“I don’t usually take spirits at lunch,” el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade announced solemnly as he waved Clete into a leather-upholstered chair in the dark paneled bar of the Officers’ Club, “but this is an occasion, no? Our ‘great confrontation’?”
He turned to the white-jacketed waiter who had trailed them from the door. “Dos Jack Daniel’s, dobles, por favor, Luis.”
Clete looked around the room. He saw no women. Most of the men were in civilian clothing, but something about them suggested they were officers. Not officers, he corrected himself, brass. Hardly anybody in here is my age. Lieutenants and captains not welcome, and please keep off the grass on your way out.
He looked at his father. His father was making a visual sweep of the room. He gave a curt nod of recognition to a few men, smiled faintly at others, but at two in particular he smiled widely and nodded his head as if in approval.
As soon as the whiskey was delivered, while the waiter was carrying out the little routine of overflowing the silver shot glass on a handle, a procession of brass making their manners came to the table.
The introductions followed the same pattern:
“Coronel, I have the honor to present my son, Cletus, late Teniente of the air service of the U.S. Marine Corps, who has been medically retired after service in the Pacific at Guadalcanal. He is here on business, which I hope will take a long time to complete.”
Like blowing up a neutral ship in your river.
Once, his father rose to his feet, and Clete followed him.
“Mi General,” his father said, “I have the honor to present my son, Cletus, late Teniente of the air service of the U.S. Marine Corps, who has been medically retired after service in the Pacific at Guadalcanal. He is here on a visit. Cletus, I had the honor to succeed el General Sussman as Colonel Commanding the Hussares de Pueyrredón.”
“A sus órdenes, mi General,” Clete said.
The introduction seemed to both please and surprise the General.
“You served at Guadalcanal, Teniente?”
“Sí, mi General.”
General Sussman examined him closely, and nodded approvingly.
“I am very happy to make your acquaintance,” he said in somewhat awkward English. “Welcome to Argentina.”
I don’t think you would say that if you knew why I am here, General.
“Gracias, mi General.”
Frade waited until the General was out of earshot, then announced, “Coronel Sahovaler—the fat, bald one—succeeded me at the regiment. I should have introduced him that way.”
Dear old Dad, Clete realized, is half in the bag. And if he is, you almost certainly are. So watch yourself.
That triggered another thought, a somewhat alarming one: His only reaction when he realized I was lying to him was to change the subject, and then let me drive that car of his. Is it possible that he intends to get me drunk to see what he can worm out of me? Of course it’s possible. It’s even likely.
Without asking, the bartender delivered another Jack Daniel’s doble long before either of their glasses was empty.
“I think we should carry these into the dining room and put something into our stomachs,” Frade announced somewhat thickly after draining the first drink and picking up the second. “As you may have noticed, the Porteños are very dangerous drivers. One must be in full control of one’s faculties to survive.”
The booze flows like water—if that’s really whiskey he’s drinking—and he wants me to think he’s drunk. Of course, he’s trying to get me drunk enough to confide in him, father-to-son. Well, why are you surprised? The Old Man told you often enough he’s a three-star sonofabitch. Well, screw you, Dad. I may be an amateur at this business, but I am not stupid.
“Excuse me?” Clete asked politely, smiling, as he rose to his feet. “The what? Porteños?”
“Natives of Buenos Aires,” his father explained. “As opposed to those who come from the country. They drive like madmen. They seem to believe that an automobile has two speeds, on and off.”
Clete chuckled.
The headwaiter of the dining room followed them to their table.
“Edmundo,” el Coronel ordered, “see if they can find something nice, a Beaujolais perhaps, in my stock.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”