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showing the tip of his tongue. “Most poisonous snake in Amazon. You can imagine things this woman says about people to get nickname like that.”
    “Be quiet, you bum,” Chuchupe shuts him up, sets out the glasses, smiles. “To your health, Mr. Pantoja. Welcome to Iquitos.”
    “Poisonous tongue,” Chino Porfirio points to the Chinese decorations on the walls, the scarred mirror, the red screens, the dancing fringes of the mottled armchair. “Just that she good fliend and this house, though it seen its yeals, is best in Iquitos.”
    “Take a look at what’s left of the goods, if nothing else,” Freckle is pointing: little half-breeds, whites, Japanese, even an albino. “It took a good eye on Chuchupe’s part to choose her women, mister.”
    “Good music, makes you wanna dance,” Chino Porfirio gets up, grabs the arm of a woman, drags her to the dance floor, dances. “A pemisito to shake up youl bones. C’me hele, fatty. C’me hele.”
    “Can I buy you another beer, Madame Chuchupe?” Pantaleón Pantoja coaxes an uneasy smile and whispers, “I’d like to ask you for a few facts, if it’s no trouble.”
    “What a friendly devil that Chino is. He never has any money but how he livens up an evening,” Chuchupe folds a piece of paper, throws it at Porfirio’s head, hits the target. “I don’t know what they see in him. They’re all dying for him. Look at him going nuts.”
    “Matters related to your—you know—to your business,” insists Pantaleón Pantoja.
    “Sure, happy to,” Chuchupe gets serious, agrees, autopsies him with her stare. “Though I didn’t think you came to talk about business but for something else, Mr. Pantoja.”
    “My head is killing me,” Pantita curls up, covers himself with the sheets. “My body is falling to pieces, I got the shivers.”
    “Why wouldn’t it kill you, why wouldn’t you have, and what’s more, it makes me glad,” Pochita taps her heels. “You went to bed around four and you came in falling-down drunk, you idiot.”
    “You’ve vomited three times,” Mother Leonor goes back and forth between kettles, washbasins and towels. “You’ve left the room stinking, son.”
    “You’re going to explain what all this means, Panta,” Pochita approaches the bed, eyes blazing.
    “I already told you, sweetheart—it’s got to do with work,” complains Pantita from between the pillows. “You know only too well I don’t drink, how I hate keeping late hours. It’s torture for me to do those things, dear.”
    “You mean to tell me you’re going to go on doing them?” Pochita grimaces, screws up her face. “Going to bed at dawn, getting drunk? Oh, no you’re not, Panta—I promise you you’re not.”
    “Come on, don’t fight,” Mother Leonor is carefully balancing the glass, the pitcher, the tray. “Come, child, put on these cold towels and take this Alka-Seltzer. Quick, with the little bubbles.”
    “It’s my work, it’s the assignment they’ve given me,” Pantita despairs, fades, loses his voice. “I hate all this—you’ve got to believe me. But I can’t tell you anything. Don’t make me talk; it’d be very bad for my career. Have faith in me, Pocha.”
    “You’ve been with women,” Pochita breaks out sobbing. “Men don’t get drunk until dawn without women. I’m sure you were, Panta.”
    “Pocha, Pochita, my head is splitting, my back is hurting me,” Pantita places a cloth on his forehead, reaches under the bed, pulls out a chamber pot, spits saliva and bile. “Don’t cry. You make me feel like a criminal and I’m not, I swear to you I’m not.”
    “Close your eyes and open your yap,” Mother Leonor holds out a steaming cup, puckers her mouth. “And now this little cup of very hot coffee, my little boy.”

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    S S G F R I
    Dispatch Number One
    GENERAL SUBJECT: Special Service for Garrisons, Frontier and Related Installations
    SPECIFIC SUBJECT: Preparation of command post and evaluation of possible enlistment