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about Carlo Pelegrini. He kept looking at Fortunato because Fortunato was older, the orderly one with the comprehending face and the voice of a kind uncle. Fortunato tried to tell him with his eyes, Bear up, hombre. Nothing’s going to happen .
    â€œI have a wife and daughter,” the gringo said to him. “You know that?”
    Vasquez spitting at his victim, “We’ll fuck your wife in front of the daughter, and then we’ll kill everybody.” Waterbury still looking at him overthe seat as if they were in this together, because, after all, he was the Good Cop. And Domingo was supposed to scare him. He was the Bad Cop.
    The following items were collected from the floor of the car. Rear seat section: one bullet, apparently 9mm. Five shell casings, four .32 caliber, make: Remington. One 9mm, make: Federal .
    La Doctora scribbled another flurry of words in her notebook.
    Three pieces of blue metalized paper, each containing traces of a white substance, similar to that known as chlorhydrate of cocaine . . .
    Vasquez’ ten-peso folders. Domingo, getting out to piss and making that long loud snuffing sound and turning to the car again with the white crust of merca hanging from his nose.
    â€œSon of a bitch, what are you doing? You can’t do that on a job!”
    Domingo with shining eyes now: “Don’t fuck with me, Comi.”
    Even Waterbury sensing that things were getting out of control. “Look—” the gringo began. Domingo grabbed his jaw and pulled his face close. “No, you look, faggot! You think you’re a clever gringo! More rapid than anyone else—”
    Vasquez suddenly with his gun out, a little silver .32 automatic, putting it to Waterbury’s temple. “Is this clever, hijo de puta? Is this clever?”
    Waterbury was starting to panic and Fortunato felt it spreading. “Put the gun away!” Command words, trying to stifle the hysteria that had invaded Vasquez” burning eyes. But Vasquez didn’t hear him. He was in it already, his little fantasy of power, owner of life and death. As Fortunato watched he took the gun and pointed it down again, grinding the barrel into the writer’s thigh and then, with a twitch that came from the drugs, or maybe from the writer’s involuntary flinch, the gun exploded.
    The rest happened before Fortunato could move. Waterbury thrust his manacled hands towards the gun, wrestling it sideways, and it went off again.
    Vasquez screamed. “Aaaah! My foot! You son of a bitch!” and in the dirty light Fortunato saw the gun come up again. Domingo shouting, “No, idiot, you’ll hit me!” and grabbing at the little packet of dull silver, and fora moment four hands contested. It went off again, blasting through Waterbury’s hand and into his chest, and at this Domingo managed to wrestle the pistol free. Vasquez was howling and swearing, Waterbury instinctively putting his hands up for protection.
    â€œ Puta !” Domingo screamed, and he lowered the gun and shot directly into Waterbury’s groin. In five seconds, everything had gone out of control. Vasquez was cursing and Waterbury was screaming and twisting on the bloody vinyl. “Give me that, Domingo.” Fortunato reached for the barrel of the gun and peeled it down and sideways out of Domingo’s hand. Waterbury was still writhing.
    Domingo was cursing at him. The gunshots had roused Onda from the second car and he was staring into the window with his mouth open. Onda, Vibe , only twenty-one, just a hippy thief hired to drive a car, not to witness a murder.
    Fortunato ordered Domingo out of the car and then went around and pulled the wounded Vasquez out, throwing him into the mud. The dome light cast a dirty gray film over the seat and the bloody victim. Waterbury was rolling on the seat in torment. Fortunato knew the Northamerican was screaming, but as he looked at him he was conscious only of a deep sense of