EL BRAVO

Unlike the Herald where everyone goes about his job as if weighed down by the pessimism of a world already lost, a festive atmosphere reigns at El Bravo where smiling receptionists and ebullient reporters greet each other with besos y abrazos. It takes me a half hour to wend my way through the friendly humanity. I run through a quick list with my different acquaintances to make sure that we're up to date with events on both sides of the border. The accomplice has been apprehended! I used to write a weekly column for El Bravo when I was sports editor at the Herald. Nothing changes in Matamoros. Born rich, you die rich. Born poor, you die poor. The same waiters work the bars and the same journalists I knew three decades ago remain at the newspaper. Miguel Mendoza runs sports while the mustachioed Enrique Saldivar rules as the news editor with Martin Longoria, Manuel Paredes and Fidel Becquer the crack reporters. Silvino Zamarippa is the ubiquitous photographer. Zamarippa and I shared numerous adventures together when I was delivering my columns on a regular basis. I learned firsthand the efficacy of the bribe system on my way to Boystown with Z at the wheel. We had been drinking at El Periódico Bar around the corner from El Bravo when we opted to consummate the evening with a visit to the girls. We were halfway to our destination when the police stopped us. I was holding a half-smoked joint and the car stunk of marijuana. And we were more drunk than stoned. Z noticed my trepidation. "We're on my turf," he assured me. "Get out of the car," said the officer. "I don't think that is necessary," replied Z as he handed the policeman his press credentials and a small wad of pesos that I later discovered totaled $25. The officer put the money in his pocket, returned Z his credentials and, with a sweep of an arm delivered with the elan of a bullfighter allowing the bull to pass, sent us on our way.