“I can’t convince you to come to the Ambassador’s reception for Generalmajor von Deitzberg?” Perón asked her.
“I really have to go to the estancia,” Claudia said firmly.
Perón looked at his watch. “And I really must return to my duties,” he said. “I’ll come by Coronel Díaz for you and Dorotéa about seven, Cletus?”
“I’ll see you there, Tío Juan,” Clete said.
Perón set off to find his car.
“Come by the museum a minute,” Clete said to Claudia when Perón was out of earshot.
“All right,” she said.
“Curiosity is a female prerogative,” Claudia said, helping herself to a snifter of cognac in the downstairs sitting. “Was that ‘social event’ where you met the blonde in your apartment at the Alvear?”
Clete nodded. “Juan Domingo seemed fascinated with her,” he replied.
“I noticed. I thought she was a little old for him.” Claudia laughed.
“If you want to buy that place, come up with a price.” Clete said.
“Don’t do me any favors, Cletus.”
“I’ve got too much on my plate as it is,” Clete said. “I don’t know anything about radio stations, and I don’t have either the time or the inclination to learn. I have some Texas ranch-hand’s ideas about improving production on the estancias.”
“Such as?”
“There’s a better use for more than four feet of good, thick topsoil than to raise grass for cows to chew.”
“Such as?”
“Putting in corn, for example. If I feed them corn, I can get a beef to market months before I can by feeding it grass.”
“You mean that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I mean it. My uncle Jim used to say, ‘When you have a chance to make some money, take it. Next year, there’ll damned sure be a drought.’”
Claudia chuckled. “Your father used to talk about feedlots,” she said. “He apparently saw them in the United States. Which may be why he never got around to doing anything about it.”
“I’m one of the good gringos, Claudia.”
“Your father would be pleased to know that you’re taking an interest in the estancias.”
“That—and flying airplanes—is about all I know, and I have some ideas about making money with airplanes, too, that I want to play with.”
She met his eyes. “I’ll get some estimates,” she said. “Top peso and bottom peso, and we’ll split it down the middle. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
“You behave yourself tonight with those Nazis.”
“I will.”
She drained her brandy, then walked to him and kissed him tenderly—rather than pro forma—on the cheek and walked out of the downstairs sitting.
[FOUR]
Wachtstein Bahnhof