The Queen Of The Jalisco Cartel - How An Ambitious Dancer Made Her Way On The Stage And In Bed

Maria Luisa Fox was a dancer from Guadalajara - a line dancer and then a runway queen, and finally the lead dancer of the Rockettes at Rockefeller Center in New York.  She was a prima donna, a woman who knew her own talents, intelligence, and allure, and thought the world was open to her. 

Of course, New York is not Guadalajara, a town of serapes, tacos, and Montezuma's revenge, controlled now by the cartels who have the government, the Federales and local police in their pocket.  Yet it is still a nice place, more American now than Mexican, what with so many retirees from El Norte settled there; but a place to come back to, to relax on the front porch, listen to rancheros, and watch Mama make enchiladas. 

New York is a jungle, especially for an ambitious woman like Maria Luisa - a comer, a desirable commodity for sale like everything and everyone is in New York - and no matter how she tried, the right doors to Broadway remained closed.  No matter to how many producers and directors to whom she sent her portfolio, she got no callbacks. 

Maria Luisa's family was non-political, more of a que sera sera, cultura de la hamaca family.  The cartels meant business and were everywhere.  Not exactly like Stasi and Sevak, the notorious Secret Police of East Germany and Iran, but an endemic presence. 

Maria Luisa had always been a favorite of Don Miguel Miranda, a high ranking member of the Jalisco cartel but a gentleman, courteous and accommodating in his interest of the young dancer. 'Anything you want, Maria Luisa, you know you can count on me'. 

His favors were generous but modest - flowers, jewelry, an Easter bonnet, dinner at the Marriott for her entire family - but she knew that he was serious in his offers.  What would she have to give in return? Better not to think about payment due, although there was not a drop of intimidation or veiled warning in his promises. 

And so it was that she accepted his offer to travel with him to Acapulco for the weekend.  Separate rooms, of course, but all expenses paid; and if she were so inclined, they might become more intimate. 

The weekend was an idyll, the best accommodations, food, and drink.  She was treated like a princess, and she had to admit that she was moved by his generosity and attention.  

It was shortly after that trip to Acapulco that she returned to Guadalajara and asked to meet him in private.  She was finding it difficult to get the break on Broadway she knew she deserved, and perhaps he had friends in New York who might be of help. 

'Of course, mi amor', he said, and within a few weeks she was informed by the administrative assistant of owner of the Belasco Theatre that he would be pleased to make her acquaintance.  Saul Feinberg, the producer of a musical now in pre-production would also be there. 

Maria Luisa never asked Miguel what he had done to arrange this meeting, and knew that it was better to keep silent and be grateful.  Whatever offer he had made was the right one, and she got the part which she wanted and was most suited for.  

Sleeping one's way to the top is nothing new either on Broadway or in Hollywood.  Any ambitious starlet or theatrical rising star understands the sexual dimensions of success; and in her case Maria Luisa not only got the part but was treated as a queen when she returned to Mexico. For her there was no question about the arrangement, and she repaid Miguel with sincere affection. 

She became well-known in Mexican cartel circles - not quite a gun moll, but the consort of one of the most important figures in the drug underground. The couple was an event, seen at the best watering holes in the capital, on the beaches of Baja and Cancun, and everywhere where it paid to be seen. 

The life was seductive, one of pure pleasure, respect, and admiration; and she found herself spending more time in Mexico than New York.  After the run of the Broadway show in which she had an important role, she deferred other offers, and wondered whether life with Don Miguel was ultimately what she wanted - glamour, fame, wealth, and pleasure without the work. 

There is no doubt that life on Southern plantations in the antebellum South was elegant, grand, and beautiful, very Cavalier and sophisticated. The two worlds - slavery and the cultured world of mansions, lawns, live oaks, and formal balls - could indeed co-exist and while there were grounds to criticize the former, there were still good reasons to champion the other. 

The same was true of life within the Jalisco cartel.  Yes it was a gangland menace, a drug-running threat to governance and civil order; but it was also the home of some of the most swell-to-do men and women in Mexico.  It might not exactly be high European-style society, but it was certainly bourgeoise at its most opulent - a bit overdone and Baroque in places, but all in all as glamorous as anything anywhere. 

'Dance for me', Don Miguel said to her one evening on the lawn of his palatial home overlooking the ocean, and dance she did with plies, twirls, staccato folk steps, and graceful swanlike bows.  Don Miguel was entranced.  How lucky he was to have found her. 

The day she met the President of the Republic in the palace's private chambers was a day to remember. Maria Luisa knew that the cartels had influence at the highest levels, but she never knew how much.  She and Miguel were treated like royalty, honored foreign dignitaries, respected guests.  Little of any import transpired, but the President's warm welcome alone showed the level of respect accorded to Don Miguel. 

She had become so used to the cartel life that she paid little attention to the news of internecine violence, collaboration with MS-13, Mara Salvatrucha, and the vendetta killings in three states. 'It's just business', said Mafia dons after waves of vengeful killings, and so it was with the cartels. Everyone has to make a living, and the demand for drugs in El Norte justified the supply and the necessary means to assure it. 

The Broadway producers who were her sponsors had of course learned of her other life and were hesitant to place her in another show.  If the press got onto this trail, God only knows where it would lead.  So again Don Miguel asked for and arranged another visit to Broadway, Maria Luisa was chosen for an important part yet again, and doubts were quelled. 

It all fell apart, however, when El Mencho the drug kingpin of all Mexico was killed by a combined force of federales and US agents.  Mexico was in flames and the cartels were at each other's throats after blood.  One of Miguel's closest associates was murdered in front of one of Mexico City's most exclusive clubs, and he told Maria Luisa that he would have to disappear for a while. 

After a number of weeks went by, rumor had it that he too had been murdered, and that the idyll was over. She was indicted by a New York federal court, deported back to Mexico, and returned to Guadalajara to live with her mother. 

She was smart enough to know that living such life would have its pitfalls, its up and downs, and perhaps even its minor disasters; but for a woman like her - ambitious not only in terms of career and social position, but for living itself - it was all worth it. 

Cartels are not all that bad, all things considered. 

Serapes, Tacos, And Montezuma's Revenge - Mexico, Cartels, And Mayhem

As of this writing (2/23/26) Mexico is aflame. The drug cartels are wreaking havoc in the country in reprisal for the killing of their supreme jefe. This display of violence - burning cars, armed assault on police, destruction of commercial properties - has shown that the government is not nor never has been in control of the country. Worse, as many have suspected, the government is in the pocket of the cartels.  Unable stop them, they have joined them and have built offshore bank accounts, homes in St. Tropez, and villas on the Caribbean. 

Now, most Americans know little about Mexico except diarrhea; and although the country's tourism department has advertised places like Cancun, Guadalajara, Cabo St. Juan, and Acapulco as tropical idylls, attracting thousands of credulous Americans every year, they are nothing more than explosive tinder boxes in the hands of the cartels.  Most tourists to Cancun still get  diarrhea, but they get some soft breezes in return. 

The country is a mess, and the economic growth, five star Michelin meals in Mexico City, and a solid trade in tomatoes and lettuce, is just window dressing.  Mexico is a Third World country as corrupt as any African dictatorship, perhaps without the secret police, dungeons, and summary executions, but an ungoverned and ungovernable place nonetheless. 

Many older Americans remember their first trip to Tijuana, a quickie across the border for cheap booze and cheaper whores. 'You want to see my seester?', pornographic postcards, rotgut tequila, and rolled by greasers in shithole whore houses was what they got, but still kept coming.  It was a foreign place, full of promise and adventure, and no amount of sleaze, rancid whiskey, stinking serapes, and mangy dogs was going to dampen adventurous enthusiasm. 

Mexico was a joke, a South of the Border getaway from censorious, Puritan America. There you could watch as many dirty movies as you wanted, drink from morning till night, sleep with dark-haired senoritas, and go home with the clap, broke, but happy. 

NAFTA, the cross-border free trade agreement signed a number of years ago helped jumpstart the economy, and supermarket bins were full of Mexican produce.  Of course you had to scrub them, soak them in potassium permanganate, and peel them before eating, but it was a start - fresh produce all year around. 

Farm labor was Mexican, lettuce and strawberry picker, most illegal, but necessary to keep Sacramento Valley humming, and it was only when Joe Biden open the borders and said, 'come one, come all', did Americans get a good dose of Mexicans, and didn't like what they saw.  If the country was so great, why didn't these people stay homes?  It wasn't that the price of lettuce would go down, but sanctuary cities and their taxpayers were spending billions to house illegal immigrants in three-star hotels with a per diem that beggared most Americans'. 

The Mexican government, under a deal with the cartels, every so often showed the flag - planned, mutually agreed upon incursions into known cartel strongholds.  A few shots fired over the heads of the gang members, and a few pickups riddled; but in the main it was all for show.  The cartels went back underground to do their business in peace. 

Now with US help, a drug kingpin has been killed; and this time it is not like when Pablo Escobar got arrested, a quiet reassembly of the hierarchy and then business as usual. This time, the cartels decided to show their muscle both the Mexican government and to the United States.  The violence sent white tourists scattering in panic from airports and streets.  Told to shelter in place, they have been hunkering down in hotel rooms and condos until order is restored; but that is a fanciful promise.  No one knows when the mayhem will end and when the cartels have proven their point. 

Los federales, the state police, have kept petty crime to a minimum all for the sake of tourism, but leaving the cartels alone.  What police officer with a family and a baby on the way wants to confront bloodthirsty cartels?  What federal judge wants to try and convict the few cartel members unlucky enough to avoid federal protection and have his home firebombed as a result?

So Mexico looks like a nice place to visit - safe streets, nice restaurants, good weather, and cheap flights - and the cartels, given America's insatiable appetite for drugs, remain underground, sated, and happy with spectacular profits.  If there is violence, it is between cartels, and the operative Mexican policy is to let them kill each other off. 

The cartels are well-organized, politically savvy, open to new investment, and completely and absolutely bloody-minded. They have no problem with MS-13, Mara Salvatrucha, the Salvadoran gang now with a foothold in Los Angeles. A little extra muscle clearing the trade routes from the south, and helping enforce the status quo is welcome.  While not exactly brothers, the cartels and Mara are cousins in brutality and arms. 

Even the Somalis decided to get into the game - not on the muscle end of course, for these skinny little Africans were not intimidating unless they were behind a Russian machine gun on a pirate boat - but on the distribution end.  Minnesota has looked the other way in an atmosphere of diversity and inclusivity, and Somalis have made billions through fraudulent networks.  Why not use this sanctuary and political blindness to make ten times the money made through empty storefront daycare centers?

So give Mexicans credit. The cartels are even more powerful than the Mafia ever was and their reach extends far beyond Mexico's borders.  The Sinaloa, Jalisco, and Juarez cartels are like the five big Mafia families, each with its own turf, willing to defend it at any cost but agreeing and cooperating when it is in everyone's best interest 

It is also a hydra, a many headed snake - kill the likes of kingpins like Escobar or El Mencho and a hundred others will scramble to take their place.  The violence in Mexico now is not the chaos of a political vacuum, it is a show of strength.  Soon some other brutal leader will head the cartels. 

'Mrs. Sheinbaum, she don't know what she doing', said Maria Valdez, taking a break from cleaning bathrooms. But Sheinbaum knows exactly what she is doing.  She is in bed with the cartels, presents an anti-American nationalistic posture to calm her leftist supporters, and refuses American help because in her heart of hearts and offshore bank accounts she wants no help and is quite happy with the status quo. 

Everyone in Mexico except Sheinbaum and the cartels would be happy if the US military came in, took over, and wiped out every last one of the cartel leaders, destroyed their infrastructure and supply lines, and put an end to the violence.  However, Trump is quite busy, on alert for an invasion of Iran, ready to help Israel if Gaza heats up, and at odds with Russia in Ukraine.  An invasion is possible, but doubtful. 

The days of serapes and tacos are long gone. Montezuma's revenge is still around, but the rest of the landscape is far different than it was.  Mexico is a failed state, one which has done wonders with window dressing. Americans like their cheap tomatoes and strawberries and are content to look no further in understanding the socio-political dynamics of the place. 

Cartels rule! That is the only lesson to come out of the mayhem and universal civil disorder in Mexico. Everyone this side of the border knows it, knew it, or should have known it; and the time for reckoning has come. 

The Ineffable Allure Of A December-May Affair - Extending Anthony Barker's Sexual Pull-By Date

The Coleman Silk character in Phillip Roth's The Human Stain is having an affair with a much younger woman.  His friend and colleague calls him on it, saying she is not of the same background, education and culture, and more importantly she is being shadowed by her schizophrenic, dangerous ex-husband. 'She's nothing but trouble, Coleman', he says. 

 

Silk pauses, reflects, hesitates, but then replies, 'Granted she's not my first love, and granted she's not my best love; but she's certainly my last love.  Doesn't that count for something?'

In Coleman's case it very much does.  A respected man wrongly accused by colleagues at the college where he teachers and was dean, prematurely widowed, and angry at the system which caused his disgrace and his wife's death, finds solace, comfort, satisfaction, and renewal in his relationship with Faunia Farley, janitor, cleaning woman, and milker at a local dairy. 

It is an old story, older men who leave their wives for or have an affair with a younger woman. There is something inevitable about a man's desire well into his elder years.  Konstantin Levin, Tolstoy's character in Anna Karenina notes God's greatest irony - to have created an intelligent, sentient, creative, insightful, humorous soul, granted him but a few decades on earth and then consigned him for all eternity in the cold, hard ground of the steppes. 

 

A more severe irony is that this same God created men with a lifelong desire for women, but granted them but a few decades to satisfy it.  The longer a man has to fulfill his sexual desire, the luckier he is. Few men whose virility persists well into advancing years do anything about it, either so set in their ways, hopelessly married, or somehow faithful to the idea of fidelity. 

Coleman does not go quietly into the night but takes Faunia as a lover and suffers the consequences, murdered by the crazed, schizophrenic ex-husband.  Yet he has no regrets and lives with the constant threat of Lester with equanimity. The epiphany, the resurrection the renewal, the reaffirmation has been so profound, that even death does not deter him. 

Anthony Barker was long since retired, and was enjoying a second career in academia.  His marriage was stable, his grown children reasonably happy in their marriages, and his days were satisfyingly filled with the intellectual pursuits he had little time for during his professional career. Yet the itch, that itch, was increasingly troublesome, and despite the lessons of Coleman Silk, he felt hopeless.  Who would have him?  He had neither the wealth to attract young women, nor a position of political power, a la Henry Kissinger ('Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac'), so he would have to fend for himself. 

Museums, art galleries, the gym, coffee shops, oyster bars? Fine for younger men but impossibly clumsy for a man of his age. He no longer had an office to go to, no Annette from Accounting, no trysts at the Mayflower. 

There was always the constant companion of reserve - the marriage, trust, honesty could not be so easily tested or dismissed without consequence. 

Marc Antony in Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra, is besotted by the Egyptian queen, a younger woman, and he risks everything - his field command, his place in the Roman triumvirate, his future - for her. A typical man, not unlike Anthony Barker, a man trapped by a genetic imperative. 

'Hire a prostitute', his doctor half-facetiously said, ironically because the man had many lovers, a Jewish Lothario. Anthony hesitated, not sure if he was being toyed with, the old fox of a doctor always smiling and insinuating. 

'AIDS is a thing of the past', said the doctor, 'and at your age something else will get you before the incubation period is over'. 

There was indeed that option, for Madame Currier's establishment was well-known in town, the go-to place for incidental sex; but Anthony had never before resorted to what had always been referred to as 'darktown pleasures', ghetto time, rather inappropriate and unnecessary for someone of his natural sexual appeal. Yet, there he was, approaching his pull-by date, desperate.  

A close friend of Anthony's had, like Coleman Silk, taken a young lover, and said that he felt gifted, an early Christmas present, an unexpected treat, a delight.  

But would sex with a young prostitute have the same annealing, epiphanic properties? Weren't the cheating, the infidelity, and the young emotions that go along with illicit sex be absent? No amount of money could buy something as transformative as his friend had experienced. 

'Try it, what do you have to lose?', he said

Anthony's suspicion was correct. Legions of satisfied veterans of December-May affairs report the same experience. When age disappears and when she loves your patience and your sheer delight, that is what the affair is all about.  It isn't the sex that rejuvenates, that restores confidence and virility - it's the adoration, the very feminine claim that sex starts and ends with emotion. Sex with a prostitute would have none of that, none of the stuff of regeneration. 

Yet there was the feel of youth, the softness and impossibly generous sensuality - that could be had for sale, could it not?  Might a young prostitute be but the first step to restoration, the remaining building taking time and some serendipity?

He gave in and gave up.  He had no recourse. The ticking clock needed no winding.  It was time, do or die; and so it was that he made and appointment with Madame Currier and paid top dollar for la creme do la creme of her establishment.  It was worth every nickel.  It might not have been restoration and certainly not renewal, but there was no substitution for the sheer physicality of the event.  It was recalling, heady times. It was, despite the cash on the night table, exactly what he had hoped for. 

The Sultan of Izmir, grand pasha of the Ottoman Empire, master of a harem of twenty young women from Azerbaijan to Palestine had written in his memoir:

She came to me in flowing silk, a delicate flower, an Arab princess worthy of Cleopatra and Nefertiti but without their worldliness. She was as innocent as the morning dew, as nubile and desirous as a maiden, a sheer delight. 

And the next night came Usha, olive-skinned beauty from the Levant, dressed in satin, covered with pearls and jewels from the Orient

And the next night came a blonde star, a green-eyed daughter of Alexander the Great from the hills of Mathura...

Neither love nor restitution, nor epiphany were in play in the pasha's realm, not a single verse. 

A man who had always prided himself on his attractiveness to women said that he had never resorted to prostitution. Why should I?, he said; but a colleague corrected him. 'Apples and oranges', he said. 

And so it was that Anthony Barker learned about the nature of sex, and how one thing always leads to another.  One was never sure whether he reconciled with his wife, found that young lover which had always eluded him, returned to Madame Currier's establishment or all three.  His epiphany was not at all what he expected, but then again it never is.