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the outlines of houses and telephone poles.
    “He really put us through the ringer, didn’t he, Lieutenant?” Lituma dried his brow with a handkerchief. “I’ve never met a guy with a worse temper. Do you think he hates the Guardia Civil just because he’s a racist, or do you think he has a specific reason? Or does he treat everybody that way? Nobody, I swear, ever made me swallow so much shit as that bald bastard.”
    “You’re out of your head, Lituma. As far as I’m concerned, the interview with Mindreau was a total success.”
    “Are you serious, Lieutenant? I’m glad to see you can still make jokes. As far as I’m concerned, that little chat was as depressing as it could be.”
    “You’ve got a lot to learn about this business, Lituma,” said the lieutenant, laughing. “It was a bitch of an interview, let me tell you. Unbelievably useful.”
    “That means I didn’t understand a thing, Lieutenant. It looked to me as though the colonel was treating us like scum, worse than the way be probably treats his servants. Did he even give us what we asked for?”
    ‘Appearances are tricky, Lituma.” Lieutenant Silva once again burst into laughter. “As far as I’m concerned, the colonel yakked like a drunken parrot.”
    He laughed again, with his mouth wide open. Then he cracked his knuckles. “Before, I thought he knew nothing, that he was fucking around with us because he wanted to protect the precious rights of the military-justice system. Now I’m sure that he knows a lot, maybe everything that happened.”
    Lituma looked at him again. He guessed that behind those sunglasses the lieutenant’s eyes, like his face and his voice, were those of a happy man.
    “You think he knows who killed Palomino Molero? Do you really think the colonel knows?”
    “I don’t know exactly what he knows, but he knows a lot. He’s covering for someone. Why would he get so jumpy if he weren’t? Didn’t you see that? You’re not very observant, Lituma. You really shouldn’t be on the force. Those fits, that bullshit: what do you think it was all about? Pretexts to cover up his nervousness. That’s the truth, Lituma. He didn’t make us shit in our pants; we made him go through hell.”
    He laughed, happy as a lark, and he was still laughing a moment later when they heard a motor. It was a pickup truck painted Air Force blue. The driver stopped even though they hadn’t flagged him down.
    “Goin’ to Talara?” a young warrant officer greeted them. “Hop in, we’ll take you. You sit up here with me. Lieutenant; your man can sit in the back.”
    There were two airmen in the back of the truck who must have been mechanics because they were covered with grease. The truck was full of oil and paint in cans and paintbrushes.
    “Well? You going to solve this one, or are you going to cover things up to protect the big guys?” said one of the airmen.
    There was rage in his voice.
    “We’ll solve it if Colonel Mindreau helps us a little,” answered Lituma. “But the guy treats us like mangy dogs. Is that the way he treats all of you on the base?”
    “He’s not so bad. He’s a straight-shooter and he makes the base work like a clock. His daughter’s to blame for his bad temper.”
    “She really kicks him around, doesn’t she?”
    “She’s ungrateful,” said the other airman. “Colonel Mindreau has been both father and mother to her. His old lady died when the girl was still a baby. He’s brought her up all by himself.”
    The truck stopped in front of the station. The lieutenant and Lituma jumped out.
    “Lieutenant, if you don’t discover who the murderers are, everyone’s going to think you were bribed by the big shots,” said the warrant officer, pulling away.
    “Don’t worry, son, we’re hot on the trail.” The pickup disappeared in a cloud of beer-colored dust.

4
    Word of the outrages being perpetrated by a certain Air Force lieutenant in the Talara whorehouse was communicated to the Guardia Civil