At the bowling alley, Bibi’s in the middle of a game with some guy. I make sure she knows I’m there, but I don’t interrupt and she doesn’t stop playing.

I stay in the bar, at the barren bar’s bar.

Behind me, the bowling alley echoes like a deep canyon. The sound of the balls striking the pins isn’t unpleasant. I think of drumsticks, dried-out hollow tree trunks, Indians, carpentry, planks being unloaded, twelve colored pencils rolling out of their case, the schoolteacher’s pen tapping against her desk, a baton, Toscanini clicking two batons against each other in midair, firewood collapsing as it burns, carbon, the black hair on the back of a Black man’s neck (Cassius Clay), knockout.

She comes in. Of course, it had to be her.

It’s Piel Blanca, the pale-skinned woman from Forensics, and she’s looking for Bibi, who’s nearby.

Bibi hands her a pair of special shoes designed for bowling. They seem better suited to basketball or boxing. Piel Blanca takes her shoes off and puts them away in her purse, a rather dirty thing to do. She takes over for the guy. The guy kisses Bibi on the cheek, a friend’s kiss, and moves out of sight.

I’m still at the bar. Barre, bear, bier. I order a beer.

Piel Blanca leans forward to release the ball. Her body reveals itself, excites me.

Exactly forty-seven minutes later we’re all sitting at a small round table.

Piel Blanca’s name turns out, in fact, to be Blanca. Bibi calls her Blanquita.

Forensics won’t cooperate. What’s the goal here, precisely? To identify two suicides. What do we have to go on? Some photos. Do you have them here? They’re quite dramatic. What else have you got? Nothing. What more do you need? Nothing more? Yes: the story. To publish it? I don’t know. . . What for, then? I have to figure something out. Do I have to say it? If you want to . . . Why that face, why those eyes, why that mouth. Well, because they killed themselves. But isn’t it strange? Yes. Why does it seem strange to you, too? I can’t figure it out. Pleasure and fear. Have you seen this in any others? To be honest, I haven’t looked for it. But I wasn’t looking for it in these either. If you hadn’t said anything . . .

Piel Blanca will cooperate.

When we say goodbye to her outside, leaving her to wait for a bus, I ask Bibi, “Why is she taking the risk?”

What I really want to know is whether she’s expecting to be paid, but that must not have occurred to either woman because Bibi grows annoyed. “Didn’t I tell you we’re friends? Or do you think she’s doing it for you?”

She hesitates a second, then completes the thought. “You’re quite an unpleasant individual, you know.”

I defy expectations by acknowledging her point, which confounds her and causes her to take it back. After a few moments of shared silence, she says, “I have my 4L parked around the corner. Can I drop you somewhere?”