Vignette #2: Cantina Commitments
“Tell that to him,” my boss wagged his finger imperiously at me across the table. “Anything of that sort, he takes care of it for me. I don’t want to hear it, in fact it’s better if I don’t,” he turned to his old friend on his right and kept talking, leaning into their unfinished conversation.
Xavier turned to me with amused eyes, gleaming in the dim light of the cantina. “So you’re the good one, tú eres el bueno.” Applause erupted in the corner for the three musicians making their rounds around the cantina.
I nodded. Across the table, my boss, a political heavyweight, and his old pal continued chatting among themselves, muttering into their shoulders. The vintage photos on the wall behind them evoked images of Pancho Villa leaning over to Emiliano Zapata in the presidential chair. Nothing like old combat buddies reminiscing about battles of yore.
“As I was saying, I’ll print it, no name, no leading back to you. We’ll take the hit, from Mexico City. As long as it’s real. I won’t print lies,” Xavier looked at me through his glasses with an impish grin. His broad face and his buzz cut seemed to accentuate his permanent smirk.
“Your enemies are my enemies,” he put his hand on my shoulder, gripping tightly. Affectionate, these southern types. A man in the bar yelped, waving his sombrero to get the bartender’s attention.
“I know how it’s done,” I tilted my beer bottle into my mouth mid-sentence. “I tell you what I need, leak you the evidence, point to the target. No bullshit in between,” I replied, trusting the commotion of the cantina limited our conversation to our table. Someone cackled loudly in the hallway. The bartender looked up with bored eyes, squeezing a wet rag with both hands.
“I’m 60, you’re 25. You better not give me bullshit. I survived Salinas and Calderón, I’m too old to be played for a pendejo,” he warned in playful admonishment. You couldn’t wipe that smirk off his face even with the end of the world.
“Someone who risks their life and loses their job for not printing the government line, that’s someone I know not to lie to,” I raised my voice as the musicians neared our table, crowing some ranchera classic. It sounded familiar, Los Cadetes de Linares, maybe. Glasses clicked behind us.
“You know — ” Xavier burped, “Coño, I’ve looked presidents straight in the eye and seen right through their lies. Salinas, he was the best, or worst, depending how you look at it,” he bellowed, bursting into laughter.
Xavier took his glasses off and wiped his eyes and forehead with a napkin, still chuckling.
“Oh but I’m not a president, maestro,” I murmured into the mouth of my beer bottle, taking a sip.
“No. You’re the type to tell presidents what to lie about,” he winked as he took a big gulp of his beer, calling over the waiter with his free hand. “Get this young man another Carta. We have a lot to talk about.”
