“Is that Leutnant Frade?”
It’s Peter. What the hell does he want?
“Former Lieutenant Frade, Hauptmann von Wachtstein. What can I do for you?”
“I am taking tea with two ladies, Teniente,” Peter said. “The sisters Carzino-Cormano. At the Alvear Plaza. I thought you might care to join us.”
He’s drunk. What the hell is he doing with the Carzino-Cormano girls?
“The invitation is most gracious, mi Capitán, but just between us fighter pilots, Isabela Carzino-Cormano cannot be numbered among my legion of female admirers. In English we would say that my presence would piss on your parade. I’ll pass, thank you, and in the morning you will be most grateful that I did.”
“I would like to impose on your well-known good nature, and ask that you reconsider.”
What the hell is going on? Oh, shit. He wants me to get El Bitcho off his hands; he has carnal desires for Alicia.
“Peter, I don’t think you can separate them.”
“Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”
“What if someone sees us together, Peter? I don’t think that would look wise to that boss of yours.”
“We are in a neutral country. I will simply be acting as an officer and a gentleman, asking you to join us when you happen to walk in and pass our table. We’re in the lobby restaurant. You know it?”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I, Cletus.”
[EIGHT]
As soon as he was out of the garage, Clete stopped the Buick and put the top down. His uncle Jim spent a good deal of time during Clete’s last year at Tulane listing the many inconveniences of owning and driving a convertible. But you could sum up his entire list under one heading: the top. The mechanism was delicate, he told Clete fifty times; and once it was out of alignment it was almost impossible to repa
ir. That meant the roof would leak, and that meant the floor pan would rust out. And it meant that the leather upholstery would rot, or else get stiff and crack.
And if the top was wet, and you put it down before it dried, it would shrink. So when you tried to put it up, the mechanism would not be up to the strain of stretching it and would pull itself out of alignment. Whereupon the roof would leak, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
“Only idiots own convertibles,” Uncle Jim said. “Why anybody smart enough to graduate from college would even think of wanting one, I’ll never know.”
That lecture came the day Uncle Jim told him to get off his lazy ass and help Martha weed the tulips by the driveway. When he got there, he found the Buick Roadmaster convertible with a large yellow bow tied to the bull’s-eye hood ornament.
Clete thought of Uncle Jim every time he put the roof up or down. Now he thought of Uncle Jim and the Virgin Princess. On the one hand, she was a kid who wanted a ride in the convertible. On the other hand, she was a perfectly gorgeous woman who mouthed “I love you” to him in the Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar. And pursed her lips at him as he walked out.
What the hell am I going to do about her?
A man was standing under a tree fifty yards from the Guest House, studiously looking the other way. Twenty yards farther down Avenida Libertador, the momentary glow as he took a drag on his cigarette revealed another man sitting at the wheel of a small Mercedes sedan parked with its lights out.
If those two guys are not cops—what do they call them, “Internal Security”?—watching me, then I’m the Commandant of the Marine Corps.
I will do nothing about the Virgin Princess, except ignore her like she has hoof-and-mouth disease. As long as Internal Security is interested in me, I have to stay away from her. I certainly can’t let them get interested in her.
Jesus H. Christ, she was so beautiful in the church!
When the top was down, he turned up Avenida Libertador toward the two watchers. When he was parallel with the one under the tree, he blew “Shave and a Haircut Two Bits” on the Buick’s loud horn, waved cheerfully, and called out, “Buenas noches, Señor!”
Then, impulsively, he floored the accelerator and roared down Avenida Libertador. In the rearview mirror, he saw the parking lights of the Mercedes come on, and the man under the tree running toward it.
“Earn your money, fellows,” he said aloud.
[NINE]