Chino's Chicken
By Don Adams © Don Adams 2003

Although based on various almost believable tales told by myself and others this one is nearly total fiction. I do drink beer, and I do take my tequila neat, but aside from that you're on your own!

Don

Adan! Que tal, amigo?

It had been one of those days that occasionally drive me to a quiet place and a cold beer, but both were about to be completely and expensively disrupted. The voice calling to me marked the entrance of my "amigo" Chico Soborno. Capitan Chico Soborno. Commandante of the crack Chapala Transito SWAT Team and a tequila fiend. He drinks only the best available, according to the vulnerability of his victim's purse.

"Callado sees su Bronco so he says to me…" My arched eyebrow alerted Chico that he'd tripped my BS alarm but he recovered most gracefully. "He points…, so of course I say we must stop and buy a drink for our amigo Adan."

Somehow I doubted the truth of the statement but how could I escape Chico's offer of hospitality? I was on the half-walled second floor of Que Caballeros, a simple fifteen foot drop to the ground; one made many times, in many places in my younger years, but now a Siren to be ignored.

I waved weakly at the empty chairs at my table as Chico and Callado walked quickly toward me with outstretched hands and wide smiles. I rose to meet their grips; not to be polite, but to scan the stairway to see if any more of the team was following. We'd danced to this tune before so I was relieved to see that I'd be buying drinks and dinner for only the three of us.

"How has your day been, my friends?"

"Ay, sangre y muerte; blood and death."

He left the image to fester in my imagination as he turned to face our host Ruben, and to begin the gracious ordering process. Greetings were exchanged, as were mutual brief inquiries into the health of wives and lovers, children of the wives, children of the lovers, friends, horses of the respective households, and then detailed discussions of their states of satisfaction with the weather, their jobs, their horses, and their wives and lovers.

Finally, "Tequila, favor, y para Callado,…" he glanced to catch that worthy's nod "tambien…y Adan…" I tilted the half full Pacifico in his direction. "Tres," ignoring my signal.

Jesus appeared at that moment to place a huge platter of botanas in the middle of the table. Ruben bowed from the waist and with an expansive wave of his hand offered his customary "Why not?". As he turned to relay the order to Jesus, Chico piped up again. "Y seis platos de costillas. " He looked to me for confirmation and I raised one finger from the bottle. "Cinco." Once again, the bow, the wave, and the "Why not?"

Jesus was standing by for the official word and once it was delivered he headed for the stairs. Halfway down he was stopped by Chico's shout. "Chuy,una botella. The good stuff that you and Ruben drink, not that goat piss you sell to the gringos." He turned back to offer an apology but I stopped him with a quick wave of my raised hand and the question "Blood and death?"

"Si! this is a very bad day. Much death, a little blood." Callado nodded affirmation, then slowly shook his lowered head as though pained by the memory of the day's carnage.

"Traffic accident?"

"Si." Again Callado nodded.

"Death?"

"Si!" Another nod.

"Who?"

"Gringos. Turistas."

"They died?"

"No, the pollo of Chino."

"The gringos killed Chino's chicken?"

"Si! the fighting one."

"El gallo ?."

"No, la gallina."

"A fighting hen ?"

"Si! that's why Chino sends for us."

"Sends…?"

"Si! to the house of Manolo, close by."

"Where is Manolo this afternoon?" Manolo was the SWAT Team sharpshooter.

"Dead."

"Dead?"

"Si! but no longer in his house."

It suddenly appeared that this dinner and bottle were going to be worth the unfolding story. Chico is a world class chismenero once you get him rolling but I had a feeling he was about to surpass himself.

"Could we leave the chicken for a minute to hear about Manolo?"

"Si!, Manolo." Chico slowly shook his head, mirrored in the motion by Callado.

"So?"

"So Concha calls early this morning to el estacion to say Manolo is dead and to find Rigo to pronounce him, so I tell El Negro to find Rigo and send him to the house of Manolo, and Callado drives me to see Concha. And Manolo. When we get to the house Concha is outside and she says Manolo is inside, on the bed."

Callado once more nodded.

"So we go inside, and there he is. Still in his uniform, still wearing that pistola, and on the bed like this." Chico spread wide his arms and stiffened to straighten out his body. "Like Cristo. And drunk. And also dead."

"I'm sorry…"

Chico waved off my expression of sympathy. "I tell him. I tell him many times; Manolo, tequila will kill you."

It was at that moment that Jesus arrived with the bottle and three glasses. Those who drink with Chico know not to ask for the non-essentials like lime and salt. Chico paused his story long enough to do the honors. The three of us raised our filled glasses and Chico and I offered a synchronized Salud! in the ages old international salute to serious drinking.

"But he never listens. And now we stand there to wait for Rigo. So I say to Concha 'Que pasa?' so she says Manolo comes home drunk and falls onto the bed and there is no room for her and she goes to the house of her mother and when she returns this morning there he is. Still drunk. And also dead."

Callado nodded and slowly shook his head, then reached for the bottle to pour another round.

"So when maybe two hours pass Rigo comes and he says 'Manolo is dead' so we pick Manolo up to take him to the funeraria of Arturo,but Manolo does not bend, so when we get to the door we turn him sideways to get through. He's stiff, amigo, and stinks and Callado have him by the feet and Rigo have him by his arms and me his head and when we turn him to go through, one hand touches almost the top of the door and the other one almost the bottom but we get him through. But when we get to the station wagon of Rigo we do not load him in because his arms are too wide to fit so Rigo says 'We must break his arms. Take Concha inside.' but she will not go and we cannot break his arms with her watching, so Callado…" he turned and motioned toward his driver who acknowledged the recognition with a shy smile "…he says we can put Manolo in the camioneta."

"Says? The police truck?"

"Si! you know… says like this, with his hands. So we lift up Manolo and put his feet on the truck and we slide him in but Concha says we must put something under him because the floor is too hard. Ay, Dios mio! The man is drunk. And also dead! He feels nothing, but Concha says no, he will not ride on the floor.

So Callado climbs into the truck and pulls Manolo up until he is almost standing and his shoulders are on the bar over the back of the truck, the one we hold when we ride on patrol. And then he keeps him in that place when he takes the laces from his boots."

Callado had been noisily making sure neither the glasses nor we dried out so I wasn't sure I heard correctly.

"Laces?"

"Si!, to tie Manolo to the bar. Now Concha is happy. And Manolo always likes to hang on the bar, so he is happy also. Now we are ready to take him to the funeraria so Arturo can fix him when Carmen runs up to tell us of the death of the chicken."

"Carmen?"

"The wife of Chino. So what could we do? Manolo must go with us one last time. But this is no problema ; the accident is on the way to the funeraria and we must pass by anyway. Carmen and Concha go on the front seat of the truck and Callado drives us to the place."

Callado nodded and smiled.

"When we go to the place there is Chino with the two gringos. He is white and bald. She is white and silver. Chino is red. And loud. The gringos are mostly quiet. Callado drives close to park and when the gringos look at us they get even whiter. And quieter. Chino runs to me to say that these people kill his chicken…he points to the road behind the car of the gringos and there we see the body of the chicken…and now refuse to pay the full worth."

"The full worth?"

"Si!, the full worth of the chicken. So I ask Chino how much is the worth and he says 'Un mil', one thousand pesos. Then I say 'This is much worth' and Chino says 'This is a fighting chicken with which I can make much money.' And I say 'Chino I never see a fighting chicken' and Chino says 'I know, she is la sola in Mexico, that is what make her so valuable!' and I cannot argue, so I say to the gringos 'Do you kill this fighting chicken?' but they do not answer because they are staring at Manolo.

Again I say 'Do you kill this fighting chicken?' but again they do not answer. I know I need to do something so I get help. I motion for Callado to come near and we take the gringos by their arms and lead them to the back of the truck."

"So you used the 'good cop, bad cop' routine with Callado?"

"No my friend, with Manolo; good cop, dead cop. They fear Manolo much more than Callado or me so when I write out the worth of the fighting chicken, they pay, and then leave. Rapido."

"And?"

"Manolo and Concha at last I deliver to Arturo, and Chino is happy the gringos kill his chicken. And I keep my comision of the worth I write on the back of my ticket book. Half of the dos mil, two thousand pesos, the gringos pay to kill the fighting chicken."

Chico smiled and raised his glass in a solitary toast. "Eat well and drink deep tonight, amigo, because su Capitan pays for this cena y tequila."