las negras,’ she says. ‘He goes crazy if he sees a negra.’ Then he said they were leaving and they walked out. Not even a minute goes by and we hear the shots. We run out to the courtyard and she’s lying on the ground with the flashlight pointing at her face. He’s starting the truck and then he takes off fast. He peels out and disappears. The door was open. Jozami said she was dead and went and called the police. Then they came and took us all in to make a statement.” “Apart from the incident with the flashlight, did anything else happen in the store that would make the accused decide to shoot the victim?” I say. The secretary’s typewriter follows my words. Then it stops. She hesitates. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe they’d already gotten loaded someplace else.” “What do you mean loaded? What does that word mean?” I say. “Maybe they had been drinking someplace else, or they’d been fighting on the way there,” she says. “Besides saying hello, he didn’t say a thing. Maybe he was angry.” “Did the accused look at you at any time, or make any gesture with his face, anything significant?” I say. “At me?” she says. “At you or anyone else,” I say. “At me, no, but Zully says that he was winking at her,” she says, “that she saw it perfectly well and pretended not to ’cause she didn’t want problems with the woman. But apparently the woman noticed and then started saying she was more female — um, more of a woman than anybody.” “Did she use that exact word, woman?” I say. “No, she said female. She said she was more female than anybody,” she says. “Then he told her to shut up and she took out the flashlight and shined it on him. He told her to shut it off and then they left. And they’d just walked out when we heard the shots and ran out and found her on the ground with the truck pulling out full speed. The door was open, and I saw that it still was when it passed under the light at the corner.” “Did anyone touch the shotgun while it was on the counter?” I say. “I didn’t see anything,” she says. I look up at the window. It’s getting dark, a greenish half light. It’s still raining. I look at her again. “You can go for now,” I say. I can feel the secretary’s gaze on my face, but I pretend not to notice. The guard disappears with her and returns with the other gorilla. He has on an old, black suit, shiny at the elbows and knees, and a black hat. He’s very thin, and pale. It smells like alcohol when he talks. He smiles constantly, and when he reaches the desk he leans over and holds out his hand. “Good to meet you,” he says. I don’t hold out mine, and I tell him to sit down. “Your name?” says the secretary. “Pedro Gorosito, ex-sportsman, fifty-four years, at your service,” he says. “Nationality,” says the secretary. “Argentine, and proudly so,” he says. I have him tell me everything he saw in Jozami’s store.