Peril and Intrigue Under El Sexto Sol

By Lorenzo Cano

A MODERN-DAY STORY FILLED WITH SUSPENSE, HUMOR AND ROMANCE. PERIL AND INTRIGUE UNDER EL SEXTO SOL follows San Antonio, Texas Professor Tony Carranza and his cadre of students to Mexico City and smack into the final days of the presidential campaign of popular, reformist, indigenous candidate, Moctezuma Chacón. Suspecting that the death of one of Mexico’s ex-representatives to the United Nations was an assassination, Professor Carranza becomes a target by unknown assailants. Los Angeles Times reporter, Stacey Montemayor, arrives on the scene to cover the campaign and soon becomes embroiled along with Professor Carranza, the students, and a host of other patriotic Mexican activists seeking justice and democracy at all costs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664149632

Lorenzo Cano

LORENZO CANO is a writer and consultant on community development and Mexican American affairs. A veteran of the Chicano Movement, he has organized countless conferences, seminars, and community actions on behalf of the Mexican American and Latino communities. Cano taught courses in Mexican American Studies and led numerous student educational trips throughout Mexico while he was the Associate Director at the University of Houston’s Center for Mexican American Studies. Originally from Corpus Christi, Texas, he currently lives with his wife, Grisel, near Houston, in Onalaska, Texas.

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PERIL AND INTRIGUE

UNDER EL SEXTO SOL

Lorenzo Cano

Copyright © 2021 by Lorenzo Cano.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/02/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

The People

Chapter 1     A Volcano Erupts

Chapter 2     A Turn of Events

Chapter 3     Crossing into Mexico

Chapter 4     The Regiomontano Express

Chapter 5     A Mexico City Welcome

Chapter 6     At the National Autonomous University of Mexico

Chapter 7     Plaza Garibaldi: Close Call

Chapter 8     Meeting Moctezuma Chacón

Chapter 9     Out on The Town

Chapter 10   The Attack

Chapter 11   Surprise in Polanco

Chapter 12   Captives

Chapter 13   Staying Alive

Chapter 14   Tapatío Redemption

Chapter 15   The Eve of The Election

Chapter 16   Surprise Visit

Chapter 17   Election Day

Chapter 18   Election Night

Chapter 19   El Panteón de Los Angeles

Chapter 20   Last Chance

Chapter 21   Unexpected Expectations

Chapter 22   El Sexto Sol Arising

This book is dedicated to the 1960’s and 1970’s Chicano Movement activists and to those individuals who struggled during the same time period for a more democratic and just Mexico. To my wife, Grisel, and to my sons and daughters, Lorenzo Eduardo, Lorenzo Xavier, Yajaira Milena, and Xóchitl Rosalie who have given me even more purpose and meaning in my life.

THE PEOPLE

CHAPTER 1

A Volcano Erupts

T HE TIME ON the wall clock was approaching ten and I had been elbowing the bar for some time, warming a stool, and sipping on another last glass of imported cabernet. The suave tempo of the music wafted through the club’s clouds of happy patron chatter; a good crowd, but nowhere near the weekend jam with long lines snaking outside. I set my drink down with a bump, see-sawing the wine before it settled into a glossy, crimson, serene pond. The swirling wine and concave shape of the glass reminded me of a small moon-lit bay near Puerto Vallarta six years ago where I spent a week on the beach with ex-college buddies and an old flame.

Mauve and pink neon lights around the large rectangular wall mirror glowed invitingly over my dimly lit perch. The scaly, elongated bulbs suggested two feathered serpents. Their long-tailed bodies rose from the bottom of the mirror, one slithered up left and the other to the right side along its carved wooden edges until they faced each other at the apex of the shiny glass with fearless eyes. The bartenders would explain to new customers that the colorful slithery creatures were artistic renditions of the plumed serpent, Toltec god Quetzalcoatl, and the masterpiece of famous Mexico City artist, Francisca Palomares. The place also got notoriety from the elaborately handcrafted wooden bar that was considered the longest in the state of Texas. It stretched from near the entrance to the back of the long, rectangular-shaped room that faced the lush vegetation along the San Antonio River Walk. It was the first drinking establishment to open back up after the end of Prohibition in the last century decades past and an icon primarily for those who gravitated from the Westside and Southside; particularly those that were looking for reasonable prices, uplifting roots music, a good conversation, or just to be left alone. For certain, the Soul of Texas Latin Jazz Nightclub was the place to be by generations of native and transplanted patrons.

On the weekends, the best Latin jazz, conjunto, and Tejano bands performed their magic to enthusiastic crowds. Coats required by all gentlemen, stated the Greater Convention and Visitors Bureau’s brochure item on the nightclub. Joey, the manager, wouldn’t settle for anything less than a spiffy look. This was the place where La Chicanada, San Antonio’s Mexican Americans, came decked out wearing elegant hats and chic attire, both retro and nouveau. Texas Colors Magazine called the fashionable styles Latin cosmopolitan, but we in San Antonio knew it simply as the Westside look.

I usually didn’t come on Wednesdays, but I had heard earlier in the day that my department had voted to grant me tenure, a life-long contract with the university, and every professor’s dream. Not bad, I thought, for a thirty-six-year-old guy from the Westside of San Antonio. The great news warranted a small celebration. Why not? Besides, the five o’clock news on KTEX had warned motorists to avoid driving, if possible, due to expected flash street flooding. I harbored in the club, then decided to linger even after the rain quit. Feeling mellow, I thought about all the sacrifices I had made towards getting tenure, including my breakup three years ago with a long-term relationship.

I thought to plan a pachanga later with my friends and family. I had published a nationally recognized book, edited two others, completed umpteenth scholarly articles, mostly in so-called top-notch journals, and nearly completed my second book over changes in Mexican politics with a firm commitment by the University of Texas Press. The close departmental vote awarding me tenure was unsurprising since some of the faculty couldn’t stomach that a Chicano from the Westside had attended a more prestigious university than they, and that my publishing record was beyond repute. Those voting against me didn’t like my politics; too committed to my community, and I simply wrote too much on the politics of the have-nots…a topic unworthy of academic prestige in the eyes of the Neanderthals in the department who had remained uninformed or unmoved by the fact that the world had recently celebrated a new century and moved forward rapidly. Most of all, I behaved as an equal which didn’t sit well with a few in the department who thought their DNA was superior to someone with the last name Carranza. Snobs, I thought to myself, when I felt someone gently tapping me on the shoulder.

Pardon me, Professor Carranza?

The beautiful, stunning woman seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Maybe a graduate student, I thought. That I was instantly taken aback by her beauty was the understatement of the year! Time froze and the music stopped as the patrons around the bar fixated on her long, silky, raven hair, smooth, golden-bronze skin, and eyes like exotic gems.

The conference, she breathed, as if she had read my mind. She pulled out the barstool next to mine and displayed a pair of shapely legs snuggled inside a modish black skirt embroidered with images of red roses and tassels along the hem. Her muscle tone and tan thighs suggested vitality, physicality. A runner or tennis player, I surmised, looking down and then into her eyes.

About a year ago, she said, The National Association of American Political Scientists in D.C. at your book signing. Remember? I’m Stacey Montemayor. She offered her hand.

How could I have forgotten! We had spoken briefly but warmly, and I had reluctantly turned down her invitation to a friend’s birthday party that evening. I would’ve gone but had a plane to catch that night to Boston. I almost decided to miss the plane but grudgingly realized the presentation at the Kennedy School took precedence over the party, so I left.

I’m a writer for the Los Angeles Times now and I’m here on a five- day assignment, the young woman remarked gleaming.

The Los Angeles Times?

Isn’t that great Dr. Carranza? I’m so full of myself; still can’t believe it! My editor just informed me yesterday to book a flight and to head out here right away, she added, glowing with confidence. Her skin, hair, eyes, even her teeth sparkled like the keys of a new shiny piano.

Please, call me Tony. I appreciate the deference but we’re all down to earth here at the Soul of Texas.

"Sounds good to me, Tony."

So, what’s your assignment? I asked with genuine interest as I fumbled for my glass while straightening up my posture on the bar stool.

Latino political power; like before, the Irish came into power in Boston, and the Italians in New York back when. Such an old take, but that’s how they suggested I cover it. They want me to start out focusing on the American Southwest. Of course, my assignment editor can’t see that our ancestors were here long before any of the so-called Founding Fathers. The political rise of Mexican Americans has been on the front pages for decades, but a new era is evolving; new population and political gains, new moves and players on the political chess board all over the country.

You’re right. The pot has been brewing for a long, long time.

Well that’s why I’m in town and hope to visit other nearby cities.

So is this your first time in San Antonio?

Yeaaaah… and I can’t believe all the early Spanish missions throughout the city although I’ve read about them, the street names and your River Walk, and Spanish being spoken everywhere, the danzantes on the plaza, and the accordion music that’s playing right now. I feel right at home. Oh, and your mayor, Sam Cortez, with his seventy percent landslide victory. The Times thinks that he could become the next U.S. Senator.

Time will tell, I said. "Politics is a tight-rope. You never know when you’ll fall and get hurt badly or just scrape a knee. Of course, a miscalculation can kill you politically as happens to us when we begin to make some gains. Along comes a shove from the people on top with the money and power and over we go like bowling pins, or they buy one of us out with a little cash or position and voila, they’re no longer in the struggle. If that doesn’t work, they’ll find some way of framing us and before you know it, you’re spending five to ten in a federal penitentiary with your reputation shot to hell in a cell the size of a match box."

Stacey suddenly made a serious face and kicked my ankle gently with her elegant black stilettos. And how does a lady get a drink around here?

I called over to Andy Ayala who was flirting with the lady attorneys from the San Antonio Lawyers Guild. Andy had bartended here for as long as I could remember, and now had a piece of the action as an investor. He didn’t have to tend bar any longer but liked the interaction with the customers and wanted to keep an eye on things.

"What you having hermano?" Andy asked, his eyes lighting up as he turned towards Stacey.

Two tequila shots, the best in the house! she blurted out.

Wait a second. I’m sticking with the wine… don’t want to mix it, I told Stacey.

Don’t make assumptions, Dr. Carranza, I mean Tony, Stacey said jokingly. These are for me, especially since I have to do a little catching up. Stacey winked and gave me another light tap with her stilettos.

I was feeling on top of the world; lifted by victory in the tenure decision, a few glasses from my old friend via the Bordeaux region, get down conjunto music and now a knockout brainy lady keeping me company. With my appointment came monetary relief. I could relax and enjoy life, at least a little more now. I would continue teaching but not go nuts pushing my research past the cold, dead eyes at academic conferences that weren’t my priorities. I could set my own pace now and continue making a name for myself. Not that I was letting my guard down. I learned long ago that, to win, individuals from the other side of the tracks had to be at least twice if not three times as good as the competition. One win, even tenure didn’t guarantee rock-solid success. Besides, I was just getting started at the Ivory Tower. They hadn’t seen anything yet!

Two tequilas coming right up, Andy said, poking me on the shoulder with a grin as he turned to Stacey. "This illustrious caballero is one of the lights of the community and he’s been celebrating all evening by himself…lucky for him you came along."

Get out of here and bring the drinks, I ribbed him.

We went on a little, Stacey grinning at our bantering. Then from her purse, she extracted a small, thin, sterling silver case. On its face, a colorful Aztec calendar, and inside business cards. She handed one to me.

Here! she said. "This way we can stay in touch and you can let me know whenever you’re coming to Los Angeles."

The card from the L.A. Times had National Political Writer written on it. Stacey was more than just a gorgeous woman. Being a national political writer for the Los Angeles Times was no joke.

Stacey congratulated me on the tenure vote and made one of several toasts that evening. We shared stories about our jobs and all the pendejadas we had to deal with as well as the fulfilling and memorable experiences. Then she posed the question before waving us down another round.

When will you be going down to Mexico again?

This summer. I have most of the manuscript written for my second book and a commitment by the UT Press, but I’ll go there the last few days before the presidential election. Many people feel that Moctezuma Chacόn could win and if so, he’d be the first indigenous President in Mexico since Benito Juarez back in the 1860’s. Moctezuma speaks his native Náhuatl and has been a political activist and human rights worker for years.

That would be something! cried out Stacey. "If he wins, it will fall during the Pre-Columbian calendar year of the Sixth Sun, you know, El Sexto Sol. One of the codices says it’s to be a period of steady, gradual rebirth of indigenous cultures, languages, and a renaissance among descendants of Mexico’s indigenous people. And that would include us!"

"That’s right Stacey! The codex is all about a new era and the development of a new consciousness among the people of Mexico. The experts, not to say the general folk, haven’t agreed on what exactly will happen. Descendants of ancient mexícanos are those living in Mexico today and a whole group of people living on this side of the border, even if many no longer speak the native languages. I guess we’ll try to read the tea leaves or whatever until this all blossoms; perhaps even within the next few months as the election plays out."

I raised my wine glass, tapped Stacey’s, and shouted out a toast, "Que Viva el Sexto Sol!"

The women from the Lawyer’s Guild, ever so much part of the San Antonio avant guarde, raised their glasses in solidarity and issued short but spirited gritos. We nodded and saluted them, then turned back. I leaned into the wooden bar and commented to Stacey and Andy who had just returned from the back: "Wouldn’t it be something if the new muscle of the popular democratic movement