The brew became a big hit. A reporter for El Norte, while investigating an article about public transportation, became curious when she saw so many people congregating around the joint. Her reportorial instinct suggested scandal, yellow journalism, but when she went in she suffered the disappointment of finding personable treatment and a friendly environment.
The bartender served her a single shot. She drank it cautiously, but the guava flavor eased her fear. She ordered another and another and another. After the fourth, she fell asleep at the bar. It was only five in the afternoon. When she awakened, her watch read twelve midnight. It took her a moment to come to and she decided her watch was broken. But no. Outside, the night confirmed that she was the broken one. The bar was still bubbling with activity. She was relieved to discover she had not been raped. And it wasn’t as if the others there didn’t want to: The place was jammed with exactly the kind of sexually repressed perverts typical of a place that sold five-peso drinks, but they were all afraid of the bartender. Though not exactly the bartender, but the machete he had behind the bar. The guy in charge of the brothel hated it when they bothered his clients and, besides, he was a ladies’ man, always ready to defend the femmes, whether they were fatales or not. The reporter ordered another sotol, pulled a notebook out of her purse and began taking notes.
The next day, there was an article in El Norte’s center spread. La Cuauhnáuac took up an entire page. The article attracted a new clientele. Among these were drinking aficionados, aspiring intellectuals, alcoholic college students, and an infinite number of weird and lazy self-taught trumpet players.
When all the other bars in the area that sold sotol saw this new popularity, they imitated La Cuauhnáuac’s style of curing it, but not one was able to copy the recipe precisely. The ingredients were the same, but as in all things gourmet, the ultimate success was attributed to the bartender’s masturbating hand.
All that rock and roll didn’t last long. In less than six months, La Cuauhnáuac had stopped placing on the fashion lists. There was still a considerable crowd, but gone were the characters who had shown up during the apogee of its popularity and given the bar that trendy touch. A place free of prejudice. Showbizzy.
In order to keep the bar’s popularity from fading, the bartender reached out to the girl reporter and asked a favor: to save the bar from anonymity by creating the first La Cuauhnáuac contest. It was a competition to see who could drink the most cups of sotol in a single sitting. They established three prizes. The first was five thousand pesos, the second three thousand, and the third two thousand.
The announcement attracted the attention of everyone that could still be seduced by that kind of folklore. Twenty-three contestants signed up, but the competition didn’t last more than a half-hour. With a total of eighteen double shots, and without vomiting, The Cowboy Bible took first place.
The following year, during the second annual contest, The Cowboy Bible won again. He didn’t need to repeat the record, because his closest rival had lost consciousness at the thirteenth cup. On the fourteenth, The Cowboy Bible paused and toasted with a beer.
In its third year, the contest got a little darker. The bars in the area had suffered a downturn, and some had closed. The more stubborn ones had used the contest as a betting game. At the beginning, in the second year of the competition, the bets had been between five and ten thousand pesos, but things got out of control when the local mafia got involved in the business. Bored with boxing, underground dogfights, and roulette, they found out about this peculiar contest and moved a certain percentage of their winnings to target sotol, their new blood.
For the third edition of the contest, the cash awards increased. First place was now ten thousand pesos, second was five, and third was three. Expectations also grew. The enthusiastic reporter promoted the spectacle, and they now anticipated about two thousand curiosity seekers. Three months ahead of time, they had to draw up a VIP list. The bar only had a capacity of sixty.
Plans began to spring up with the spontaneity that money allows. San Pedro, a capo and the biggest and heaviest of the drug barons on the scene, planned to take over the bar in order to manage the bets. It wouldn’t take much effort to take over the place. He had the money to buy it, and if the owner refused to sell it, he could kill him, make him disappear. Later, he decided against it. He preferred the actual competition.
The fight for the money was set. Don Lucha Libre was the cash cow. He was the cocaine monster on the east side of the city. He controlled part of downtown, managed the bets, and kept the balance in his favor. The Cowboy Bible was part of his cartel. He was his pet.
Everybody knew The Cowboy Bible was unbeatable in any duel that involved swigging the special brew, but that did not affect the contest’s immense popularity. A skillful mouth-to-mouth campaign had it that San Pedro would provide a worthy rival, a steely trueblood.
But that was a lie. He was simply feeling them out. San Pedro wanted to top Don Lucha Libre, but he knew that fighting in the bar was out of the question. The moment he went after any of the event’s central figures, everything would fall apart. The bettors would disappear, and there would be no profits that year, no luck. Thus the bluff, the distraction.
The Cowboy Bible was at his peak as an inebriant. His ability to hold his liquor was a matter of record. He’d begun to drink at fourteen, and his talent had never diminished. No one could understand how he’d developed such a capacity. Two months before the contest he decided to have a trial run. There was no distinction between the first and the twelfth glass. He was tipping his fourteenth when the bartender (also his manager) stopped him. Stop, he said. That’s enough. Take a shower. The test suggested that on a good afternoon The Cowboy Bible could put away twenty or thirty double shots.
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.
Wh
en 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.
The public was yearning to see the masked men die onstage. The rapper Chico Ché’s famous rhymes could be heard coming from the speakers: El Santo, El Cavernario, Blue Demon, y El Bulldog. Beer spewed as if in an epiphany had by any Irishman with glaucoma.
There were thirty-two contestants. Two resigned when they realized there was no swimsuit competition. They all took their places. The Cowboy Bible’s rival behaved like an anxious swimmer, the kind who’s so nervous he dives in before the starting shot. The only person missing was the champion, who also had the record for the slowest speed onto the track. A world record and a Gatorade-ad image. The people were behind him. He had every right to be brazen; it’s not every day you can write an exemplary novel.
A limousine waited outside The Cowboy Bible’s house, the motor running. Inside, on his knees, looking very cowboyish in a chapel improvised Malverde-style, the champion prayed. He dedicated the fight to Saint Jude. In song, he asked that if he did not come back alive, his family be taken care of.
Solemnly, he got up and made his way to his dressing room. He put on his cowboy suit and helmet, and went into the kitchen. Before each bout, he engaged in the ceremonious act of eating cooler burritos. He had to eat something greasy in order to deal with the brew. Sussy didn’t serve him from the stew in the pot. Instead, she pulled four pork burritos from her socks that she had spoiled earlier that day. She stripped them of their wrapping and threw them on the fire. Once warmed, she wrapped them in napkins, like astronaut food, and handed them to The Cowboy Bible, burrito master. He packed them up. The underworld needed entertainment. Fresh meat. It didn’t matter if it was sirloin steak or dried beef. Sussy didn’t want to go with him. She refused to get in the limousine. How can I possibly go dressed like this? Besides, I have to go take an order to some lady’s house so her little princess won’t cause a scene in the middle of her quinceañera.
On his way to the duel, the burritos began to have an effect on The Cowboy Bible. Digestion was not imperative. The limousine pulled to the side, and the champion exploded. Instead of flour and pork, it looked like he’d been stuffed with pig’s feet stew. It hurt so much, it felt as if the pig’s entire foot—hairy and chewed up and without a pedicure—had come up his throat.
An impatient Don Lucha Libre dialed the limousine’s number: Goddamn it, you sons of bitches, where are you, why the hell aren’t you here? The driver, also The Cowboy Bible’s bodyguard, answered, bewildered, The Kid has fallen apart, boss, he’s vomiting. It can’t be. Fucking Christ. Take him home. I’m on my way. Don’t tell anyone.
The winner of the competition to see who could lift more rolls of Bimbo bread with one finger walked inside trembling. He was in a cold sweat. A fever of a hundred and four degrees was burning his guts. He threw himself into bed.
Once things were in motion, Sussy put on the new dress San Pedro had sent her. T
he six ice coolers fit in the taxi. The trip cost fifty pesos. She finished her task, and the lady of the house complimented her on her evening dress: How handsome, Susanita. She left with money in hand. She was looking really good; she looked like a narco’s woman.
She took another taxi to La Cuauhnáuac. The riot of the party could be heard four blocks away. Big rigs—brand name: Truckalicious—formed a long line of this year’s models as if in a showroom. Cars kept coming, and people kept jamming the streets. It was a herd of groupies. They came down from the trees, up from the gutter, and out from under rocks.
Security was thick, lots of former-drivers-turned-badass-bodyguards. It took Sussy ten minutes to reach the line separating the chosen from the undesirable. It was hard to tell which performance on which side of the line was more grotesque.
Sussy’s name wasn’t on the list. Like my mother told me, never trust a narco and even less one who had glass balls as a kid. And if her name wasn’t on the invite list, there was even less chance it’d be on the bettors list. Damn life, damn misery.
She hung around outside the bar for half an hour. The bartender looked out the door because he’d been accused of cheating. He’d given courtesy passes and sold memberships without permission from the narco bureaucracy. He saw Sussy and yelled at her: Hey you, what the fuck are you doing here? Get in the kitchen, we don’t have enough people to attend to our guests. And if you’re ever late again, I’ll kill you. Sussy started to head inside, but one of the guards stopped her. The boss had sent orders that she not go in. The bartender screamed at the guard that if she couldn’t come in he should wait tables himself. The other guard intervened: Let her go in. Mind your own business. You’re nobody here, and she’s not coming in. Yes, come on in. C’mon, c’mon, hurry up. But in spite of the tussle, she never got in.
Inside, the booing and shouting was unstoppable. The Cowboy Bible was nowhere to be seen. San Pedro’s smile invited Don Lucha Libre’s suspicions. From the Stern-brand speakers came the announcement that the champion was trapped in a traffic jam. What a joke! A traffic jam in a town that small? He would be there any moment. In the meantime, let’s serve dinner. San Pedro didn’t protest. He could snatch up his money and go, but he wanted to see how far the show would go. In any case, he didn’t care about the money; the juicy part of the deal was that he’d get complete control of all of the drug-distribution points downtown.
The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories Page 2
