Mexico City Noir Read Online Free

serving as décor for the place. A guy in a dirty white apron and a cap splattered with blood strikes a block of wood with a knife; it’s a rhythmic beat, almost musical. Greasy, sharp scents grow more intense, but Vikingo doesn’t smell any of it, only the tobacco that still floods his nasal cavities. He parks his cart next to a garbage can and approaches the man with the apron, who smiles.
    “What’s up, Vikingo? You eat already? You want a taco?” “Fernando was running …” the bum says while shaking his head. He holds up the hand with the cigarette. “I need a light.”
    “Of course, my brother. Whatever you need. Hold on a sec.”
    The man in the apron puts two tacos in front of Vikingo as the others watch uneasily. He lifts a box of matches from his work station, pulls one out, and lights it. Vikingo doesn’t even look at the tacos. He puts the cigarette butt between his lips and leans toward the flame. He inhales. Coughs.
    “Hey, what’s on your hands, dude?”
    Vikingo glances at the taco vendor’s blood-stained apron. The hand holding the butt trembles. His knees too. He’s in a hurry to get away but talks instead.
    “He ran into me and I pushed him away. I don’t know anything. I just walk. A step. Another. I’m nobody.”
    “Who ran into you?”
    “He was falling …”
    “Who?”
    “I didn’t see anything, chief. I don’t understand. Nothing. I didn’t hear anything either. I don’t even have a name, although I used to. Thanks for the light. A step. Then another.”
    “Damn, Vikingo, you’re getting worse by the day. Órale, look at yourself.”
    Now his heart beats faster. He breathes hard, without savoring the smoke, while gastric juices groan in his belly. I’m thirsty and I didn’t see anything. Thirst. He stares at the bottle, where there’s still a little something to drink, but he wants to leave it for later, because he senses he’s going to need it more then. He tries to count each of his steps, each meter traversed, because the image of the running man, of Fernando, has stuck in his memory and he can’t erase it. The street people and the vendors multiply on the sidewalk and he must walk slower to avoid hitting anybody with his cart. Just ahead, there’s a busy metro station. He doesn’t like crowds. He prefers solitude. But the streets here are only deserted at night. Vikingo looks at the sky: the sun hasn’t finished its route. There’s still a lot of time before dusk.
    He came toward me. I didn’t see anything, chief. I didn’t have time to step aside. No. All I could do was move my cart. Fernando, yes. But I didn’t see him. And I didn’t hear him either. No. Nothing. I just walk and walk. He was falling. Bent. Holding his belly. He ran right into me and I had to push him off so I wouldn’t fall. That’s why my hands are dirty. There were others behind him.
    When the cigarette ember almost reaches the filter, he puts his hand in the paper bag again and plucks another butt. He lights it with the dying end of the last cigarette and desperately sucks in the smoke.
    There are fewer people on this block and the passersby don’t look at him as much. A shoeshine boy greets him but he doesn’t notice. He watches the familiar faces in the stores, behind the counters. He knows the neighborhood, the people know him too, and that calms him down. He crosses a street, turns the corner. There are fewer people each time. He finally stops in front of the church. That’s where the chief is, the Big Chief, he thinks, as he stares at the cross in the bell tower and the steps that lead inside. He feels the urge to go in the temple and sit down in one of the pews alongside the old women praying. Perhaps he can find peace there. Yes, sitting in a pew in silence. He used to do it back in the day. Back when he would spend the nights around Parque Delta with others like himself. And before that. When he had a name and lived in a house with a woman and a boy.
    But as soon as they