Who Killed Palomino Molero? (5 page)

“He’s got a way of getting things out of people,” thought Lituma admiringly.

“And what kind of favor do you want, motherfucker?” He hiccuped and drooled, leaning heavily on Lieutenant Silva’s shoulder as if he were a kitten come to get warm next to mama.

“I want you to tell me what happened to Palomino Molero, buddy.” Lituma almost jumped out of his skin.

The pilot didn’t react. He neither moved nor spoke, and to Lituma it looked almost as if he’d stopped breathing. He remained frozen for quite a while. Lituma looked over at his boss. Would he repeat the question? Did the pilot understand, was he pretending he didn’t?

“Maybe your mother’s cunt can tell you what happened to Palomino Molero,” he whimpered finally, in a voice so low that Lituma had to stretch his neck to hear. He was still nestled up against Lieutenant Silva and seemed to be trembling.

‘My mama doesn’t even know who Palomino Molero is, but you do. Come on, pal, tell me what happened.”

I don’t know anything about Palomino Molero!” the pilot shouted, jumping to his feet. “I don’t know anything, anything at all!”

His voice had cracked and he was shaking from head to foot.

“Of course you know, pal. That’s why you come to get drunk at the whorehouse every night. That’s why you’re half crazy. That’s why you pick fights with the pimps. As if you were tired of living.”

“I don’t know a thing! Nothing about nothing!”

“Tell me about the kid and you’ll feel better,” the lieutenant went on as if petting a sick dog. “I swear you’ll feel better, pal. I know, because I’m a bit of a psychologist. Let me be your confessor. I really mean it. You’ll feel better.”

Lituma was sweating. He felt his shirt sticking to his back, though it was actually quite cool. The breeze raised small waves that broke a few yards offshore with a nerve-racking hiss. “Lituma, what are you scared of?” he thought. “Take it easy.” In his mind he could see the dead singer up there on the rocks. “Now I’m going to find out who killed him.”

“Be a man and tell me. You’ll feel better: And stop crying.”

The pilot had begun to sob like a baby, his face buried in Lieutenant Silva’s shoulder.

“I’m not crving because of what you think. I get drunk because that motherfucker knifed me in the back. He won’t let me see my woman! He’s ordered me not to see her. And she doesn’t even want to see me, the bitch. Can you believe anyone would do that?”

“No, pal, I can’t. The motherfucker who ordered you not to see your girl is Mindreau, right?”

This time, the pilot raised his head from the lieutenant’s shoulder. In the moonlight, Lituma could see his face covered with snot and drool. His pupils were dilated and shiny. He moved his mouth, but no words came out.

“And why did the colonel order you to stay away from his daughter, buddy? What did you do to her? Knock her up?

“Shh-shh! For chrissake, shut up and don’t mention any names. You want to screw me up?”

“Of course I don’t, pal. I’m trying to help you. I got worried seeing you like this, all fucked up, drunk, in trouble. You’ll ruin your career, carrying on like this, do you realize that? Okay, I won’t mention any names, I swear.”

“We were going to get married as soon as my promotion went through next year. The motherfucker made me believe everything was okay, that we’d get engaged during the holidays. He screwed me, see? Did you ever hear of anyone being such a rat in your life, goddamn it?”

He’d moved, and now he was looking at Lituma.

“Never in my life,” stuttered Lituma, confused.

“And who is this asshole? What’s he doing here? Where’d this motherfucker come from?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s okay, he’s my assistant, a guy you can trust.” Lieutenant Silva calmed him down again. “And don’t worry about Colonel Mindreau, for that matter.”

“Shh-shh. No names, damn it.”

“Right, right, I forgot. Fathers are always put out when their daughters get married. They don’t want to lose them. Just let time pass, he’ll let up and the two of you will get married. Want some advice? Get her pregnant. Then her Old man won’t have any choice. Now tell me about Palomino Molero.”

“Lieutenant Silva is a genius,” thought Lituma.

“Her old man won’t ever let up because he’s not human. He’s got no soul, can’t you see that?” Another choking spell came over him, mixed with drunken hiccups. Litunia figured that by then his boss’s shirt must have been pure slime. “A monster who’s treated me like some damn nigger, get me? Now do you understand why I’m fed up? Do you understand why the only thing I can do is drink till I drop every night?”

“You better believe I understand, buddy. You’re in love and you’re pissed off because you can’t see your woman. But who in his right mind would fall for the daughter of that bully. Come on now, pal, tell me once and for all about Palomino Molero.”

“You think you’re real clever, don’t you?” It was as if he were no longer drunk. Lituma was about to grab him; it looked as if he might try something with Lieutenant Silva. But he didn’t; he was too drunk. He couldn’t sit up straight and fell over again against Lieutenant Silva.

“Come on, buddy, it’ll do you good, it’ll take your mind off your problem. You can forget about your girl for a minute. Did they kill him because he tried something with an officer’s wife? Is that it?”

“I won’t tell you a fucking thing about Palomino Molero! You can kill me first.”

“That’s the thanks I get for fishing you out of the whorehouse alive. They would’ve cut your balls off. I brought you here so you could sober up and then go back to the base in good shape and not get reported. I’m your handkerchief, your pillow, and your crying towel. Just look at what you’ve done to my shirt, drooling all over me. And you won’t even tell me why they killed Palomino Molero. Are you chicken or what?”

“He won’t get a thing out of him,” thought Lituma, depressed. They’d been wasting time, and, which was worse, he’d got his hopes up. This drunk wasn’t going to reveal anything.

“She’s a shit, too, a bigger one even than her old man,” the pilot complained through clenched teeth. He choked, then gagged, then went on, “But even so I love her. Damn right. Heart and soul. And what a piece of ass.”

“But why did you say your girl’s a shit, too, pal? She’s got to follow her old man’s orders, same as you, or is it that she doesn’t love you anymore? Did she tell you to get lost?”

“She doesn’t know what she wants. She’s her master’s voice, like the little dog in the RCA ads. She only does and says what the monster tells her to. The one who told me to get lost was him speaking through her.”

Lituma tried to remember exactly what the girl looked like when she made that brief appearance in her father’s office. He could reconstruct the words they exchanged, but he couldn’t remember if she was pretty or not. He could draw a mental picture of her silhouette—she was slim; and she must have had a strong personality, to judge by the way she talked. She was certainly vain, with a face that would have looked good on a queen. She’d wiped the floor with this poor pilot, wrecked him completely.

‘Tell me about Palomino Molero, man. Anything you want. At least, if they killed him for messing around with an officer’s wife over in Piura. Come on, at least that.”

“I may be drunk but I’m not an asshole, and you’re not gonna treat me like your nigger here.” He paused and then added, bitterly, “But if you want to know something, here it is: he asked for it and he got it.”

“You mean Palomino Molero?”

“Why don’t you call him the motherfucker Palomino Molero.”

“Right, the motherfucker Palomino Molero, if you prefer it that way,” purred Lieutenant Silva, patting him on the back. “How did he ask for it?”

“Because he reached too high. Because he poached on somebody else’s territory. You pay for mistakes like that. He paid, and how.”

Lituma had goosebumps. This guy knew everything. He knew who killed the kid and why.

“I’m with you, buddy. A guy who reaches too high, who poaches on somebody else’s territory, usually pays for it. But whose territory did he poach on?”

“Yours, motherfucker.” The pilot tried to stand up. Lituma watched him crawl, get halfway up, and fall flat on his face.

“No, it wasn’t my territory, pal, and you know that for a fact. It happened over in Piura, on the Air Force base. In one of the houses on the base, right?”

The pilot, still on all fours, raised his head, and Lituma thought for a second he was going to start barking. He stared at them with a glassy, anguished look, and seemed to be fighting hard against the alcohol. He was blinking incessantly.

“And who told you that, motherfucker?”

“I always remember what that Mexican comic Cantinflas says in all his movies: ‘There’s this little problem.’ You’re not the only one who knows things. I know a few things mvself. I’ll tell you what I know, you tell me what you know, and we’ll solve this mystery together.”

“First, tell me what you know about the Piura base.” He was still on his hands and knees, and Lituma thought he wasn’t drunk anymore. He was speaking clearly and no longer seemed afraid.

“Sure, pal. My pleasure. But sit down over here and have a smoke. You’re feeling better now, right? Good.”

He lit two cigarettes and handed the pack to Lituma, who took one out and lit it.

“Look, I know that Palomino Molero had a girlfriend over in the Piura base. He would serenade her with his guitar, singing in that beautiful voice he was supposed to have. Only at night and in secret. He sang her boleros, his specialty. That’s it. That’s all I know. Now it’s your turn. Who did he serenade?”

“I don’t know anything!.” He was frightened again. His teeth were chattering.

“Of course you know. You know that the husband of the woman he serenaded found out about it, or maybe caught them in the act. And you know that Molero had to get out of Piura on the double. That’s why he came here and enlisted in Talara. But the jealous husband found out where he was, came looking for him, and bumped him off. For doing just what you said, pal. For reaching too high, for poaching on someone else’s territory. Come on, don’t hold back. Who did it?”

The pilot started gagging again. This time he vomited bent over, and made spectacular noises. When he’d finished he wiped his mouth with his hand and began to grimace. He ended up crying like a baby. Lituma was disgusted and sorry for him. The poor guy was really suffering.

“You wonder why I keep asking you to tell me who it was.” The lieutenant was blowing smoke rings. “Curiosity pal, that’s all. If the guy who killed the kid was from the Piura base, what can I do? Nothing. You all have your own laws and rights, your own courts. I can’t even stick my nose in. Just curiosity, see? And besides, I want to tell you something. If I were married to a certain chubby woman I know, and someone came to serenade her and sing her romantic boleros, I’d nail him, too. Who knocked off Palomino Molero, pal?”

Even at a time like that, he was thinking about Doña Adriana. He was sick. The pilot moved away from his own vomit and sat down on the sand, in front of Lituma and his boss. He put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He must be feeling the tail end of the booze. Lituma could remember that feeling of emptiness and chills, an undefined, general malaise he knew only too well from his days as an Unstoppable.

“And how did you find out he serenaded her on the Piura base?” At times he seemed frightened, at others mad, and now he was both at once. “Who the fuck told you?”

Just then, Lituma noticed shadows moving toward them. A few seconds later, they were standing in a half circle right in front of them. There were six. They carried rifles and billyclubs, and in the moonlight Lituma recognized their armbands. Air Force MPs. They patrolled the bars, parties, and the bordello, picking up any Air Force personnel making trouble.

“I’m Lieutenant Silva of the Guardia Civil. Something wrong?”

“We’ve come to pick up Lieutenant Dufó.”

“Brush your teeth before you say my name, boy.” He managed to get up on his feet, although he weaved back and forth as if he might lose his balance at any moment. “No one takes me anywhere, goddamn it.”

“Colonel’s orders, Lieutenant. Sorry, but we have to take you back.”

The pilot rasped out something and slowly collapsed on the ground. The warrant officer gave an order and the other silhouettes closed in. They picked up Lieutenant Dufó by his arms and legs and carried him off. He let them, mumbling some incomprehensible complaint.

Lituma and Lieutenant Silva watched them disappear in the darkness. In a few minutes, they heard a far-off jeep start up. They finished their cigarettes in silence, absorbed in thought. The lieutenant got up first to begin the trip back. As they passed the whorehouse, they heard music, voices, and laughter. A full house.

“You really are something for getting people to spill their guts, Lieutenant. What a job you did, bringing him along until he told at least something.”

“I didn’t get all he knows. If we’d had more time, he might have told the whole story.” He spit and took a deep breath, as if to fill his lungs with the sea air. “I’ll tell you something, Lituma. Know what I think?”

“What, Lieutenant?”

“That on the base everybody knows what happened. From the cook to Mindreau.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. At least that’s the impression I got from Lieutenant Dufó. That he knows perfectly well who killed Molero.”

They walked a good distance in silence through a sleeping Talara. Most of the wooden shacks were dark, except for an occasional candle. Up above, behind the fences in the restricted zone, it was also pitch-dark.

Suddenly the lieutenant spoke in a different tone of voice. “Lituma, how’d you like to do me a big favor? Go down to the fishermen’s wharf and see if
The Lion of Talara
has set sail. If it’s gone, just go to bed. But if it’s still there, I’ll be over at Doña Adriana’s.”

“What, Lieutenant? This must mean that . . .”

“It means I’m going to make my move. I don’t know if tonight’s the night. Maybe yes, maybe no. But why not take a shot at it? It’s taking much longer than I ever thought it would, but someday it’s gonna happen. Know why? Because I’ve made a vow: I won’t die until I screw that fat bitch and until I find out who killed Palomino Molero. Those are my two goals in life, Lituma. Even more important than a promotion—although I wouldn’t take that too seriously if I were you. Go on, get going.”