Holy Guacamole!

by Nancy Fairbanks

  I received more hugs and kisses from my new protégés than I deemed necessary. Such gratitude can be embarrassing. After all, my motives were not entirely charitable.

  With one last goodbye, I headed for home and the choice of a moderately sexy, but tasteful outfit for my venture into Juarez. God help me! Jason would be very angry if I wrecked my car in a foreign country and ended up in a foreign jail, one that has a very dubious reputation, according to the newspaper.

  25

  Parallel Parking and World-Class Margaritas

  Luz

  I made her come in so I could take a look at her. Not bad. Long black dress with a high Chinese collar but open enough to hint at a bit of cleavage and a red stone pendant hanging around her throat with earrings to match. Low heeled boots. That was good in case we had to run. “You’ll do. In fact, Barrientos likely never saw anyone like you.” She gave my compliment the evil eye. My outfit was what I had—dark blue silk pants and blouse, silver and turquoise jewelry that came from my grandmother. “Come here, Smack.” I clipped the leash to the dog’s collar.

  “We’re taking the dog?” she asked. Now she really looked nervous.

  “Right. When we get to Mexican customs, you tell them I’m blind.” I slipped on dark glasses and grabbed my cane. The rest of my protective gear was in my purse—a roll of duct tape. “Say I never go anywhere without the dog, and Martino’s is expecting the three of us. People coming over for dinner are good for the economy. They’ll let us pass. Then we’ll give the same story to American customs. It should work.”

  “Won’t the dog have to go into quarantine after being in a foreign country?”

  “It’s just Mexico, for God’s sake. As long as we get in the right lane, the customs agent should be a cousin of mine. So stop worrying.”

  “But why are we taking him?”

  “Her. Because if we get in a tight spot, Smack will attack the attackers. Otherwise, we leave her in the car, and she keeps car thieves from stealing it.”

  Obviously Carolyn liked that part of the deal, but the attack business didn’t go over well. “Are you expecting anyone to attack us?” she asked as she started the car.

  “Nope. Just playing it safe.” And from there on I gave her specific, long-term directions so we wouldn’t have to keep turning back to make the turns she’d missed. She did okay, for a woman who was scared to death. But she did think we should park and walk across the bridge. I pointed out that the bridge arched up over the river so much that it was steep walking up and steep walking down, not the kind of exercise that did my knees any good, especially in a cold wind. It was pretty obvious that she didn’t want to drive in Juarez and was still hoping to get out of it. She then remarked that it wasn’t much of a river when its banks were encased in cement. I said the cement kept it from changing course and dumping part of the U.S. in Mexico or part of Mexico in the U.S.

  While we were circling San Jacinto Plaza, something we’d have avoided if she’d been listening more carefully to my instructions, she told me that the plaza had once been a manure dump until someone named Satterthwaite in the 1880s put in bushes and trees, built a fountain, and then filled a pool for a couple of alligators. She thought having alligators in the town square was pretty weird and very dangerous.

  I told her that the city finally had to get rid of them because the citizens picked on them. “Now we have the plastic alligator sculpture, and the climate is doing that in. A local guy sculpted it.”

  When we got to the Santa Fe Bridge, the one-way traffic to Juarez was pretty slow and my driver pretty jittery. While we were inching across, she rambled on about the swinging footbridge they’d had from Smeltertown to Juarez during Pancho Villa’s time, so people could go across and have their pictures taken with him and so the revolutionaries could come across to buy clothes and boots and plot against the Mexican government in the Sheldon Hotel. “Madero stayed there,” she confided, as if I didn’t know. I had family on both sides of the border back then—still do, for that matter.

  The footbridge story only got us halfway across, so she told me that people used to shout good wishes and throw food and money across the river to the rebels when they weren’t going across to take revolution pictures for the family photo album. Carolyn had seen a lot of those pictures in books and at a library collection. “The river wasn’t cemented then,” she said. “I imagine it was a good deal more impressive.”

  “Right. It was still flooding all over the place,” I replied. Which brought us to Mexican customs, where they didn’t make any fuss about the dog, not when it accompanied a blind woman, who looked like one of their own, and an Anglo woman, who wouldn’t shut her mouth and didn’t speak Spanish. After she got through with poor blind me and my faithful Seeing Eye dog, who was faithfully asleep in the back seat, she just had to mention that the first customs collector on the American side of the river was appointed in 1849, and he formed patrols to stop smuggling. She wanted to know when Mexico first set up customs and patrols. She evidently thought these guys were the perfect people to ask. Of course, they had no idea what she was talking about. Meanwhile, like the blind woman I was supposed to be, I was smiling at them, but not quite in the right direction. One guy, who was about two sizes too big for his uniform, reached behind Carolyn to pat Smack, who woke up and growled.

  “Now, now. Be a good doggie.” I cooed. Poor Smack didn’t know what to make of that. She nosed over the back seat to be sure it was really me.

  The customs guy jumped back and waved us on, so we got the dog across.

  The problem came when we were driving along beside the railroad tracks looking for a place to park. “There, “I said. “There’s one.”

  “I don’t know how to parallel park,” Carolyn admitted.

  “You’re kidding, right? How did you get a license if you don’t—”

  “That was over twenty years ago, and I did everything else right. Can’t we find a slanted parking place that I can pull straight into?”

  “No, we can’t. You’ll have to try this one.”

  “The street’s full of cars, and it’s getting dark. I don’t want to. I’ll hit something.”

  Christ! “Okay, get out,” I muttered. She could have mentioned this before we got to Juarez. But then she probably never parked anywhere but in mall and grocery store lots.

  “Get out here? By myself? On this street? I don’t know how to get to the restaurant, and we can’t leave the car in the middle of the road.”

  “Get out, and I’ll move over and park it.”

  “You’re supposed to be blind,” she grumbled, but she did get out and stood apprehensively on the sidewalk. I parked, after yelling at a guy who pulled up too close for me to back in. Probably figured on stealing my spot. I pressed the buttons to roll down both windows on my side, yelled at the guy again, and Smack stuck her head out, growling and barking. She’s one dog who knows an enemy when she sees one. The guy backed up, causing the guy behind him to honk wildly.

  Carolyn had her hand over her mouth, obviously figuring a terrible accident, involving her car, was about to occur, but it worked out. I backed her Camry right into the spot, and we set off for Juarez Avenue and Martino’s, Carolyn bitching all the way.

  A pitcher of their world-class margaritas calmed her down considerably. She even got comfortable enough to tell me, amazed, that children’s funerals in Spanish colonial days had been merry affairs, the dead kid dressed up in white with flowers and ribbons and the mourners dancing and chatting. “Can you imagine?” she asked, taking another slug of her margarita. I suppose she’d been anticipating her own funeral on the way over, and this story came to mind. “Most parents are distraught when they lose a child,” she pointed out. “I was astonished when I read about some of the customs. For instance, a bride changed her clothes and jewelry repeatedly during the wedding reception because—”

  “A child is an innocent and goes straight to heaven,” I interrupted before she could list every Spanish colonial wed
ding custom she’d read about. “The parents probably figured dying and going to heaven was a much better deal than getting kidnapped and tortured by raiding Apaches or dying of smallpox or even living long enough to earn a place in hell.” And if I didn’t get to confession pretty soon and put in for forgiveness for blasphemy, which seems to be a consequence of cop friends and painful arthritis, I’d have my name on Satan’s list of good prospects.

  Carolyn nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve always found Catholicism very interesting. Would you pass the margarita pitcher? These are delicious.”

  I reminded her that she was driving. Jesus! Drunk and terrified, she’d be a real menace. And what woman her age can’t parallel park?

  “Do you think I could get the recipe for these—what are they? Nachos?”

  We were eating the little goodies Martino’s serves while you’re trying to work your way through the longest menu I’ve ever seen. “Forget it,” I said. “Just enjoy them.”

  She took another sip of her drink and wondered whether margaritas would be even better if you floated some raspberry liqueur on top. “That’s disgusting,” I said. “It’s probably a criminal offense to change Martino’s margarita recipe.”

  “I don’t have their recipe,” she retorted. The waiter arrived to take our orders, and Carolyn said, “I can’t decide what to order.”

  “We’ll have the mushrooms in sherry and filets stuffed with crab and shrimp,” I told him.

  Carolyn wanted lamb and said, “Did you know that the local Spanish settlers used to think they could tell when it was going to rain because the lambs could smell it and started to bleat and shake themselves as if they were already sopping wet?”

  “I didn’t, and you can’t order lamb. You only get to choose how you want your steak cooked.” Sulking, she said “medium-rare.” I said “rare.” The waiter asked what soup we wanted. “Gazpacho,” I said.

  “I make better gazpacho than anyone,” Carolyn objected. “I want to try something else.”

  “Okay, she’ll have the avocado soup.”

  “But—”

  “It’s great. We’ll both have house salad with Roquefort, and be sure we get some jicama slices.”

  “What’s jicama?” she asked. The waiter had hustled off before she could raise any more objections.

  “Like raw potato, only better. Harder to peel too. Imagine a mango with all that stringy stuff you gotta cut off. Then imagine the mango with a dirty, stringy skin like a potato and no mango inside. You got a jicama.”

  “That sounds dreadful,” she complained. “And I don’t appreciate having my dinner ordered for me.”

  “There are three thousand things on their menu. We want to be at Mariachi Caliente before ten. I’m just helping the process along. Have another nacho.” That was a sacrifice on my part. I love them too. They’ve got nacho ingredients, but somehow they’re different. Like they bake them or something. And they’re all the same shape, instead of a bunch of tostados piled on a plate with refried beans, cheese, and jalapeno peppers dumped over them. I guess you’d say they’re a real canapé.

  She ate the last one and then dug into her avocado soup, saying stuff like, “Ummmm.” Guessing at what was in the soup. Glaring when I warned her off asking for recipes. “The New York Times Cookbook has recipes for avocado soup,” I said, “so knock it off.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t even own a New York Times Cookbook, ” she retorted, scooping up the last crouton with the last drops of soup.

  “Don’t be a snob, Carolyn. Man, is that a prissy name.”

  “All right. Call me Caro. Jason does. What do I call you?”

  “How about Vallejo?” I suggested. “My friends do. Not that I’m saying we’re—”

  “Ha! This is the jicama, isn’t it?” She had been turning over leaves in her salad when she spotted it and took a bite. “It’s delicious. So crispy. And juicy. Where can you buy it?”

  “Your supermarket,” I replied. “Look for a blobby mutant potato, extra dirty.”

  Over our steaks, I prepped her for the second leg of our journey. I wasn’t telling her about the third, if I decided on one. “This guy, Barrientos, thinks he’s got a great voice. You ever heard mariachis?” She had—on the car radio. “He’s not bad, actually, but when I get him over to the table, you act like he’s got a great voice, operatic quality. Lay it on thick. He’ll believe you. We want him to stay at our table for drinks so we can tell him he knows a friend of ours, Gubenko. Bring up the gambling. Like that. I know you’re new to all this stuff. You just follow my lead, okay?”

  “Actually,” she said in that snippy voice, “I happen to know my way around a murder investigation.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “No, I really do,” she insisted. “Let’s order another pitcher.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not sure I should let you drive as it is.”

  “It’s my car.”

  Walking along Juarez Avenue after dinner, I had a hard time because she wanted to look in windows. She thought she’d buy some stone bookends. I discouraged it. Then she saw the tequila in the window of a liquor store. “Can you believe that price?” she exclaimed. “I have to buy some. I want to experiment with margarita recipes. That’s what we drank at the après-opera party, you know. Margaritas. A few people drank the champagne, but it was awful.”

  I tried to dissuade her from buying tequila, but she was adamant. Why pay so much in El Paso when she could get it cheap here? What was the best brand in my opinion?

  “Why don’t you get a bottle of mezcal,” I suggested when I couldn’t talk her out of tequila. “It’s sort of tequila with a worm in it. The real fancy mezcal has a scorpion in it.”

  Carolyn turned away from the window and gave me a look. “That’s disgusting. A scorpion? However, the worms from the agave were very popular with the Aztecs. They ate them with guacamole. In fact, I think people still eat them. Not that I would. And I don’t want a bottle with a nasty creature in it. How many bottles can I bring back?”

  When I told her one, she said I could bring one back too, and she’d pay me for it. I refused. She squinted at me and went in to buy her bottle. That whole deal took about twenty minutes because she had to ask about every brand she saw.

  Then she wanted to know why there were so many dentists’ offices in a tourist area. “You can’t get your teeth fixed,” I said. “We don’t have time.”

  Finally, on the back streets, heading for the car, she tripped twice, but the sidewalks and streets are all broken up, so I couldn’t be sure whether it was the tequila she’d drunk or the unrepaired public paving of Ciudad Juarez that was causing her problems. She damn near dropped her bottle of tequila. Then she insisted on driving. Just to prove she was sober, I suppose. Maybe bringing her along had been a bad idea.

  26

  Mariachi Caliente

  Carolyn

  It had truly been a delicious dinner, and I felt uncomfortably stuffed. I should have saved some of my steak for Smack, as Luz suggested. I just couldn’t call her by her last name, as if we were two males in a locker room. And Smack probably wouldn’t have liked the shellfish stuffing in the steak.

  “Now listen, Carolyn, you have to knock off all this history crap when we get to the mariachi place. Barrientos will think you’re some kind of nut.”

  “I don’t see why,” I protested. “What am I supposed to talk to him about? I don’t know anything about the drug trade, but if he’s a smuggler, I know some very interesting smuggling stories. For instance, during Prohibition when illegal alcohol was coming across the river from Mexico, there was a young woman who pushed a baby carriage along the levee every day, picked up a package containing bottles of mezcal, and slipped the package under her baby. Can you imagine putting smuggled goods under a baby? That’s terrible.”

  “I can’t imagine having a baby,” Luz replied, “and that is absolutely your last historical anecdote until we get back across the border.”

  I suppose it seemed ve
ry silly to her that I kept telling her about the history of her own area, but I was so nervous. I tend to do that when I’m nervous. And I suppose she thought I was drunk and shouldn’t be driving, but I did just fine. We arrived at the nightclub with no problems whatever, except that she had to park the car. Maybe I should learn to parallel park.

  On the other hand, what were the chances that I’d be driving over here again? I read the papers. Every time a car pulled up beside us at a light or corner, I kept my eye on the passengers. People are shot in their own cars in Juarez. By mistake. Of course some are drug dealers, shot by rival drug dealers. Still, I was ready to shout, “Down!” if I saw a gun in a car window. She was lucky to have a driver as alert as I was. She just slouched in the seat and gave directions occasionally.

  Mariachi Caliente looked rather run down, but then the whole city did. No wonder Jason seldom brought me over here. The sidewalks were in terrible shape. A long, vertical neon sign announced our destination, but enough letters had burned out that I’d never have known if Luz hadn’t said that we’d arrived. I asked if she was sure the dog would be safe in the car in this neighborhood, and she said Smack would be safer than the car or us because she had big teeth. Fortunately, I was feeling much more relaxed and didn’t take that too seriously. Really, driving in Juarez, now that I was used to it, wasn’t that bad.

  Inside, the place was dark and smoky, reminding me of a flamenco club I’d visited in Barcelona, not to mention several less reputable places in that city. I asked if they had flamenco here, but Luz said only if I felt like getting up and dancing. We walked down the long bar, lined with stools and customers, some of them in cowboy hats. I asked her if they were really cowboys, but she didn’t know—or didn’t care. On the other side were tables full of people drinking, mostly beer, busty women in low-cut blouses and men in ranch attire, some with those string ties.