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“I’m old now, ” he finally said. “I don’t swill anymore, I don’t like women anymore. ”

“You changed your tastes in your old age, ” Arispe said, and he looked at Santiago. “Watch out, now I can see why Becerrita asked for you for his section. ”

“My, the chief editors are in a good mood, ” Becerrita grunted. “What about that other matter? Will you give me the centerfold and Periquito? ”

“You’ve got them, but take good care of them for me, ” Arispe said. “I want you to get people shook up and raise circulation for me. Icing on the cake, my good sir. ”

Becerrita nodded, turned halfway around, the typewriters began to clack again and, followed by Santiago, he went to his desk. It was in the rear, he saw everyone’s back from there, he thinks, it was one of his constant themes. He would come in drunk and plant himself in the middle of the room, open his jacket, his fists on his chubby hips, they always send me to the asshole of the universe! The reporters hunched down in their seats, sank their noses into their machines, not even Arispe dared look at him, he thinks, while Becerrita, with slow, infuriated eyes, looked over the busy reporters, they looked down on his page and they looked down on him, didn’t they? the concentrating copy editors, was that why they’d hemmed him in in the asshole of the office? Herná ndez the busy headline writer, so he could look at the asses of the local-news gentlemen, the asses of the foreign-news gentlemen? pacing back and forth like a restless general before a battle, so he’d get the gentlemen reporters’ farts full in his chops? and raising his tortured laughter to the ceiling from time to time. But once when Arispe had suggested that he move his desk, he became indignant, he thinks: I’ll have to be dead before they can haul me out of my corner, God damn it. His desk was low and a bit rickety, like him, he thinks, greasy like the shiny suit he usually wore decorated with food stains. He’d sat down, lighted a crumpled cigarette, Santiago was waiting on his feet, excited that he’d asked for you, Zavalita, already excited by the articles you’d write: going to the slaughterhouse like someone on his way to a party, Carlitos.

“All right, she’s been given to us and we’ve got to move. ” Becerrita picked up the phone, dialed a number, spoke with his sour mouth close to the piece, his chubby hand with blackish fingernails were doodling on a writing pad.

“You were always looking for strong emotions, ” Carlitos said. “Somehow you seemed to get them. ”

“Yes, Porvenir, get over there right now with Periquito. ” Becerrita hung up the phone, fastened his rheumy little eyes on Santiago. “That woman used to sing there some time ago. The woman who runs it knows me. Get information, pictures. Her girl friends, her boyfriends, addresses, the kind of life she led. Have Periquito take some pictures of the place. ”

Santiago put on his jacket as he went down the stairs. Becerrita had called Darí o and the van, parked in front of the door, was blocking traffic; the drivers blew their horns. A moment later Periquito appeared, furious.

“I’d warned Arispe that I wouldn’t work for that slave driver anymore and now he gives me to Becerrita for a week. ” He was loading his camera, complaining. “He’s going to grind us into dust, Zavalita. ”

“He may have the mood of a dog, but he fights like a lion for his reporters, ” Darí o said. “If it wasn’t for him old drunken Carlitos would have been fired long ago. Don’t put Becerrita down. ”

“I’m going to quit the newspaper business, I’ve had enough, ” Periquito said. “I’m going to get into commercial photography. One week with Becerrita is worse than a dose of the clap. ”

The van went up Colmena to the Parque Universitario, down Azá ngaro, passed the whitish stone base of the Palace of Justice, turned into the rainy sunset of Repú blica, and when, on the right, in the middle of the shadowy park, the Cabañ a appeared with its lighted windows and sparkling sign in front, Periquito began to laugh, calm all of a sudden: he didn’t even want to look at that dive, Zavalita, his liver was still one big ulcer from the drunk he’d been on last Sunday.

“With a single item on his page he can sink any go-go girl, close any brothel, ruin the reputation of any nightclub, ” Darí o said. “Becerrita is a god in Lima’s bohemian world. And no page editor treats his people the way he does. He takes them to whorehouses, buys them drinks, gets women for them. I don’t know how you can complain about him, Periquito. ”

“All right, ” Periquito admitted. “Keep a stiff upper lip in a storm. If we have to work with him, instead of getting bitter, let’s try to exploit his weak point. ”

The brothels, the stinking dives, the promiscuous little bars with vomit and sawdust, the fauna of three o’clock in the morning. He thinks: his weak point. That’s where he became human, he thinks, that’s where he made himself liked. Darí o put the brakes on: a faceless mass was moving along the sidewalks in the shadows of 28 de Julio, over the gloomy silhouettes the small, rancid light of the lamps of Porvenir languished. It was misty, the night was very damp. The door of the Montmartre was closed.

“Let’s knock, Paqueta must be inside, ” Periquito said. “This dive opens late, the nightclubs pour out into here. ”

They knocked on the glass of the door—a piano player in the pink light of the window, he thinks, his teeth as white as the keys of his piano, two dancers with plumes on their behinds and their heads—steps were heard, a skinny boy in a white vest and a small bow tie who looked at them with concern: from La Cró nica, right? Come in, madame was expecting them. A bar covered with bottles, a ceiling with platinum stars, a tiny dance floor with an upright microphone, empty tables and chairs. A small disguised door behind the bar opened, good evening said Periquito and there was Paqueta, Zavalita: her eyes with long false lashes and round halos of eyeshadow, her scarlet cheeks, her protuberant buttocks smothering in the tight slacks, her tiny tightrope-walker steps.

“Did Mr. Becerra talk to you? ” Santiago asked. “It’s about the murder in Jesú s Marí a. ”

“He promised to keep me completely out of it, he swore to me and I hope he keeps his word. ” Her spongy hand, her mechanical smile, her honeyed voice with a touch of alarm and hatred. “If there’s any scandal, it’s the place that will suffer, understand? ”

“We only want a little information, ” Santiago said. “Who she was, what she did. ”

“I barely knew her, I don’t know much of anything. ” The stiff lashes that fluttered evasively, Zavalita, the thick red lips that closed up like mimosa leaves. “She stopped singing here six months ago. Farther back than that, eight months ago. She’d just about lost her voice, I hired her because I felt sorry for her, she’d sing three or four numbers and leave. Before that she was at the Laguna. ”

She stopped speaking when the first rainbow burst and she remained looking, her mouth open: Periquito was peacefully taking pictures of the bar, the dance floor, the microphone.

“What are those pictures for? ” she grumbled, pointing. “Becerrita swore to me that my name wouldn’t be mentioned. ”

“Just to show one of the places where she sang, your name won’t be mentioned, ” Santiago said. “I’d like to know something about the Muse’s private life. Some story, anything. ”

“I don’t know much of anything, ” Paqueta murmured, following Periquito with her eyes. “Outside of what everybody knows. That she was pretty famous a long time ago, that she sang at the Embassy Club, that later on she was the girl friend of you know who. But I imagine they won’t say anything about that. ”

“Why not, ma’am? ” Periquito laughed. “Odrí a isn’t President anymore, Manuel Prado is, and La Cró nica belongs to the Prados. We can say whatever we want to. ”

“And I thought we would be able to and I mentioned it in the first story, Carlitos. ” Santiago laughed. “Former mistress of Cayo Bermú dez stabbed to death. ”

“I think you’re being a little dumb, Zavalita, ” Becerrita grunted, looking over the pages ill-humoredly. “Well, let’s see what the big boss thinks. ”

“Nightclub star stabbed to death would have more impact, ” Arispe said. “And besides, they’re orders from above, my good sir. ”

“Was she or wasn’t she the mistress of that son of a bitch? ” Becerrita asked. “And if she was and the son of a bitch isn’t in the government and isn’t even in the country, why can’t we say it? ”

“Because it suits the balls of the headman not to say it, my good sir, ” Arispe said.

“All right, that argument always wins me over, ” Becerrita said. “Change the whole story, Zavalita. Wherever you say former mistress of Cayo Bermú dez put former nightclub queen. ”

“And then Bermú dez abandoned her and left the country, during Odrí a’s last days. ” Paqueta snorted: another bulb had just flashed. “You probably remember, during that trouble with the Coalition in Arequipa. She went back to singing, but she wasn’t the same as before. Not her looks and not her voice. She drank a lot, once she tried to kill herself. She couldn’t get work. The poor girl had a hard time of it. ”

“All the time you were with him you never knew him to have a woman? ” Santiago asks. “He must have been queer, then. ”

“What kind of life did she lead? ” Paqueta asked. “A bad life, I already told you. She drank, she couldn’t hold onto boyfriends, always needing money. I hired her because I felt sorry for her, and I didn’t keep her long, only a couple of months, maybe not even that long. The customers were bored. Her songs were out of style. She tried to get up to date, but she just couldn’t get the new music. ”

“I didn’t know him to have any mistresses, but he did have some women, ” Ambrosio says. “Whores, that is, son. ”

“And what was that drug trouble all about, ma’am, ” Santiago said.

“Drugs? ” Paqueta said, stupefied. “What drugs? ”

“He would go to whorehouses, I took him a lot of times, ” Ambrosio says. “To that one you remembered from way back. Ivonne’s, that one. Lots of times. ”

“But you were involved too, ma’am, you were arrested with her, ” Santiago said. “And, thanks to Mr. Becerra, nothing came out in the papers, don’t you remember? ”

A quick tremor animated her fleshy face, the inflexible lashes vibrated with indignation, but then a challenging, reminiscent smile softened Paqueta’s expression. She closed her eyes as if to look inside and locate that lost episode among her memories: oh yes, oh that.

“And Ludovico, the fellow I told you about, the one who got me into a jam by sending me to Pucallpa, the one who took my place as Don Cayo’s chauffeur, he used to take him to whorehouses all the time, ” Ambrosio says. “No, son, he wasn’t any fairy. ”

“There weren’t any drugs or anything like that involved, it was a mistake, it was cleared up right there, ” Paqueta said. “The police arrested a person who used to come here from time to time, he was pushing cocaine, it seems, and they called her and me as witnesses. We didn’t know anything and they let us go. ”

“Who was the Muse going with when she was working here? ” Santiago asked.

“Who was her lover? ” Her overlapping and uneven teeth, Zavalita, her gossipy eyes. “She didn’t have just one, she had a lot of them. ”

“Even if you don’t give me their names, ” Santiago said, “at least tell me what kind of guys they were. ”

“She had her adventures, but I don’t know the details, she wasn’t my girl friend, ” Paqueta said. “I only know what everybody else does, that she’d fallen into a bad life and that’s all. ”

“Do you know if she has any family here? ” Santiago asked. “Or some girl friend who might be able to give us more information? ”

“I don’t think she had any family, ” Paqueta said. “She said she was Peruvian, but some people thought she was a foreigner. They said she got her Peruvian passport through you know who, when he was her lover. ”

“Mr. Becerra would like some photographs of the Muse when she was singing here, ” Santiago said.

“I’ll give them to you, but please don’t get me mixed up in this, don’t mention my name, ” Paqueta said. “I’ll help you under that condition. Becerrita promised me. ”

“And we’ll keep his promise, ma’am, ” Santiago said. “Don’t you know anyone who could give us more information on her? That’s the last question and we’ll leave you alone. ”

“When she stopped singing here I didn’t see her again. ” Paqueta sighed, suddenly took on the mysterious air of an informer. “But you heard things about her. That she’d gone into one of those houses. I’m not sure. I only know that she lived with a woman who was a hustler, who worked at the Frenchwoman’s place. ”

“The Muse with one of the women from Ivonne’s? ” Santiago asked.

“You can name the Frenchwoman. ” Paqueta laughed, and her soft voice had become growly with hatred. “Use her name, so the police will bring her in for questioning. That old woman knows a lot of things. ”

“What was the name of the girl friend she lived with? ” Santiago asked.

“Queta? ” Ambrosio says, and a few seconds later, stupefied: “Queta, son? ”

“If you say I gave the information they’ll ruin me, the Frenchwoman is the worst enemy you could have. ” Paqueta softened her voice. “I don’t know her real name. Queta’s the name she went by. ”

“Didn’t you ever see her? ” Santiago asks. “Didn’t you ever hear Bermú dez mention her? ”

“They were living together and people said a lot of things about them, ” Paqueta whispered, winking. “That they were more than just girl friends. It was probably all gossip, of course. ”

“I never heard of her, I never saw her, ” Ambrosio says. “Don Cayo wasn’t going to talk to me about his chippies, I was just his chauffeur, son. ”

They went out into the mist, dampness and darkness of Porvenir; Darí o was nodding, leaning over the steering wheel of the van. When he started up the motor a dog barked mournfully from the sidewalk.

“She’d forgotten about the coke, that she’d been arrested with the Muse. ” Periquito laughed. “Some nerve, eh? ”

“She’s glad she got killed, you can see that she hated her, ” Santiago said. “Did you catch it all, Periquito? That she was a drunk, that she’d lost her voice, that she was a dyke? ”

“But you got some good information from her, ” Periquito said. “You can’t complain. ”

“This is all garbage, ” Becerrita said. “You’ve got to keep on digging until you hit the pus. ”

Those had been agitated and difficult days, Zavalita, you felt interested, restless, he thinks: alive again. Coming and going without rest: getting in and out of the van, going in and out of nightclubs, radio stations, boardinghouses, brothels, an incessant back and forth among the musty night-walking fauna of the city.

“The name Muse doesn’t come off too well, we have to rechristen her, ” Becerrita said. “On the Track of the Nighttime Butterfly! ”

You wrote long articles, short pieces, boxes, captions for the photographs with a growing excitation, Zavalita. Becerrita would read over the pages with sour eyes, scratching out, adding words with trembling red letters, and he would write the headlines: New Revelations in Dissipated Life of Nighttime Butterfly Murdered in Jesú s Marí a. Was Muse a Woman with a Terrible Past? La Cró nica Reporters Uncover New Facts in Crime That Has All Lima Shocked, From Show Business Start to Bloody End of One-Time Night-Life Queen, Stabbed Nighttime Butterfly Had Fallen to Lowest Level of Immorality Manager of Nightclub Where Muse Sang Her Last Songs Declares, Did Nighttime Butterfly Lose Voice Because of Drugs?

“We’ve left Ú ltima Hora way behind, ” Arispe said. “Keep laying it on, Becerrita. ”

“More swill for the dogs, Zavalita, ” Carlitos said. “Those are the orders from the big boss. ”

“You’re doing a good job, Zavalita, ” Becerrita said. “In twenty years you’ll be a passable police reporter. ”

“Piling up shit with a great deal of enthusiasm, a small pile today, a little more tomorrow, a fair amount day after tomorrow, ” Santiago said. “Until there was a whole mountain of shit. And now to eat it, down to the last crumb. That’s what happened to me, Carlitos. ”

“Are we through now, Mr. Becerra? ” Periquito asked. “Can I go get some sleep? ”

“We haven’t even started, ” Becerrita said. “Let’s go see Madama to find out if that muff business is true. ”

Robertito had come out to meet them, welcome to this house which is yours, how was life treating him, Mr. Becerra, but Becerrita took away his joy at once: they’d come on business, could they go into the parlor? Come in, Mr. Becerra, all of you.

“Bring the boys some beer, ” Becerrita said. “And bring me Madama. It’s urgent. ”

Robertito shook his chestnut curls, nodded with an unfriendly chuckle, left with the leap of a ballet dancer. Periquito dropped into an easy chair with his legs stretched out, it was nice here, so elegant, and Santiago sat down beside him. The carpeted parlor, he thinks, the indirect lighting, the three paintings on the wall. In the first one a young man with blond hair and a mask was chasing along a tangled path after a very white girl with a wasp waist who was running on tiptoes; in the second one he had caught her and embracing they were sinking into a cascade of willows; in the third one the girl was lying on the grass, her bosom exposed, the young man was tenderly kissing her round shoulders and her expression was half alarmed and half languid. They were on the shore of a lake or a river and in the distance there was a group of long-necked swans.

“You’re the most rotten younger generation in history, ” Becerrita said with satisfaction. “What else interests you besides drinking and whoring? ”

His mouth was twisted in an almost smiling grimace, he was scratching his little mustache with his mustard-colored fingers, he’d pushed back his hat and was pacing up and down with one hand in his pocket, like the villain in a Mexican movie, he thinks. Robertito came in with a tray.

“The lady will be right along, Mr. Becerra. ” He bowed. “She asked me if you’d like some whiskey. ”

“I can’t. My ulcer, ” Becerrita grunted. “Every time I take a drink I shit blood the next day. ”

Robertito went out and there was Ivonne, Zavalita. Her long and heavily powdered nose, he thinks, her dress with crepe and noisy spangles. Mature, experienced, smiling, she kissed Becerrita on the cheek, extended a courtly hand to Periquito and Santiago. She looked at the tray, hadn’t Robertito served them? she gave a reproachful look, leaned over and filled the glasses expertly, halfway and without much foam, brought them to them. She sat down on the edge of the chair, stretched out her neck, crossed her legs, the skin was gathered into little folds under her eyes.

“Don’t look at me with that face full of surprise, ” Becerrita said. “You know why we’re here, Madama. ”

“I can’t believe that you don’t want anything to drink. ” Her foreign accent, Zavalita, her affected gestures, her ease of a well-to-do matriarch. “You’re an old-time drunk, Becerrita. ”

“I used to be, until my ulcer made mincemeat of my stomach, ” Becerrita said. “Now all I can drink is milk. From a cow. ”

“Still the same. ” Ivonne turned to Santiago and Periquito. “This old man and I are like a brother and a sister, for centuries now. ”

“A little incestuous at one point. ” Becerrita laughed, and opening up with the same intimate tone, “Make believe I’m a priest and you’re making your confession. How long did you have the Muse here? ”

“The Muse, here? ” Ivonne smiled. “You make a funny priest, Becerrita. ”

“Now you don’t trust me. ” Becerrita sat on the arm of Ivonne’s chair. “Now you’re lying to me. ”

“You’re crazy, Father. ” Ivonne smiled and slapped Becerrita on the knee. “If she’d worked here I would have told you. ”

She took a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped her eyes, stopped smiling. She knew her, of course, sometimes she’d come here when she was the girl friend of, well, Becerrita knew who. He’d brought her several times to have some fun, so she could spy from that little window that looked out into the bar. But as far as Ivonne knew she’d never worked in any house. She laughed again, elegantly. The little wrinkles around her eyes, on her neck, he thinks, her hatred: the poor thing worked off the street, like a bitch.

“It’s easy to see that you had a lot of love for her, Madama, ” Becerrita grunted.

“When she was Bermú dez’ mistress she looked down on everybody. ” Ivonne sighed. “She wouldn’t even let me come to her house. That’s why nobody helped her when she lost everything. And it was her own fault that she lost it. Drink and drugs. ”

“You’re delighted she was knocked off. ” Becerrita smiled. “Nice feelings, Madama. ”

“When I read the papers I felt bad, crimes like that always make me feel bad, ” Ivonne said. “Especially the pictures, seeing the way she was living. If you want to say that she worked here I’d be delighted. Good publicity for the place. ”

“You feel so very confident, Madama, ” Becerrita said with a faded smile. “You must have found a protector as good as Cayo Bermú dez. ”

“Gossip. Bermú dez never had anything to do with this house, ” Ivonne said. “He was a customer like anyone else. ”

“Let’s get back onto the pot, we’re crapping on the ground, ” Becerrita said. “She didn’t work here, O. K. Call the girl she lived with. She can give us some information and I’ll leave you alone. ”

“The girl she lived with? ” Her whole expression changed, Carlitos, she lost control completely, she got livid. “One of my girls living with her? ”

“Oh, the police haven’t found out yet. ” Becerrita scratched his little mustache and ran his tongue over his lips avidly. “But they’re going to find out sooner or later and they’ll come to question you and a certain Queta. You’d better be ready, Madama. ”

“With Queta? ” Her whole world had collapsed, Carlitos. “What are you saying, Becerrita? ”

“They change their names every day and people always get them mixed up, which one is she? ” Becerrita murmured. “Don’t worry, we’re not the police. Call her. All we want is a quiet, confidential chat. ”

“Who told you that Queta was living with her? ” Ivonne babbled: she was making an effort to recover her smile, her naturalness.

“I do trust you, Madama, I am your friend, ” Becerrita whispered with an open tone. “Paqueta told us. ”

“The worst kind of a whore’s daughter who ever bore a whore. ” At first a wiggy old dame with the airs of a great lady, Carlitos, then a frightened old lady, and, when she heard Paqueta’s name, a panther. “The kind that grew up gargling on her mother’s menstrual blood. ”

“I do enjoy that mouth of yours, Madama. ” Becerrita put his arm around her shoulder, happy. “We’ll avenge you, in tomorrow’s article we’ll say that the Montmartre is the joint with the worst reputation in Lima. ”

“Can’t you see that she’ll be ruined? ” Ivonne said, grasping Becerrita’s knee, squeezing it. “Can’t you see that the police will bring her in for questioning? ”

“Did she see something? ” Becerrita asked, lowering his voice. “Does she know something? ”

“Of course not, she just doesn’t want to get into any trouble, ” Ivonne said. “You’ll get her all messed up. Why would you want to do a bad thing like that? ”

“I don’t want anything to happen to her, just for her to tell me a few intimate details about the Muse, ” Becerrita said. “We won’t say that they lived together, we won’t use her name. Do you trust my word or not? ”

“Of course not, ” Ivonne said. “You’re another bastard just like Paqueta. ”

“That’s the way I like you, Madama. ” Becerrita looked at Santiago and Periquito with a furtive smile. “The way you really are. ”

“Queta’s a good girl, Becerrita, ” Ivonne said in a faint voice. “Don’t torpedo her. It could be bad for you, besides. She’s got a lot of good friends, I warn you. ”

“Just call her and cut out the dramatics. ” Becerrita smiled. “I swear to you that nothing’s going to happen to her. ”

“Do you think she feels like coming to work after what happened to her friend? ” Ivonne asked.

“All right, get hold of her and set up a date for me with her, ” Becerrita said. “I just want a few facts. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll print her name on the front page and she’ll have to talk to the detectives. ”

“Do you swear that if I can arrange for you to see Queta you won’t mention her at all? ” Ivonne asked.

Becerrita nodded. His face was slowly filling up with satisfaction, his little eyes were gleaming. He stood up, went over to the table, with a determined gesture he picked up Santiago’s glass and emptied it in a swallow. A rim of foam whitened his mouth.

“I swear to you, Madama, get hold of her and call me, ” he said solemnly. “You’ve got my number. ”

“Do you think she’s going to call you, Mr. Becerra? ” Periquito asked in the van. “I’ll bet she tells that Queta that the people from La Cró nica know that you were living with the Muse, get lost. ”

“But which one is Queta? ” Arispe asked. “We must know her, Becerrita. ”

“She must be one of the exclusive ones who work at home, ” Becerrita said. “Maybe we do know her, but under a different name. ”

“That woman’s worth her weight in gold, my good sir, ” Arispe said. “You’ve got to find her, even if you have to turn over every stone in Lima. ”

“Didn’t I tell you that Madama would call me? ” Becerrita looked at them without vanity, mockingly. “Tonight at seven. Let me have the whole centerfold, boss. ”

“Come in, come in, ” Robertito said. “Yes, in the parlor. Have a seat. ”

In that way, with the light of dusk coming through the single window, the small parlor had lost its mystery and enchantment. The worn upholstery of the furniture, he thinks, the faded wallpaper, the cigarette burns and rips in the carpet. The girl in the paintings had no features, the swans were misshapen.

“Hello, Becerrita. ” Ivonne didn’t kiss him, didn’t shake hands. “I promised Queta that you’re going to do what you promised. Why did you bring these people with you? ”

“Have Robertito bring us some beers, ” Becerrita said without getting up out of his chair, without looking at the woman who’d come in with Ivonne. “I’ll pay for these, Madama. ”

“Tall, beautiful legs, a mulatto girl with reddish hair, ” Santiago said. “I’d never seen her at Ivonne’s, Carlitos. ”

“Sit down, ” Becerrita said with the air of the master of the house. “Aren’t you people going to have something to drink? ”

Robertito filled the glasses with beer, his hands trembled as he handed them to Becerrita, Periquito and Santiago, his lashes blinked rapidly, his look was frightened. He almost ran out, closing the door behind him. Queta sat down on a sofa, serious, not frightened, he thinks, and Ivonne’s eyes were burning.

“Yes, you’re one of the exclusive ones, because you’re not seen much around here, ” Becerrita said, taking a sip of beer. “Do you only work outside, with special customers? ”

“It’s no business of yours where I work, ” Queta said. “And who gave you permission to use the familiar form with me? ”

“Take it easy, don’t carry on so, ” Ivonne said. “He’s someone we can trust and that’s all. He’s only going to ask you a few questions. ”

“You couldn’t be my client even if you wanted to, be happy with that, ” Queta said. “You’ll never have enough money to pay what I charge. ”

“I’m not a client anymore, I’ve retired, ” Becerrita said with a mocking smile and wiped his mustache. “How long did you live with the Muse in Jesú s Marí a? ”

“I didn’t live with her, that’s one of that bitch’s lies, ” Queta shouted, but Ivonne took her arm and she lowered her voice. “You’re not going to get me mixed up in this. I warn you that …”

“We’re not cops, we’re reporters, ” Becerrita said with a friendly expression. “It’s not about you, it’s about the Muse. You tell us what you know about her and we’ll go away and forget all about you. There’s no reason to get mad, Queta. ”

“Why the threats, then? ” Queta shouted. “Why did you come and tell this lady you’d tell the police? Do you think I’ve got anything to hide? ”