El Gran Mariachi

el Gran Mariachi

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2017 Luigi Kleinsasser

ISBN: 978-1-387-24406-5

Set in México, this is the story of a new-born baby boy abandoned on the steps of a Catholic Convent’s orphanage in México City.

At age fifteen, as a still un-adopted foundling, he runs away from the orphanage and with his God-given vocal and musical talent makes his way to fame and fortune. But too soon, he becomes embroiled with a drug cartel and earns the anger of his sponsor, the Drug King el Juzgador. Romance and adventure-packed, this is the latest novel from Luigi Kleinsasser whose works just keep the reader reading!

LEGAL NOTICE

All of the characters, organizations and events in this novel are used fictitiously. The names used in this work should be considered fictional and have no relation to actual persons, living or dead.

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No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without the express permission of the author.

Images and pictures: All are my own art-work or Creative Commons, .

Other works by Luigi Kleinsasser

Health & Fitness/Self-Help:

1 2 3 Easy Weight-Loss: How to Rebuild Your Body Better!

Breathe, Naturally and Lose the Fat!

Novels:

Back to Belize

Half Ghan

Zorro Rengo

That Man from Nebraska

Chapter One − Cuernavaca, México

An hour away from the country’s Capitol, Cuernavaca is a beautiful city with a latitude and elevation fostering a temperature-perfect climate which permits the perennial cultivation of a wide variety of flowers. From roses for lovers to lilies for the dearly departed and everything in between, all year round the city’s ubiquitous roadside stalls explode into floral rainbows. At every traffic intersection, peripatetic vendors dash from vehicle to vehicle hawking their bouquets of the latest blossoms.

For that reason, it’s become known as la Ciudad de la eterna primavera – the City of Eternal Spring.

It’s a favorite getaway destination for many of México City’s wealthy elite and home to many of its most famous actors and artists. But into that select mix, a growing number of the king-pins of the country’s bourgeoning drug cartels had inserted their elegant mansions. They’d feathered enough official nests to feel untouchable by the Law.

One such mansion was beginning to erupt:

With frothy saliva spraying from his mouth, veins almost bursting from his forehead and neck, the man better-known to most as el Juzgador, slammed his fist onto the table. He barely missed the plate in front of him piled high with bacon, eggs and grilled tomatoes but the strip of bacon nearest the edge of the plate leapt onto the table and the coffee in his cup spouted upwards sloshing back, losing nary a drop. His beloved dog, a mongrel, pit-bull-cross-something curled up under the table shuddered in fright and sleep-snarled at the disturbance.

An ugly scowl on his face, el Juzgador’s grotesquely corpulent body quivered in a roiling wave. He shrieked loud enough to rupture a bystander’s eardrum, Put the word out. Find him . . . and fast!

He gouged furiously at his lips with his embroidered jacquard serviette and, just as he had done during his long-ago court room performances, waved his free hand in contemptuous dismissal. Throwing his serviette onto the table he began cracking his knuckles. His underlings knew from painful experience that those Cracks were not a good sign.

In order to stem the rising tide of rage, Chuy, el Juz’s ‘enforcer’ and chief bodyguard quickly offered, Where do you wanna have his body dumped? Then, somewhat hopefully, Should we hang it from the overpass into town? Innocently enough, he asked, Is there a message to be sent? The stooge was huge but his brain and mental capacity fell far short of his stature.

Alive! Alive, you dumb fool. Damn it all! Just find him and bring him here to me. Don’t harm him, don’t even alarm him. He’s far too valuable. Let him think everything is fine. Then, whimsically, almost as a thought spoken aloud he muttered, Just fine and dandy . . . He manipulated the knuckles of each hand, one by one ‒ crack, click, pop.

Cupping a hand in front of his face, through squinted eyes he leered into it with a cruel smile of vengeful satisfaction. Looking up at his men, he grimaced as though he could feel the agony of what he was about to propose, Then I’ll cut his slimy balls off and while he’s rolling around on the floor, writhing in pain, feeling for where they used to be, trying to stop the bleeding . . . the two underlings stood with bated breath waiting for their leader’s proclamation, I’ll feed them to my dog!  Right in front of his fucking face! That fucking . . . he paused and frowned as he groped for the most appropriate expression of his wrath, bastardo desagradecido! He sneer-smiled, bent forward and affectionately tweaked one of the dog’s ears. Indifferent to the promise of such a purported delicacy, the dog simply twitched his ear free of his master’s fingers and snuffled softly.

Incredulous, but displaying a certain level of astuteness, Chuy posed, So, you wanna turn your Caruso into a Tiny Tim? Just and with a resonant ‘click!’ he snapped his fingers overhead loudly to illustrate the haste of his boss’ decision, like that? With a cynical snigger, he cocked his head to one side, You know, like, now it’s here and then . . . snap! went his fingers again, now it’s not!

Crunching on the bacon rind salvaged from the table while he dipped a finger of toasted bread into the runniness of his fried eggs, el Juzgador, now a little calmer, looked up and sighed, "O.K. O.K.! Point taken! So maybe I won’t castrate him just yet, but just the same, find him and bring him here, rapido!" He turned back to his breakfast and thought to himself: So, after all these years this fool doesn’t sound as dumb as he looks. Maybe he has a brain after all.

Shoulders hunched, Chuy and his side-kick slunk from the house, climbed into one of the several black Suburban SUVs lined up around the circular driveway and headed off to roust their troops and promulgate the search order.

"Man, el Juz is really ticked off. I’ve never seen him so mad," the other underling remarked as he slammed his door shut and struggled in his pants pocket to find the key for the ignition.

Well, wouldn’t you be pissed if you ever had a woman like Angela stolen from you? Chuy suggested with an almost drooling grin.

Ha! In my dreams! his companion sighed then postulated, that’s sort of like being cuckolded, no? So, where do we start looking for the stinking bastard? Surely we don’t have to search the whole of Cuernavaca?

The Guitarist probably knows where he would have gone, Chuy, suggested, and then, feeling the need to assert his limited authority, declared, So we’ll wanna start there.

Shrugging his shoulders doubtfully, as he fired the SUV into life his companion conjectured, Maybe he knows. I guess we can go ask. They’re pretty tight, those two, you know. Maybe he’ll talk, but then again, maybe he won’t.

I have my ways, don’t forget, Chuy smirked, checking his finger nails.

As long as we get Memo in one piece, warned the other.

I have my ways, Chuy reasserted a little more forcefully, grimacing slightly as removed a piece of hanging skin from around the cuticle of a finger.

We know. Chuy, we know. You have your ways, his voice exuded patronizing reassurance. "But just remember, Memo has to believe that no problem exists. He has to think el Juzgador knows nothing and simply wants to discuss business with him as usual, no?"

"Well, once I get that pinche Guitarist to talk, we’ll wanna keep him out of circulation until we pick Memo up, right? Head over towards their house. Move it!"

Chapter Two − Puerto Vallarta, Three Years Earlier

The bus was packed and over-full but a wandering musician clambered aboard, squeezed along the aisle, jammed himself between a standing passenger and the edge of a seat, placed his ear against his guitar’s soundboard and softly plucked the instrument’s strings to check its tuning. He had no need of a strap to support the guitar − he merely balanced it on his portly stomach and proceeded to belt out a song.

Even though he was shabbily dressed and looked like a homeless bum, the man played his instrument surprisingly well. Memo, grinning with pleasure, was impressed. The busker’s singing, however, was quite another matter and definitely left a lot to be desired. As soon as the performance was done the musician eased himself to the front of the bus. In an oratory but humble fashion he thanked the crowd for listening (though it appeared that nobody paid him any attention) and requested they offer up any loose change, weightily taking up valuable space in their pockets. He called out:

¡Gracias a todos! ¿Tienen suelto para un pobrecito trovador? ¡Dios los bendiga! ¡Tengan un buen día!

Every other person seemed to have some suelto and handed the coins to the busker as, with his guitar held safely overhead, he minced, inch by inch towards the back of the bus collecting coins as he went, then quickly made his exit. More than a little excited at what he had just witnessed, Memo squeezed along behind and followed the troubadour into the bus shelter.

So, is this your livelihood? Memo asked eagerly, excitement showing in his voice.

No, I pack shelves at Wal-Mart of a night time but sometimes I actually make more in a day on the buses than Wal-Mart pays me for a whole week.

"Unbelievable! Do you teach guitar?"

No, but a friend of mine is a great flamenco maestro from Spain. He gives lessons at some of the schools. Why? Do you want to learn?

I want to do what you do. Then, displaying the innocent brashness of his immaturity, as the guitarist was probably a good twenty years his senior, Memo proclaimed, You’re not a very good singer but I really like your guitar playing. And you say this friend of yours teaches flamenco? Is that what you call your style?

Yes. Flamenco. My singing? I know, and his tone became apologetic, but on the buses, I don’t think anybody actually listens to my voice. Everybody in México admires good flamenco guitar-playing, and although he smiled, his face was alight with patronizing mockery as he directed his worthy barb at the young man, even if they don’t know what it’s called! His portly belly shook with laughter as he explained, Anyway, I only play songs everybody knows and then they all sing along . . . out aloud or in their minds. So, for me, it’s really only the guitar that matters. Do you play at all?

Not much. I can strum a few chords. But I sing.

Are you any good? There was a tone of doubtful indifference.

"Do you know ‘Granada?"

Granada!? the guitarist gasped in surprise. Why, yes. Certainly. He smiled to conceal his sneer and asked, But are you sure you’re up to an operatic piece like that? He thought to himself: Talk about cocky! Which tree did this little rooster fall out of? But, to humor the young man and put an end to the banter, the troubadour arpeggiated a few chords, settled on a key, finger-picked a tricky little introduction and as he struck the opening rasgueo Memo burst forth in song. Before the first verse was done, the guitarist stopped abruptly, his mouth hanging open.

"My God! What a voice! Such power! What an ear! Absolutely and totally unbelievable. Young Man, you are fantastic! How many songs do you know? Where did you learn? Are you just a natural phenomenon or have you trained professionally?

When the torrent of questions subsided, Memo collected his thoughts for a moment and stated seriously, I lived in a convent in México City. The nuns taught me a lot of stuff. How many songs do I know? Who knows? He paused as though counting, How many are there? All of them I suppose. In both English and in Spanish. I like to sing and I listen to the radio a lot. Once I hear the melody, if I don’t know all the words I can make them up. Just like writing poetry, you know?

The troubadour played the introduction to Roger Miller’s Walking in the Sunshine and Memo, in English, joined in. The troubadour changed key and Memo followed. Within a few bars the guitarist played a riff and slipped into Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville but he couldn’t shake Memo. The troubadour would stop, think for a second as he mentally consulted his fairly comprehensive repertoire, play an introduction to a different song – Mexican, Spanish, American, and without hesitation Memo would take the lead.

How do you know all of those songs? he quizzed. I can play them but I could never sing most of those. Have you been to America? He was more than a little awestruck with Memo’s ability. He remonstrated, But you don’t need to play guitar. You just need to sing. In a band. His face lit up as he exclaimed with excitement, No! Hey! With me? Maybe? We could do the restaurants down on the Malecon of an evening. He extended his free hand skywards and exclaimed, Heavens! We’d kill them on the buses. You seem to be able to sing in any key. Man, what an ear! What a range! We’d only need to do three songs and switch buses. Everybody would give us at least five, maybe ten pesos each and there are at least forty passengers on every bus!

How much do you usually get? Memo arched his eyebrows. He was interested in the tentative proposition.

"On a packed bus, I’ll sometimes get about two hundred pesos. Generally, around fifty, though. But I do thirty or forty buses a day so it adds up. With your voice and fantastic repertoire, we’d get at least a hundred and maybe three hundred pesos or more on every bus. Hey, even if we split fifty-fifty it’d be a bump up, un aumento, a raise for me. But where do you live? What do you do for a living right now? You have a family?"

Nowhere. Nothing. No, Memo shrugged as he answered the guitarist’s questions in order. I arrived from Guadalajara just this morning and rode the bus looking for a place to stay. Where can I find cheap accommodation? But why do you work at Wal-Mart if you make more money playing on the buses?

My family needs medical coverage and when Wal-Mart takes my taxes, my family gets free coverage at the IMSS.

IMSS?

Yes, the government Social Security Medical Clinic, IMSS. It’s very good and everything is free if you pay taxes. You’ll need to get an easy night-job that deducts taxes for you.

But I’m fine. I don’t plan on getting sick.

Not the point. If something happened . . . say you fell off a crowded bus or got hit by a car crossing the road when the traffic is bad, how would you pay for treatment? How could you even pay for the ambulance?

But . . . Memo had no chance to finish his thought. The guitarist interrupted and ordered, Listen, follow me onto the next bus. Stay close by my side so you don’t have to pay a fare. I’ll play, you sing. I’ll bet you double whatever we earn on this jaunt that we take in at least 400 pesos. Deal? You’ll see what I mean. Fair enough? And the Guitarist headed for a bus, Memo adhering to his side like two accidentally super-glue-conjoined fingers.

And so, the duo was formed. They put together a somewhat ‘traditional’ troubadour’s uniform with embroidered shirts, black jeans and oversized formal sombreros. They played the buses by day and, because the Guitarist’s night-shift didn’t start until ten o’clock of an evening, they wandered through the beach-front restaurants playing for the dining tourists and their suelto. The money was good. Very good!

* * * * *

Guillermo Bellavoz, Memo for short, was an orphan, no, a foundling in fact. As a new-born, he’d been left screaming on the steps of the Orfanato de la Luz en la Oscuridad – The Light in the Darkness Orphanage ‒ run by an order of nuns of the Catholic Church in México City. His mother was an unwed fourteen-year-old who gave birth in an alley on her way to school one freezing-cold winter’s morning.

As she struggled against the icy wind blowing up her uniform skirt which she fought to keep down, her water broke. She limped into the nearest alley, slumped down against a garbage dumpster and in awe watched her child emerge almost effortlessly from her body. She allowed the baby to suckle at her barely developed breast until the paltry flow of milk stopped. Using the nail-clippers she always carried in her purse she severed the umbilical cord where it emerged from her body then removed her blouse, stripped off her winter undershirt and wrapped it around the newborn child.

Fearing to see the child’s face and without even looking to determine whether the newborn she cradled in her arms was a boy or a girl, she stumbled the two blocks to the convent. In a daze of bewilderment, shivering from the cold, she tripped, almost fell, but, clutching the baby to her bosom clumsily regained her balance and gingerly placed the squirming bundle on the front steps.

Blinded by her tears she straightened up and paused as though unsure of her next move. The fog of fear and confusion clouding her mind began to clear; she hesitantly