Mario Llosa: Who Killed Palomino Molero?

That night, the show began after the fifth or sixth. Lituma kept count, watching the lieutenant through the couples dancing to a transistor radio. The pilot rested his head on his hands and was staring fixedly at the drink he had between his elbows, as if protecting it. He didn’t move. He seemed to be meditating on matters that isolated him from the whores, the pimps, and the whole world. He mechanically raised the glass to his lips. Then he became a statue again.

Between the fifth and sixth drink, Lituma looked away. When he looked back, the pilot was no longer at the bar. Lituma searched for him and found him on the dance floor. He was resolutely striding toward one of the couples: Redhead and a pudgy little fellow wearing a jacket and tie. The fat little man was dancing very carefully, holding on to the whore as if she were a life preserver. The lieutenant grabbed him by the lapel and yanked him out of the way, saying in a voice that everyone in the place could hear: “ ‘Scuse me, but it’s my turn with the young lady.”

The squat body jumped and looked around as if he wanted someone to explain just what the hell was going on and tell him what to do. Lituma saw Liau signal the guy to keep calm. Which is just what he did, shrugging his shoulders. He still looked upset, but went over to where the tarts were sitting and started to dance with Freckles. Meanwhile, the pilot was shaking around exaggeratedly, waving his hands and making faces. But there was no sign in all his clowning that he was having fun. Did he just want people to look at him? No, he wanted to be a pain in the ass, too. All that jumping and shaking gave him an excuse to elbow, shove, and bump anyone in his way. “What a motherfucker,” thought Lituma. “When should they take charge?” But Lieutenant Silva went on smoking calmly, amused as he watched the pilot through puffs of smoke, as if congratulating him on his antics. The patience of those present was immense. The customers bumped by the pilot just got out of his way, smiled, and shrugged, as if to say, “What can you do with a maniac like this?” When the song was over, the pilot went back to the bar and ordered another pisco .

“Know who he is, Lituma?”

“No, you know him?”

“The boyfriend of Colonel Mindreau’s daughter. You heard right I saw them holding hands at the big party on Aviation Day. And Sundays, too, at Mass. ”

“That must be the reason the colonel puts up with all this bullshit. Anyone else he would have thrown in the brig and put on bread and water for discrediting the service.”

“Talk about bullshit, watch this, Lituma.”

The lieutenant had jumped up on the bar with a bottle of pisco in his hand and was standing there as if about to make a speech. He spread his arms wide and shouted, “Watch me empty this, assholes!” He brought the bottle to his lips and took such a big drink that Lituma’s stomach began to burn as he imagined how it must feel to swallow all that hooch at once. The lieutenant’s stomach must have been burning, too, because he made a face and doubled over as if he’d been punched. Liau came over, smiling, saluted, and invited him to get off the counter and stop making an uproar. But the pilot told him to fuck off and said that unless Liau kissed his ass he was going to break every bottle in the place.

Liau stepped back with a resigned expression on his face. He ran over to Lituma and Lieutenant Silva. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

“Wait till he’s a little drunker.”

Now the pilot was daring the pimps and customers to strip, though everyone tried not to look at him and went on dancing, talking, or smoking as if he weren’t there. “What’sa matter? Ashamed someone’s gonna see your balls? Maybe you don’t have any? Maybe they’re so small you ought to be ashamed of them?” He was justifiably proud of his own balls.

“Take a good look and see what a good pair looks like!” he roared. He unbuckled his belt and Lituma saw his khaki trousers slip down, revealing skinny, hairy legs. He watched him try to kick his pants off his feet, but the more he kicked, the more entangled he became. Then he tripped and came down head first from the bar to the dance floor. The bottle in his hand smashed, his body bounced like a sack of potatoes, and the crowd started laughing.

Lieutenant Silva stood up. “Let’s dance, Lituma.”

Lituma followed him across the dance floor. The pilot was on his back with his eyes closed, his legs bare, his trousers twisted around his ankles, and covered with shards of glass. He was gasping. “What a fucking jolt,” thought Lituma. They grabbed him under the arms and stood him up. He started swinging, muttering curses, and drooling all at the same time. They pulled up his pants, buckled his belt, and dragged him out of the bordello. The whores, pimps, and customers applauded, happy to see him go.

“Now what do we do with him, Lieutenant?”

“Let’s take him over to the beach.”

“Lemme go, bastards,” commanded the pilot, making absolutely no attempt to get loose.

“Right away, son,” said the lieutenant in a friendly way. “You just stay calm and don’t get upset.”

They dragged him about a hundred and fifty feet up a sandy path dotted with clumps of dry grass until they came to a sand and pebble beach. They sat him down and then sat down next to him. The neighborhood shacks were dark. The wind carried the music and noise from the bordello out to sea. It smelled of salt and fish, and the groaning tide was like a sleeping potion. Lituma felt like stretching out right there on the sand, covering his face with his cap, and forgetting the whole thing. But he’d come to work, damn it. He was nervous and worried, thinking that this semiconscious body next to him might have some horror to reveal.

“Feeling better, buddy?” Lieutenant Silva sat the pilot up and propped him against his own body, putting his arm around his shoulders, as if they were the best of friends. “Still drunk, or are you getting over it?”

“Who the fuck are you, motherfucker?” His head was resting on the lieutenant’s shoulder, and his aggressive voice was contradicted by his docile, soft body, which he was leaning against Lieutenant Silva as if against a chair back.

“I’m your friend, buddy. You should thank me for getting you out of the whorehouse. If you went on showing off your balls like that, someone might have cut them off. Do you want to end up a capon?”

He shut up because the pilot had begun to gag. He didn’t vomit; but just to be on the safe side, the lieutenant turned the pilot’s head away and bent him forward.

“You must be a faggot,” he gasped, still furious, when he’d stopped choking. “Did you bring me here so I’d fuck you up the ass?”

“No, buddy,” said Lieutenant Silva, laughing. “I brought you here so you could do me a different kind of favor.”

“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.