Who Killed Palomino Molero? by Mario Vargas Llosa Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    ‘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