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The room in Tijuana was white, small, hot. The sounds of the street below drifted in through the window on an endless loop: slow winding trumpets, an accordion vamping, the corrido blaring fuzzily from small tinny speakers, making it sound like a pile of dirt had been kicked over the band. Rosa, the woman I was interviewing, stared at me, flinty and impatient, with thick black eye shadow and raven hair falling past her shoulders.
She chewed on her fingernails while she talked, no matter the question, speaking in the same arrhythmic cadence, the words speeding and piling into each other like the beat-up taxis outside, then suddenly slowing and trailing off into nothing.
There was no excitement or pretense, just words and memories told one after the other. Rosa was 50 years old. She had about three clients a day. I robbed a lot too, wallets, money. In the s, Rosa explained, she made a good income and avoided dangerous clients, easy enough when the supply of johns flowing in from the United States was so plentiful. Money still flowed freely from north of the border into the city. It was a time of excess. The longer Rosa talked, the more I noticed her jerky eye movements and anxious hand-wringing.
There was a time limit to this interview. I wondered how long it would be before she needed to find her fix again. The city is far from the U. Before all that, though, back in the s, Guadalajara was largely peaceful. There was little to indicate that it would soon become the place where the blueprint for Mexican cartels as we now know them—fearsome, powerful, and utterly cruel—would be developed, in the form of the Guadalajara Cartel.
