“You have made me a fool,” said Sotomayor to Panagiotis.
The Greek replied, “Only a fool can make a fool. But here, Ramon. Let us drink together and make amends.”
He swung around and picked up the bottle of pisco. When he turned back to face the rest of us, a small shiny snub-nosed pistol had appeared in Sotomayor’s hand, and Panagiotis’ mouth made a silent little O of amazement, and Sotomayor shot him once, drilling a small startling hole in the center of the Greek’s broad, sloping freckled forehead.
Aguirre put a thick wad of hundred-peso notes into my hand. I had won my bet with Sotomayor, after all. Then he and Mendoza and Nuñez de Prado and Ramon Sotomayor turned and walked out of the bar, leaving me alone with the dead Panagiotis.
Britton paused and poured the last of the chenin blanc into my glass and his. Night had fallen over Santa Barbara and the lights of boats sparkled in the marina and I heard distant foghorns. After a moment Britton said, “The next morning I packed up my Copiapoas and left town. The Plaza was absolutely deserted, and the only traces of the events of the night before were the shreds and tatters of the colored streamers. I never found out what happened to Sotomayor. And now, I suppose, they have some other way of passing the time in Pelpel.”