“The reason I’m calling, Clete,” Nestor interrupted, “and I know this is damned short notice. The thing is, there’s a small party at the Belgrano Athletic Club this evening. We sponsor, the bank, one of the cricket teams. Nothing very elaborate—no black tie, in other words. Just drinks and dinner. There’s a chap I want you to meet. I introduced you at the bank, if you’ll remember. Mr. Ettinger?”
“Yes, I remember meeting Mr. Ettinger.”
“Well, you have things in common—being newcomers and bachelors. Why don’t we put you two together and see what happens? Or do you have other plans?”
“No. Thank you very much.”
“Perhaps we’ll have a few minutes for a little chat ourselves. Right about seven? Would that be convenient? Do you know where it is, can you find it all right?”
“Yes. I have a guest card. I’ve played tennis there.”
“Good. Look forward to seeing you about seven.”
[THREE]
The Belgrano Athletic Club
Buenos Aires
1925 29 November 1942
I wonder what the rules of that game are, Clete thought as he looked out the window of the bar at a cricket game being played under field lights.
He held a scotch and water—he had told the barman to give him a very light one—and was munching on potato chips, waiting for Nestor to show up.
The Belgrano Athletic Club looked as if it had been miraculously transported intact from England. In the bar, a paneled room with photographs on its walls of the Stately Homes of England, the conversation was in English—English English—and even the bartender spoke as if London was his home.
The bar was for men only, but there were a good number of women outside in the stands watching the game, and parading past the windows of the bar. Good-looking, long-legged, nice-breasted blond women, in lightweight summer dresses.
Just what I don’t need after Granduncle Guillermo’s dirty pictures.
I wonder what the boys on Guadalcanal are doing right now.
“Ah, there you are, Clete!” Nestor said behind him. “Admiring the view, are you?”
Clete turned to face him. Ettinger was with him.
“Good evening.”
“You remember David, of course. You met him at the bank?”
“Yes, of course. How are you, Mr. Ettinger?”
“We’re quite informal here,” Nestor said. “It really should be ‘David’ and ‘Clete.’”
“Nice to see you again, David,” Clete said.
They shook hands.
“Let me find us something to drink. You all right, Clete, or will you have another?”
“I’m fine, thank you just the same.”
As soon as he was out of sight, David asked, “No Tony? I thought maybe I’d be introduced to him too.”
“He wasn’t invited. He’s not even supposed to know who Nestor is.”
“I meant I thought Nestor the banker might invite him as a courtesy to an employee of Howell Petroleum. One of the things I’ve learned is how much Howell money flows through the Bank of Boston.”