhound in Venice
El Mandarín was eighteen years old, the senior member of his gang, which was an immense responsibility, so he didn’t steal cars on Tuesdays or Thursdays because he was too busy studying Russian. He’d heard a few things: that Volkswagens sold well in North Africa because they were air-cooled instead of water-cooled; that small trucks did well in Guatemala; and that Dodge was all the rage in Eastern Europe, where everybody spoke Russian.
Manterola and José Daniel found him at the entrance to his high school and he made no move to run. It would have been different in his own neighborhood, but he had no idea where he could run around here.
“I guess I’m fucked,” he said, and resigned himself to a simple smile.
You only go back at night when you want something. I return to the dark so that it’ll keep me from the day’s perverse routines, from the failures of love. José Daniel Fierro was writing on his keyboard when the doorbell got stuck. He bitched all the way to the door because one of his legs had fallen asleep. It was 4 in the morning.
Manterola measured him with a killer gaze.
“You want to have a charanga or a chimichurri or a chimiganga or whatever the fuck you call it—a masked ball on that corner? That’s all we need—you let them wear masks while they rob us, you give all those assholes an excuse to dress up as wrestlers so they can fuck with us.”
Fierro sighed and pulled out a cigarette.
The festival was one of the biggest successes in the history of the Neighborhood of Doctors. Years later people would still be talking about how well Tania Libertad sang, how delicious the carnitas were, how beautifully the kids read their poetry, and especially about the endless conga started by El Mastuerzo when he screamed out, “Viva Emiliano Zapata!”
There were no problems with the police. Community members stopped two domestic disturbances, kept kids from drinking beer, and even caught a bike thief who’d come over from Buenos Aires.
José Daniel Fierro gave the corner a leading role in the last few chapters of his novel; he even violated his own literary sensibilities and ended the story with an over-the-top kitschy description of two teens kissing at dusk at the intersection of Doctor Erasmo and Doctor Monteverde.
Agent Vicente Manterola was arrested in Puebla for raping a queen who was friendly with the local governor. While he was detained, a prisoner who didn’t like how Manterola was looking at him took one of his eyes out with a scrap from an empty soda can.
El Mandarín ended up in North Africa, driving a gypsy cab in Casablanca.
The corner was no longer cursed after the festival. The multicolored pins moved malevolently to other corners of Mexico City.
The owner of the Flor de Gijón retired and, since he’d saved a small fortune, went to live in the country of his birth. The day he left Mexico, he nearly bumped into José Daniel Fierro at the airport, but the writer didn’t recognize him since he was too busy buying duty-free cigarettes.
THE UNSMILING COMEDIAN
BY F.G. H AGHENBECK
Condesa
I heard Andrea Rojas’s name the same day I met Cantinflas. She was nice, smart, and had a fine sense of humor. Not Cantinflas. He was like the other stars at Cinelandia:
simply a star.
While President Lyndon B. Johnson prepared to send a man to the moon, I decided to stay for a couple of months in Mexico City. I wanted to do pretty typical things: go to a wrestling match; bet on the bull in a bullfight at Plaza Mexico; drink a bottle of tequila at a bar in Tenampa; and enjoy a banana split at the Roxy. I also wanted to do an atypical thing: take care of my mother while she recovered from surgery. Her convalescence had yanked me out of my half-life as a beatnik bloodhound in Venice