"S�," I said. "La paloma."
A Mexican highway policeman (Pol�cia Federal de Caminos) sauntered over like Marlon Brando and joined our friendly discussion group. "La paloma," he said, pointing to the bird.
"S�" I said.
"Muerta," he said.
"S�," I said. What else could I say? He had stated the facts with admirable clarity: the victim was a dove and he was undeniably, irrevocably dead. I had killed him, unintentionally, of course, but it was an open-and-shut case of dove slaughter.
"You drive fost?" the highway cop said.
"No," I said. "Of course not. Not at all. I am a slow driver."
"Then how you keel la paloma?"
"I don't know," I said. "I guess I just caught up with him." Now isn't that a hell of an answer, I said to myself. I should get 10 years in the federal penitentiary just for that stupid answer.
The men in uniform circled slowly around the car, their faces in deep thought. Probably figuring out the charge, I said to myself. At the very least they would get me for hunting without a license, or out of season.