El Jarameño reacted with the habit that matadors have of smiling automatically in any direction from which they are called, even when they are fairly sure, because of a poor performance, that the caller may be an unhappy fan intending them insult or hurling something injurious at them from the stands.

“Come on in, man. Come right on in!” continued the deputy inspector, personally opening the way for him to enter beyond the grill. “And tell me what's wrong … You know, I hadn't recognized you! I thought it was one of those second-rate troublemakers, the kind we see in here night after night … Hey, what a coincidence, no? I mean, I was wanting to meet you, and here you are! We'll talk in the other room where nobody will bother us … after you. It's usually not this quiet … Cedillo, let's have some light in here!”

As soon as Cedillo had illuminated the adjoining room, el Jarameño, puffed up by the adulation, entered it with a swagger.

It was a bare and ugly room, dusty and uncarpeted, with a desk in the middle, a calendar on one whitewashed wall, and on another, a map of the city divided into its various police precincts. There was a sofa and, hanging over it, a lithograph of the independence hero Father Hidalgo, its frame in deplorable condition. In a corner was a cabinet fixed to the wall that contained a newfangled telephone terminal bristling with shiny metal parts, gear wheels, bells, a receiver, and also many wires with tiny metallic labels indicating the connection provided by each—Fire department, District government, Inspector's Office, and so on. On the table lay an enormous pearl-handled Colt 45 revolver, standard issue, and leaning against the walls were four large, closed cabinets, black and funereal looking. In the air, a smell of disinfectant, the bitter odor of miserable, dirty people, the sound of distant, disagreeable voices, of heavy footsteps and horses outside in the courtyard and, coming from behind a movable screen, the loud, rhythmic snoring of an exhausted man.

“Man, Jarameño! It's good to meet you. Word of honor! … Hey, how about a little shot of tequila? I keep it for, you know, when I can't sleep … during the day I don't touch a drop,” explained the deputy inspector, pulling a couple of scratched-up glasses, a bottle, and a salt dish out of the desk drawer. “Look, you drink this with a little salt, so it goes down easy … Yeah, that's it, the salt first, on your tongue, that's it … to your health!”

And both drank the good tequila of Jalisco.

El Jarameño, in a hurry and not at all comfortable, deep down, in a police station, went straight to the point. He was there for Santa. He would be responsible for what happened, he would pay whatever, and he would bring her back whenever they required. But he did not want her to spend the night there …

“Do me the favor, please. You have the authority to do it, and you're a nice guy. And the girl's delicate. It could be the death of her, I swear.”