Belgrano, Buenos Aires
1025 25 November 1942
Clete Frade was at the moment very much aware that his case of runaway carnal appetite was not a temporary anomaly brought about by a long period of enforced celibacy, a very long airplane ride, a good deal of alcohol, and the to-be-expected nervous excitement that went along with arriving in a foreign country as a secret agent charged with blowing up a ship.
If anything, his fascination with and hunger for the Virgin Princess had grown even more intense since he first met her four days before. He even dreamed about her, the dreams twice culminating in nocturnal emissions after he had worked his wicked imaginary way with her.
An hour earlier (he recalled in painfully exquisite detail as he watched her marvelous derriere, barely concealed by her tennis dress, ascend the stairs to the second floor) when the Virgin Princess bent over to retrieve a tennis ball and innocently offered him a glance down the opening of her blouse, his talleywacker popped to attention so quickly and with such intensity that he almost cried out in pain.
“How did the tennis go?” Pamela de Mallín asked, walking into the foyer.
“She’s really quite good. She has an unusually strong forehand.”
“From her father. My forehand stroke is my weak point. I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you.”
“We missed you.”
“Dorotea enjoys playing with you. She says that you’re so much better than she is that she’s learning a great deal. It’s nice of you to play with her.”
“My pleasure. She’s a really nice kid.”
“And, of course, she’s able to show off her older gentleman friend to all her girlfriends,” Pamela said with just a hint of a smile.
I wonder why I don’t react to her other friends the way I do to her. Many of them are as good-looking as she is.
“You won’t be having lunch, will you?” Pamela asked.
“No, thank you, I won’t. I’m to meet Mr. Nestor for lunch. Will finding a cab be any trouble? And how far is it from here to the bank?”
“Oh, I’ll have Ramón take you. And keep the car, Clete, I won’t be going anywhere.”
“That’s kind, but unnecessary. I can take a taxi.”
“Well, then, a compromise. Ramón will take you, and you can find your way back here on your own. What time are you to meet him?”
“I’d like to get there a few minutes before twelve.”
“Then you’d better leave here,” she looked at her watch, “at quarter past eleven. It’s now almost ten-thirty.”
“Then I’d better have my shower.”
“I’ll tell Ramón to bring the car outside at quarter past. And if I don’t see you before you go, have a nice lunch.”
“Thank you.”
Clete smiled at her and went up the stairs. His room was to the right, as was the Virgin Princess’s. And as he walked down the corridor to his room, he saw that the door to hers was slightly ajar. Ajar enough for him to glimpse her bed, on which her tennis clothes and undergarments lay after she had removed them prior to taking her shower. A moment later a delightful, if painful, image thrust its way into his mind—of the Virgin Princess standing under the shower with the water running down between her breasts to the junction of her legs.
Jesus Christ, Frade! You’re really a dirty young man!
He took a long cold shower and then dressed. He decided on a cord jacket and trousers. As he examined himself in the mirror, he remembered where he bought the jacket—in Neiman-Marcus, in Dallas. And when—in the spring of 1940, just before he graduated from Tulane.
The Virgin Princess was how old then? Seventeen?
At the time, he didn’t really want it. He suspected, correctly as it turned out, that he would not be permitted to wear civilian clothing when he went into the Corps; he went into the Corps three days after he graduated. But when he met Martha for lunch in the Neiman-Marcus restaurant before she flew out to Midland, she told him he looked like a ragpicker, that she was ashamed to be seen with him in public, and marched him into the men’s store and bought the jacket for him.
And now I’m Cletus Frade, Secret Agent, about to wear it in Argentina, for my first meeting with the mysterious Jasper C. Nestor, Spymaster.
It’s not happening the way it does in the movies. If Alan Ladd was sent down here to deal with the Dirty Huns, he would have met the spymaster in the middle of the night in some dark alley, and he’d have been wearing a trench coat.