Mexico City Noir by Paco Ignacio Taibo II Read Free Book Online Page A

Beach. Nothing mattered much to me. Anyway, it’s always pleasant to spend time in the place where I was born. But not a lot of time, because the city is a treacherous lover. Those who love and live here only deal in pain.
    Knowing that I was hanging out on my old turf, my exboss recommended me for a local job. Ever since he’d retired, he parceled out work like Santa Claus. I supposed I’d been good that year: it brought me Cantinflas.
    The interview was outside the city, in a luxurious subdivision called Jardines del Pedregal de San Ángel, nestled in volcanic rock from an eruption as ancient as my Ford Woody. The house was great. It looked like a giant concrete sandwich with huge windows and austere furniture. The view was glorious; snow-covered volcanoes could be seen through a cactus garden.
    I was led to the waiting room. I think it had higher aspirations than just to wait . It could have been a soccer field or a national stadium. I sat in a chair next to several trophies. After reading the plaque on a statuette that said Fortino Mario Alfonso Moreno Reyes, a.k.a. “Cantinflas,” had won the Golden Globe, I got bored. But a loud voice soon stirred me from my reverie.
    “I was told you’re good. But I’d like references, Mr. Sunny Pascal.” The voice came from behind a door and then the comedian entered. I found myself before Mexico’s most successful actor. He wasn’t much taller than me. That was something. (In Los Angeles, I was considered Snow White’s lost dwarf.) He was dressed in a loud wine-colored chamois jacket. White turtleneck and dark glasses as big as a windshield. He walked slowly. Carefully. As he got closer, I noticed he must have been about fifty years old, but that recent cosmetic surgery made him seem forty or so. He still had some bandages. His prim face had the look of money: gringo dollars.
    “I know you’ve won a lot of awards but, to me, that doesn’t make you an actor,” I responded. My insolence was gratuitous. He didn’t say anything. Instead, there was a pause that hung in the space between us.
    “I suppose you’ll need to be paid in dollars,” he pressed me as he sat down in one of the chairs. Somewhere in Denmark, somebody was surely opening a champagne bottle because Cantinflas had bought one of their designs.
    “Just like you got paid for Around the World in Eighty Days and Pepe ,” I answered even more insolently. He didn’t smile. He didn’t have much of a sense of humor for a comedian.
    “Those films were failures. The gringos don’t understand my common man’s sense of humor. Here in Mexico I’m king,” he explained, as he opened a silver case and extracted a cigarette. He offered me one. I declined. I didn’t want to be a walking cliché. I’m the only detective I know who doesn’t smoke. “I will pay for your silence. Carmandy assures me you’re the type who can keep his mouth shut. That’s important because of my reputation.”
    “You can trust me. In fact, I knew Doris Day when she was a virgin.” I gave him my most ingenuous smile. He didn’t so much as blink. He was certainly greedy with his humor. He saved it all up for the camera.
    “I’ve received some letters. They want money … a lot of money. They say they have information that could hurt me,” he told me as he smoked. It was impossible to see his eyes behind the shades. I was starting to feel uncomfortable.
    “Is it true?”
    “That’s none of your business. You just follow orders,” he grunted. I stood up. I straightened my black guayabera and turned toward the door. He made a gesture with his hand to stop, so I sat back down. “I’m sorry. I’m used to the barbarians who run this city’s police department.”
    “Exactly what do you want me to do, Mr. Moreno?” I asked, trying to sound professional. The beatnik beard and my huaraches weren’t helping.
    “Andrea Rojas. Pay her off. Tell her it’s the only time I’ll pay for her silence. The press and the police have