“I said, Roosevelt probably has people who do this for him.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“President Roosevelt has a car just like this. I don’t think he could put the top down himself; he probably has an official top-putter-upper-and-downer.”
“He’s crippled. Polio. How the hell can he drive a car?”
“It has levers on the steering wheel. You never saw it in the newsreels?”
“Yeah, now that you mention it.”
“How far is this place?”
“A hundred and twenty-five miles,” Clete said. “According to the map, the road’s a highway. I figure we can make forty miles an hour; that’s three hours to get there. We have an hour, an hour and a half’s, cushion.”
“You figuring this in miles or kilometers?”
“Miles. You know how to convert?”
“Sure,” Tony said.
Bullshit. You don’t know, but don’t want to admit it.
“To get miles from kilometers, you divide the kilometers by eight, then multiply by five. Two hundred kilometers divided by eight is twenty-five. Times five is one twenty-five.”
“Yeah, right. You want me to drive?”
“I’ll drive. You work the map. I wish to hell we had a flashlight. Flashlights, plural.”
“I got one,” Tony said. “In the bag with the walkie-talkies.”
“Good for you! You bring it with you?”
“No. But when I figured we would need one, I went to that little store on the main drag and said, ‘Señora, una linterna, por favor,’ and she sold me one.”
“You should have bought two.”
“I did, Lieutenant, Sir. I knew I had to take care of you.”
“Insolence does not become you, Lieutenant.”
The first fifty miles were on a macadam road on which they met few cars but a large number of open-bodied trucks of all sizes. In the direction of Montevideo, most of these were heavily laden with everything from firewood to cattle; but they were mostly empty headed north. Clete was not surprised when they reached the city of Rocha to find an all-night truck stop. He pulled in, gassed the car, and then he and Tony ate brochettes of beef, peppers, and onions cooked on an open fire. The beef was so tender, it had to be filet mignon.
A few miles out of Rocha, the pavement stopped abruptly, and they found themselves on a gravel road.
Christ, I should have thought about that! Clete realized, angry with himself. This is Uruguay, not Louisiana.
His concern proved unnecessary. The gravel road was wide and smooth and well cared for. Twice, the headlights picked up Caterpillar Road Graders and tractors with grading blades parked by the side of the road, which explained it.
Forty miles farther along, they came to a small town called Castillos, dark except for the bright lights of another all-night truck stop. Thirty-five miles past that they came to a still-smaller town, La Corinilla. They were almost at their destination. Finding it proved far easier than Clete thought it would be. Nestor’s map was right on the money.
Three point seven miles past La Corinilla’s Abierto Las 24 Horas truck stop, they turned right, drove 2.1 miles down a slightly more narrow, but equally well cared for gravel road, and then .6 miles down that, turned right again onto another fairly narrow road, drove .3 miles, and stopped.
In front of the car, as far as the headlights permitted him to see, the road was straight and level. On either side of the road there appeared to be swamp, but Clete finally realized these were rice fields.
He made a note of the odometer reading so he could return to this spot. And then they drove down the road. He went exactly a mile and stopped. The road and the rice fields stretched on, apparently to infinity. He looked at his watch, the Hamilton chronograph. It was two forty-five—0245. Even stopping for the brochettes and gas, they’d made much better time than he thought they would. And they weren’t supposed to start flashing the headlights until 0400. They had an hour and fifteen minutes.
He turned the Ford around and headed back toward La Corinilla.