Jesus Christ, if Peter was serious, I’m one hell of a target for somebody with a rifle over there in the racetrack grandstands!
He quickly returned to the bedroom and stood with his back against the wall. His heart was beating rapidly, and his sweat was now clammy.
Then he told himself he was being foolish.
It’s incredible to think that someone is in the grandstands with a rifle. If there were, they would have taken a shot at me when I drove up in the Horche.
And besides, those Argentine FBI guys—the Internal Security agents—are outside on the street.
But then he remembered that he didn’t see a car on the street when he drove up, and no South American Humphrey Bogart in a trench coat standing under the tree.
I probably lost them when I took the Old Man’s Horche from Uncle Humberto’s. They are standing around watching for the Buick.
That made him smile. And with the smile, he lost the feeling of terror. He pushed himself off the wall.
You are a melodramatic asshole, Clete Frade!
But, shit, Peter sounded serious. Better safe than sorry.
He walked quickly around the room, turning off the lights. Then he carefully lowered the shutters.
He turned the lights on again.
As I learned as a Boy Scout, “Be Prepared!”
He went to the wardrobe where he was hiding the Argentine copy of the Colt Model 1911 .45 pistol and took it out. He removed the clip, emptied and reloaded it, dry-fired the pistol, satisfied himself that it was functioning properly, and then reinserted the clip and worked the action, chambering a round.
And then he felt a little absurd, again.
“Why don’t I do this right?” he asked himself aloud. “If this is going to be a replay of the Gunfight at the OK Corral, why not do it with a Colt six-shooter?”
He went to the desk and took out the felt-lined walnut box containing the old Hog Leg, the Colt Army .44-40 revolver that his grandfather carried while commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón.
You’d be proud of me, Grandpa, sitting here with your Hog-Leg about to defend myself against the Argentine equivalent of the Apaches.
Jesus Christ, it’s hot in here with those goddamned blinds closed!
He stood up and walked to the rear of the apartment, where there was a second balcony behind the elevator shaft and the steep stairway. It was barely wide enough for two simple wooden chairs with leather seats and backs. And it offered a far-from-charming view of the service entrances of other houses—and to judge from the smell of it, the Buenos Aires version of a privy.
But it was in the open, and there was a small breeze. He started to sit down, but decided a warm beer was better than no beer, and returned to Uncle Guillermo’s playroom.
Feeling more than a little sheepish, he turned off the lights, opened one of the vertical blinds, and crept onto the balcony. He took two beers from the ice chest, then crept back inside. He lowered the blind again, then started back toward the other balcony.
The .45 automatic was on the desk, beside the .44-40 Hog Leg.
I should put that away before Señora Pellano comes in here with my breakfast and sees it.
Ah, to hell with it. I’ll take it with me and put it away before I go to bed.
He went to the rear balcony and laid the pistol on the floor of the balcony. Then he settled himself as comfortably as he could—sitting in one of the chairs, resting his booted feet on the other—and opened one of the beers.
Warm beer is better than no beer at all.
While he sipped the beer, thoughts of the Virgin Princess passed pleasantly across his mind.
Can I tell her I love her?
Why the hell not, she already said that to me…probably.