Who Killed Palomino Molero Read online

  I came here to confess my sincere feelings, and you do nothing but mock and insult me, protested the lieutenant. Talking like a common whore to boot.

  “Look at him now. No spirit left. I’m almost sorry for him.”

  She laughed heartily again. Lituma was imbued with a sense of solidarity and sympathy for the lieutenant. That’s why he was so depressed, his manhood, his masculine dignity bad been humiliated. When he told the Unstoppables, they’d go crazy. They’d say that Doña Adriana and not La Chunga would be the next Queen of the Unstoppables and they’d sing their theme song in her honor.

  “Some other people have said that it might have something to do with queers,” insinuated the Zorritos man.

  “Queers? Is that right?” Don Jerónimo blinked and licked his lips. “Might well, might well.”

  “It might indeed. You know that there are lots of queers in the service, and where there’s queers, there’s usually crime. Excuse us for talking like this in front of you, Marisita.”

  “There’s nothing wrong, Panchito. That’s the way life is.”

  “It might well,” reflected Don Jerónimo. “But who with who? How do you figure it?”

  “No one believes the story about Colonel Mindreau’s committing suicide,” Doña Adriana abruptly changed the subject.

  “So I see,” muttered Lituma.

  “Neither do I, as a matter of fact. How could it be?”

  “So you don’t believe it either?” Lituma got up and signed the voucher for lunch. “But I believe the story you told me. And it’s much more fantastic than the suicide of Colonel Mindreau. See you later, Doña Adriana.”

  “Listen, Lituma,” she called him back. Her eyes radiated mischief and she lowered her voice. “Tell the lieutenant that tonight I’ll make him something special so he’ll love me again—just a little.”

  She giggled coquettishly, and Lituma laughed with her.

  “I’ll relay your message exactly as you said it, Doña Adriana. Bye.”

  Damn, who can understand women? He was walking toward the door when he heard Don Jerónimo behind him: “Lituma, old pal, why don’t you tell us how much the big guys paid the lieutenant to make up that story about the colonel’s suicide?”

  “If that’s your idea of a joke, I don’t think it’s very funny. And I don’t think the lieutenant would either. If he were to find out, it might cost you, Don Jerónimo.”

  He heard the old taxi driver mutter, “Fucking cop,” and for an instant he considered going back. He didn’t. He went out into the oppressive afternoon heat, and walked along the burning sand path, cutting through a horde of kids kicking a rag ball. He started to sweat, and his shirt stuck to his body. What Doña Adriana told him was incredible. Could it be true? It had to be. Now he understood why the lieutenant had been so downcast ever since that night. When it came to that, the lieutenant himself was a case. To want to screw Chubby just then, in the thick of a tragedy. How could he do it? But it really went badly for him. Doña Adriana had turned out to be a hell of a woman. He imagined her naked, mocking the lieutenant, her robust body shaking, and the lieutenant bewildered, not wanting to believe what he was hearing and seeing. Who wouldn’t have thrown in the towel and run for it? He started to laugh again.

  At the station he found the lieutenant, bare-chested, sitting at his desk, covered with sweat. He fanned himself with one hand and with the other he held a telegram right up to his sunglasses. Despite the dark glasses, Lituma could make out the lieutenant’s eyes as they followed the lines of the message.

  “The screwy thing about all this is that nobody believes Colonel Mindreau killed the girl and himself. They’re saying the dumbest damn things you ever heard, Lieutenant. That it had to do with contraband, that it was a spy story, that Ecuador was involved. Someone even suggested there were fags in on it. Have you ever heard anything so stupid?”

  “Bad news for you. You’ve been transferred to a little station as imaginary as those stories, somewhere in Junín Province. You’ve got to get there right away. They’ll pay for the bus ticket.”

  “Junín?”

  “I’m being transferred, too, but I still don’t know where. Maybe the same place.”

  “That’s got to be far away.”

  “Now you see, asshole,” the lieutenant teased him affectionately. “You were so eager to solve the mystery of Palomino Molero. Well, now it’s solved, and I did it for you. So what do we get for our trouble? You’re transferred to the mountains, far from your heat and your people. They’ll probably find a worse hole for me. That’s how they thank you for a job well done in the Guardia Civil. What will become of you out there, Lituma? Your kind of animal just doesn’t grow there. I feel sorry just thinking about how cold you’re going to be.”

  “Sons of bitches.”