Read Online Mexico City Noir by Paco Ignacio Taibo II - Free Book Online
Authors: Paco Ignacio Taibo II
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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.
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth, Mr. Pascal?”
“The same way I thought you were telling me the truth when you hired me. And, actually, you lied that time.” I moved a little closer to him. He didn’t budge. He rested on the stool with his legs crossed. “You neither told me you’d hired an ex—police officer to pay the blackmail, nor that when they asked for more money, you fired him because you wanted it to go away. You also never told me it was the same cop who’d interrogated you about the suicide.”
I waited for a reaction from the movie star. He really did deserve a Golden Globe. He didn’t even arch an eyebrow.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, as if he’d merely bumped into me.
I shook my head, disgusted, and got up. A waiter showed me the bill for the margaritas I’d been drinking. I passed it to the famous comedian.
“My pay includes expenses,” I said. The curtain had fallen. I was in the way now. I wanted to leave the terrace but found I couldn’t. I had to know the truth. “I keep asking myself if you knew that cop was the person blackmailing you in Andrea’s name. Maybe you hired him to protect her. Maybe you feared he’d hurt her. You wanted to save her. You wanted me to kick his ass and you’d come out of it squeaky-clean. Was that it?”
In an instant, he put in play the simpleton character that he’d had such success with in his movies. His voice changed, he moved differently. In other words, he ceased being Mario Moreno and became Cantinflas.
“That’s the thing, chato. I’m not the one to tell it, and you aren’t the one to hear it, but rest assured that it’d be pretty tough to figure out …”
He left me with a great big smile. The only one he ever gave me.
Andrea Rojas was waiting for me outside. She was watching the construction on the corner: a Polish factory being converted into housing units. It was being painted in loud colors: blue, yellow, and red.
“Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo used to live there,” she told me. “Each one had their own apartment but he had a bridge built over to her bedroom, since he lived on the other side. Isn’t that romantic?”
“I would have made the bed bigger. It’s a cheaper solution.” I was a little drunk from the margaritas. Andrea looked at me and I fell into her black eyes.
“What are you doing over there? Those people don’t want us. They think we’re trash. You should come back to your hometown. The country’s changing. We could do things. We could bring justice to our people. Why do you have to go back?”
In that moment, I had about a million coherent responses. In almost
“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.
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth, Mr. Pascal?”
“The same way I thought you were telling me the truth when you hired me. And, actually, you lied that time.” I moved a little closer to him. He didn’t budge. He rested on the stool with his legs crossed. “You neither told me you’d hired an ex—police officer to pay the blackmail, nor that when they asked for more money, you fired him because you wanted it to go away. You also never told me it was the same cop who’d interrogated you about the suicide.”
I waited for a reaction from the movie star. He really did deserve a Golden Globe. He didn’t even arch an eyebrow.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, as if he’d merely bumped into me.
I shook my head, disgusted, and got up. A waiter showed me the bill for the margaritas I’d been drinking. I passed it to the famous comedian.
“My pay includes expenses,” I said. The curtain had fallen. I was in the way now. I wanted to leave the terrace but found I couldn’t. I had to know the truth. “I keep asking myself if you knew that cop was the person blackmailing you in Andrea’s name. Maybe you hired him to protect her. Maybe you feared he’d hurt her. You wanted to save her. You wanted me to kick his ass and you’d come out of it squeaky-clean. Was that it?”
In an instant, he put in play the simpleton character that he’d had such success with in his movies. His voice changed, he moved differently. In other words, he ceased being Mario Moreno and became Cantinflas.
“That’s the thing, chato. I’m not the one to tell it, and you aren’t the one to hear it, but rest assured that it’d be pretty tough to figure out …”
He left me with a great big smile. The only one he ever gave me.
Andrea Rojas was waiting for me outside. She was watching the construction on the corner: a Polish factory being converted into housing units. It was being painted in loud colors: blue, yellow, and red.
“Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo used to live there,” she told me. “Each one had their own apartment but he had a bridge built over to her bedroom, since he lived on the other side. Isn’t that romantic?”
“I would have made the bed bigger. It’s a cheaper solution.” I was a little drunk from the margaritas. Andrea looked at me and I fell into her black eyes.
“What are you doing over there? Those people don’t want us. They think we’re trash. You should come back to your hometown. The country’s changing. We could do things. We could bring justice to our people. Why do you have to go back?”
In that moment, I had about a million coherent responses. In almost
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