Mario Llosa: Who Killed Palomino Molero?

‘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?”