Gringo Pistolero—Mexican prison 1968

Light floods my room on a beautiful June morning. I stretch and for once, don’t bump into a footboard or someone else. And I’m not scratching because of the bedbugs. I rub my eyes open, and it takes me a few seconds to realize I’m in new digs. Next, I notice how sore I am everywhere, especially when I touch the lump on the back of my head. Then it all comes back to me. Twisting that broken bottle into Taki’s neck and face, blood spraying everywhere. I hold my hands up to the light. No blood. No cuts.

A fourteen-year-old mondalero knocks on my carraca door and pokes his head in to invite me over to Patricio’s pad. At least that’s what I guess he says. Something about el jefe.

I toss on some clothes and head over. Patricio’s standing by his front door decked out in a red silk robe with matching slippers. He’s proud to show me around his palacio.

So, this is the life of a drug king.

His place reminds me of a suite at a Holiday Inn. Everything’s new. It’s got a massive shower, twenty-five-inch Zenith color TV with remote, wall-to-wall orange shag carpet, sofas, tall lava lamps, and a huge velvet painting of a shirtless matador on the wall.

What is it with Mexicans and this velvet crap?

He winks at his mondalero and says something that makes him blush and laugh before he runs off. Patricio leads me to the patio where servants bring us breakfast. Fresh squeezed orange juice, coffee, huevos rancheros, tortillas, and beans, always beans. We take in the morning under a bright orange umbrella overlooking the prison and farther off, the city of Tijuana.

Patricio grins, “You sleep good, gringo?”

I nod, shoveling a warm tortilla in my mouth. “Yes. I mean, sí.”

“Killing makes you hungry, no?”

“I guess so.”

He picks up his coffee, his pinkie finger daintily pointing out. “You know, I must tell you, I hate gringos. But I never see one in La Mesa with the balls to take down Taki. You do me big favor. Last time I here, Taki take contract on me from otro trafficante. I have many ears and many eyes in here. So, I put knife to his gut but no deep. The reebs…” He opens his robe to expose his belly and taps on his ribs. “They do not let me.”

“Ah.”

“I try. He is, how you say, one tough son of bitch vulture. But no more. He is muerto.” He grins and takes a sip of coffee, a wide smile spreading across his face. “So, Richard, you work for me?”