Icebox Hill Social Club

Karolína has revealed her super secret vision board. It’s rigged to burst into flames in ninety seconds. The plan is perfect, she insists. It is an elaborate mousetrap. The operation will proceed like a circuit board. Flip the switch and everything will fall into motion. The trick? There’s just one hitch. Which is?, her husband Rob Roy asks. The hitch?, Karolína says, is flipping the switch. There is one domino which has to fall. One gap we have to leap. And I have tried to come up with another solution, but only one thing will do, she says. And?, Rob Roy’s sun-freckled face hints at concern. The only way forward, Karolína says, is Vic Neverman has to seduce the widow.

Rob Roy let’s off a laugh to release the pressure on his lungs. His laughter metamorphosizes into a groan and eventual acceptance. Oh-okay, he says in his calm genteel voice. This is your Ocean’s 11 master plan? Vic has to seduce the widow? Boob, DeLoa says. There is no Vic!, the social media fashionista reminds the Americans. DeLoa says, his name is Boob. “El Boob”. Yes, that’s right, Karolína agrees. Vic shall be known as “Bob Tacocat” and Bob Tacocat must seduce the widow. Who else is going to do it?, she asks. You can’t seduce the widow, she tells her husband, I want you in charge of the barbecue. That’s what you want, Rob Roy says, but I want nothing to do with this. Rob Roy grabs his champagne flute and walks into the other room as the vision board ignites. That’s okay, Karolína says to DeLoa. I factored in Rob Roy’s resistance into my plan. He won’t refuse the barbecue. I would do it, DeLoa says with dramatic raising of his hands in sacrifice. I would do it, but the widow knows my preferences. 

Thank you for volunteering, DeLoa, but you are far too precious, Karolína says in her southern twang. No, it’s decided. Vic… Bob… it’s all on you, bud. 

Dios mio.  

Mexico. The proverbial “run for the border” has been the American schemer’s last resort as long as there’s been American schemes. Break glass in case of emergency. I am not there yet. I am not abandoning my plots & machinations north of the border. Not yet. But a dress rehearsal is in order. A fire drill, if you will… practice for the inevitability of having to flee my home country. What would it be like for Vic Neverman to evaporate into the ether?, to be born again south of the border?, as esteemed egyptologist Bob Tacocat? And where do gringos run when the gringos are on the run? I followed the champagne bubbles. They took me to Mazatlán.

Esteemed egyptologist?, well shoot, Bob… Karolína says by drawling the short “o” as far as it will go. I’ve already screwed that up for you. I have been telling everyone you are a preeminent etymologist. It’s fine, I say. No one knows what etymology means anyway.  

It is imperative I keep a low gringo profile, operating as thin & flaky as American wallpaper. Fortunately, I do not have to abandon my more eclectic tastes: a mezcal sipping, linen suit wearing, pidgin-Spanish speaking, dance misstepping, mustachioed white dude may be out of place anywhere else in the world. But not along the beaches of Mexico. Here, we Tacocat are legion. I am well camouflaged. 

Tacocat?, is that French?, Rob Roy asks with his kindly curious southern accent. He could have said, “an idiot?, that must be liberating…”, and his words would still come off friendly. Nah man, I tell him. It’s Ohioan. Of the Toledo Tacocats. Furniture building family. Rob Roy nodded politely, saying, sure, Vic…

Escape artists & retirees can only assimilate so much. Lawrence of Arabia adored & mimicked his beloved Bedouin, which led to his being ridiculed by two cultures: his of origin & his of choice. Tribal instinct leaves all peoples distrusting outsiders, which is why even the best intentioned visitors often find themselves relegated to peripheral communities. Not sitting at the cool kid’s table, however, isn’t as damning as it seems. Sometimes, the best parties are those on the edge; dancing with each foot in separate worlds. Exempli gratia: the expat community on Mazatlán’s Icebox Hill.  

Rob Roy & Karolína’s house on Icebox Hill, Palacio de los Gallos, looks southeast over the historical center of Mazatlán. From this height, there is a view of the old cathedral, cruise ship alley, the Pacifico beer plant, and if you stretch, the El Faro lighthouse as the westernmost tip of the city. Mazatlán is shaped liked a “3” facing the ocean. The uppermost concave curve goes from the the brightly lit Zona Dorada (“the Golden Zone”) in the north, down past Playa Norte (“Frigate-About-It Beach”) to the midpoint, where the land juts out into the sea. Atop that jutting point is Cerro de la Neveria, aka “Icebox Hill”. You’ll know it at a distance by its antenna head. Icebox Hill then looms over the lower concave curve of the “3” where the market of the old city still bustles all the way to the ports. 

It’s overlooking this cityscape at night I fell asleep on a pool deck chaise lounge to the incessant crows of roosters. Dreaming of sizzling vision boards and faceless widows. I awake late-morning when I hear Karolína & DeLoa discussing party plans over their breakfast margaritas. She requires his assistance creating an outfit reminiscent of 1940’s French Rivera. DeLoa touches his fingertips to his chest as he mentally cycles through wardrobe options. Fascist French Rivera… or French Résistance?, DeLoa asks. It’d have to be the fascists, wouldn’t it?, Karolína says with lips curled as if about to growl. Fascists have brighter colors, she admits with reluctance. La Résistance was primarily dark neutral tones. I don’t want that, she decides. Maybe 1950’s French Rivera then… DeLoa opens his laptop where he rediscovers his earlier research. Oh!, he squeaks with delight. I did find tonight’s guests on social media. They look… normal. But are they interesting? 

Karolína turns at the sound of my stumble. Oh, hey Vic, did we wake you?, she asks. Oh, I mean.., she corrects herself, Buenos Dias Señor Tacocat! Are you ready for tonight’s soiree, Bob?, Karolína inquires. I want the theme to be Great Gatsby meets Cannery Row, she says. And you, Bob, you’re our Old Man of the Sea. Are you going to hook the marlin for us? No, DeLoa objects, Boob should be Moby Dick.  

When I first met DeLoa, I unintentionally insulted him by assuming he was Palacio de los Gallos’ majordomo. He gasped. Scandalous! I am no servant, Boob! DeLoa is Karolína’s confidant & co-conspirator. If I trusted Karolína with my secrets, I had to trust DeLoa as well. Not that she was one to be trusted. A self-admitted Coastal Carolina con-artist, Karolína reinvented herself as a socialite of sophistication down in Mexico. DeLoa, meanwhile, was not just her interpreter & agent of chaos, her fixer & attendant, her “adopted” son & girlfriend, he was also the Mazatleco Prince of Icebox Hill, beloved by the well-perched expat community for being their “favorite muchacho”. He would flutter amongst the American, Canadian, English foreigners, like a hummingbird, happily ingratiating himself by assisting with negocios mexicanos. And occasionally, secretly seducing someone’s son-in-law. Many of those foreigners would be coming to Karolína’s soiree tonight. 

DeLoa says he will be introducing me to everyone I need to know. You must look fabulous, Boob. Dude, I say to him, the name is “Bob”. “Boob” DeLoa says, acting as if he didn’t know better. He does know better. This is the same guy who orders Coca-Cola by asking for “cock”. I will feel better once I have cock, DeLoa likes to say to waiters while batting his eyelashes. I never fail the Pepsi Challenge, he’s said. “Bob” Karolína attempts to correct DeLoa. “El Boob”, DeLoa says. Fuck it, I say, just call me “Señor Tacocat”.

I bid good day to the brunchers & their cocktails. I have to take these ojos rojos down into the city to find the hair of the bitch who bit me. It’s a haphazard tumble down the hill to the malecon where I opt for a breakfast of coffee and chilaquiles. Mid-afternoon, I find shade along Playa Norte and snack on freshly caught tuna ceviche. And a cold Pacifico. Or two. I believe the first sip of Pacifico is always the best. I order a third bottle to ensure I have another chance at a first sip. I return to the historical center of the city for a wash-up. Toss on my best linen suit. And wile away the last hours of day at Hotel Belmar. 

Occupying a choice curb of Olas Altas: the Pacific Coast boulevard of Mazatlán, the bar of Hotel Belmar has sat famous asses for a century. John Wayne would sip tequila on the rocks with a twist of lime. Where’d the Duke’s bartender get clean ice? Up on Icebox Hill, one presumes. Jack Kerouac would drink in Hotel Belmar too. While the beatnik preferred pulque laced with peyote (don’t we all?), that concoction would have been harder to find along this gringo strip and Jack likely stuck to mezcal margaritas. Errol Flynn, I am told, would drink champagne from within Hotel Belmar as he’d wait for the right teenage girls to invite themselves back to his yacht. Errol’d then return to the bar later at night for whiskey, which often led him to amusing the crowd by playing the piano by thudding his genitalia on the keys. Somewhere in the hotel may have been Walt Disney sipping coffee. It was along these seawalls during a hurricane Walt dreamt up scenes for the movie Fantasia. 

At Hotel Belmar, I keep it simple. Neat. Mezcal. A side of sparkling water. I toasted the Aztec goddess of agave & fertility, Mayahuel. A toast to her and my fellow 399 drunken rabbits who suckle from her 400 teats. I try a second mezcal. And I become magic. I do not leave until it’s time to re-summit Icebox Hill. 

I do not trust the local taxi carts to make the climb up Cerro de la Neveria. The hillside road, Vista Hermosa, was tossed upon this rock lazily. A fat python sunning itself on stone: the road sways, dips, banks, plunges, reverses, climbs precariously. I’d be better off hiring a mule-driver to get a burro up this hill. Instead, I take the stairs. It’s a climb made easier by the mezcal in my bloodstream.  

The trek on foot is an archaeological journey through the history of Icebox Hill. From the urban center of Mazatlán, away from the ocean-facing restaurants, through the ruins of unzoned buildings unofficially occupied with squatters and their territorial curs & cocks, to reach the renovated or newly developed manses overlooking the Pacific Ocean. A trek with the background music of rooster crows, dog barks and the incessant progress of a jackhammer. 

Rob Roy’s driver & security guard, Tio Rogelio, believes this hill is riddled with tunnels. Narcos used to own this hill, brother, Rogelio told me in confidence. Where do you think they hid all the cocaine? Icebox Hill, brother. He told me the subterranean passages have several exits including la Cueva del Diablo, the boarded-up cave along the malecon. Earlier this week, when Rogelio & I were tasked by Karolína to purchase a few cases of Baja Brut from a local booze warehouse, the driver slowed down outside the malecon hotel where El Chapo was famously arrested. Even with the Chapo out of the picture, this is all still Sinaloa Cartel territory. Rogelio insists Mazatlan is safe. Do not even think about going to Culicán, brother, he says, but Mazatlan is safe. Mazatlan is where the narcos keep their abuelas. And their segundarias. These beaches are off-limits to the violence. Mazatlan: city of grandmothers & mistresses.

Narco influence in Sinaloa is no secret kept from the expats. Days from now, with the impending arrival of my business associates: messieurs Beauchamp & Brainchild, I intend to cross the Sea of Cortez to Baja California. When I mentioned this to an American snowbird, he warned me, saying, well, you do know the Sinaloa Cartel has no influence there? It is the Tijuana Cartel which holds power in Cabo San Lucas and La Paz, he said. But why would that matter to me? It doesn’t. For the assimilated gringos, however, whose fealty you pay does matter. There exists amongst the expats a casual resignation to the feudal power of cartels. It is an uneasy acceptance, but the cost of doing business in medieval Mexico. It reminds me of the Egyptian custom to allow any cobra who has entered into the home to coexist with the family peacefully. To kill the cobra would be bad luck in Egypt. In Mexico, killing the cobra would only bring more cobras, smaller & meaner. And it is better the devil you know… Or in this case, it is better the Chapo you know than the Tijuana narco you don’t. 

Glistening with sweat, I arrive at the Icebox Hill Social Club soirée at Palacio de los Gallos. The gate-keeper, DeLoa, greets me from behind the iron bars protecting the courtyard. He takes one disapproving scan of rumpled linens and asks with scold, Boob… are you drunk? No, chico, I say. I am magic. DeLoa opens the gate and takes a step back, sliding his glasses (over-sized & non-prescription) down his nose to allow his eyes to peer over and scrutinize further. He closes the gate and after catching a whiff, DeLoa says, you smell… like nothing! Boob, what is this perfume are you wearing? I say to DeLoa, I am wearing my personal musk tonight. Tsk, DeLoa tuts while taking out a travel-sized cologne bottle to mist me. Now el Boob smells as DeLoa, he says with great satisfaction. DeLoa is dressed like the mayor of Palm Springs if the mayor of Palm Springs was a Mexican glam model. His pastel stripped shirt is two sizes too small, only buttoned at the navel to allow the collar to bloom like a flower and expose his furry chest for any rich gringo sugar-daddies to rest their heads. Based on DeLoa’s saucy attitude, the night’s prospects must be strong. He is keen to return to the mix. The soirée, DeLoa says, is about to begin.

After entering into Palacio de los Gallos, I am waved over to the bar by Rob Roy’s driver & security guard. Tio Rogelio lines up twin shots of tequila. Añejo, he says as he pours. Beyond the bar, beyond the balcony where the partygoers are gathered, the Centro Historico cityscape has become golden with setting sun. The frigates soaring high overhead are joined by darting swallows & bats in the lower air space. 

Fucking beautiful, brother, Rogelio says as he clinks his shot of tequila with mine. He tosses his tequila back. I do likewise. Magic.  

Alright. Let’s mingle…