WestWords
By Marvin West
His Bio

Shootout at Paris Cafe

Alas and alas, this may be my/your final dispatch from the Grady Allen treasury of tall tales. The scrappy little survivor of Texas oilfields has departed this life and Mexico is poorer for his passing.

Several pages of Grady notes remain scattered in my aging notebook but most are disjointed and rambling and may not can be caught and tied into another yarn.

Sorry I was so slow to tell you about Paris Cafe. Grady was eagerly awaiting my arrangement. I had expected him to stick around.

Paris Cafe is a landmark in the hustling, bustling town of Chapala, on the northside of an up and down lake by the same name, a safe distance but not too far from downtown Guadalajara, in the exciting and colorful state of Jalisco.

Paris Cafe is a focal point at the primary intersection, just off the corner of the busy town square, between a photo shop and a shoe store, across the street from a bank or three and not far from the jail and official seat of government. Parking comes at a premium and may include a car wash, 30 pesos if you want a rinse and wipe.

Through the years, many stories have been hatched and stretched at Paris Cafe, mostly over Nescafe instant, sometimes over breakfast burritos, now and then over frijoles and arroz (beans and rice) or chiles rellenos (stuffed peppers) or a plump enchilada. And cerveza, several cervezas, por favor (that's beer and please).

Paris Cafe, despite the gringo invasion, still pretends to be authentic Mexico. The menu is in Spanish.

Back when Hector Reyes owned the place, old gringo soldiers occupied the front tables and told war stories in great and sometimes gory detail. There's an assortment of old soldiers in Chapala for two reasons:
(1) The American Legion post has checker boards;
(2) Military retirement checks stretch farther in Chapala than in artsy Ajijic.

By sitting in a corner with his back to a wall and pretending to nod off to sleep, Grady Allen learned a lot at Paris Cafe, mostly about slow mail service, rent increases, government bureaucracy and occasionally about women of the night.

One day one story got so good, Grady had to open one eye to confirm who was telling it. The tale was overloaded with bad news, intrigue, probable scandal, possible danger, maybe worse.

As the storyteller told it, the cafe owner, a genuine man about town who had one or more fingers in several pots and pies, who knew everybody and everything about everybody, was on a hot spot. A state or national politician, accused of stealing public funds, was trying to persuade Hector to become a fall guy, to accept the blame – under some make-believe contract or verbal agreement.

Hector took a very dim view of pretending to be a criminal and maybe going to jail, even for a proper price. He supposedly declined the invitation. The politician flamed up about phony friendship and, best Grady could comprehend, promised to send a hit man and blame Hector posthumously. As smart as he was, Hector had to look up that word. He didn't like the definition.

It certainly wasn't Grady's fault but when the early version of this story reached Guadalajara or perhaps Mexico City, a state or federal prosecutor (Grady couldn't tell the difference) became very interested in the shady politician and the missing money and the threat to put the hurt on Hector.

Six official body guards, big men with big guns, were dispatched to Chapala to protect Hector Reyes day and night, around the clock, to keep him alive as a potential witness to what sounded exactly like an ugly crime against the people of Mexico and more particularly, their pesos.

The more Grady heard, the wider awake he became. He sat up straight. He could contribute to this yarn. He had seen those body guards, two at a time, standing at the doors of the Paris Cafe. Once he even heard a body guard.

Grady stopped listening and started talking.

He was having late lunch and a lemonade. He heard what he thought were firecrackers exploding upstairs. Grady looked around at the waiter for reassurance that the foundation was secure. The waiter, undisturbed, said no problem

.

"That is one of Hector's bodyguards. He is drunk. He is shooting the walls."

Being from Texas, Grady knew gunfire could be dangerous. He remembered a pause in the bang-bang-banging, about enough time for reloading, and then another flurry.

"I am telling the truth," said the waiter. "The bodyguard allowed me to shoot the wall this morning. Four times."

Grady's eyes danced as he told about an exciting decision, that whatever was happening upstairs was a little too close for downstairs comfort and that he should go for a walk. He took his last swallow of the very fine beverage, headed for the gate and ran smack into Hector and two XXL bodyguards, exiting an extra-large black, official-looking car, double-parked.

"I stayed long enough to see what was happening," said Grady, "while hoping I wouldn't get shot". . .

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(Marvin West, mostly retired after just 42 years with Scripps Howard newspapers, is senior partner in an international communications consulting company. This column is from his forthcoming book, "Mexico? What you doing in Mexico?" He invites )

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