“With joy, mi Coronel.”
“Then it’s settled. Telephone to Señor Mallín’s Alberto, por favor. Tell him to pack Señor Cletus’s things, and that Enrico will be there immediately to pick them up. And then telephone Enrico at the Big House and tell him to go there and bring Señor Cletus’s things here.”
“Sí, mi Coronel,” Señora Pellano said, and smiled warmly at Clete.
“Sir,” Clete began—and wondered again why he could not bring himself to say “Father”—“wouldn’t it be better if I went over there and got my things, and said good-bye and thank you?”
“I do not think I quite understand…”
“Sir, this strikes me as perhaps a little rude, just sending someone there to get my clothing.”
“No, not at all. So far as good manners are concerned, I will have flowers sent in your name to Señora de Mallín, and some small gifts to the children, and a case of whiskey to Mallín himself. I will send him something else as well—perhaps a set of silver cups engraved with the crest of the regiment and my name. I think he would like that, as a token of my appreciation for his hospitality to you. That should take care of things.”
“Well, if you say so.”
“And then, of course, I suspect Mallín will be rather glad to have you out of his house.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You remember Teniente Coronel Martín—the fellow we “bumped into’ in the hotel?…I still haven’t worked that out; he’s too important in the BIS to conduct surveillances himself…. Martín came to see me, asking about you and your friend. If he did that, it follows that he has also been to see Mallín, or else will shortly do so. I suspect Mallín will be pleased that you will no longer be a guest in his house.”
“You make the BIS sound like the Gestapo.”
“I don’t think they’re quite that ruthless. But they are good. Don’t worry about them. Since you’re here simply to ensure that Venezuelan petroleum is not diverted to the Germans, once they convince themselves of that, they will have no further interest in you.”
What’s that? My invitation to tell you what I’m really doing here? No way, Daddy.
Clete forced himself to look at his father. His father was reaching over the side of his chair to pick up his drink. Clete walked to the window and looked out.
There was activity at the racetrack. Exercise boys were walking horses back to stables after a race. Clete watched as a rambunctious horse got away from its handler and trotted insolently down the track, obviously enjoying itself.
He turned to face his father, to play it by ear.
That’s all I can do, play it by ear.
His father was slumped in the armchair, his hand holding the whiskey glass on the armrest. But his head was bent forward, his mouth was open, and his eyes were closed; he was asleep, and snoring.
I’ll be damned, he’s passed out, or the next thing to it. He really was putting all the booze away.
Clete felt nature’s call and found the bathroom. In it he found proof that Granduncle Guillermo expected female guests in his room. The bathroom was equipped with a plumbing fixture Clete had first seen on the island of Espíritu Santo, in the house of a French plantation owner taken over as a transient quarters. Sullivan had used it, with some success, to cool bottles of Australian beer.
Clete examined the fixture with interest, wondering exactly how it worked. When he completed his primary purpose in the bathroom, he bent over the fixture and tried the faucets, one at a time. The prize for his curiosity was a sudden burst of water at his face from what he thought was a drain.
He dried himself, torn between amusement and humiliation, and returned to the apartment.
Señora Pellano was there, along with a burly man in a brown suit. They were both looking down at the soundly sleeping Coronel.
“Who are you?” Clete demanded.
“I am Enrico, mi Teniente,” the man said. “I have come to take care of el Coronel.”
“I see,” Clete asked, and then blurted, “Does he do this sort of thing often?”
“No, mi Teniente,” Enrico said, and then, “Permission to speak, mi Teniente?”
“Certainly.”
This guy is—or was—a soldier. He looks like a Marine gunnery sergeant with six hash marks; that “permission to speak” business is the mark of an old-timer enlisted man.