‘‘Coffee time,’’ Clete said as he slowed to make the turnoff.
‘‘Here, Señor Clete?’’ Enrico replied, making it clear he felt that stopping at a truck stop was beneath the dignity of a Frade.
‘‘Time and the call of nature wait for no man,’’ Clete intoned sonorously, mimicking the announcer on ‘‘The March of Time.’’
Because he was as unfamiliar with the movie-theater newsreel program as he was with the Marine Corps expression giving permission to void one’s bladder, Enrico looked at him curiously but said nothing.
Clete pulled the Buick into a parking spot beside a Ford stake-body truck and got out. The truck was grossly overloaded with bags of carrots, each as large as his wrists.
‘‘Leave that in the car,’’ he ordered, pointing to Enrico’s double-barreled shotgun.
Enrico reluctantly stowed the shotgun under the seat and got out.
The large, noisy, simply furnished restaurant was crowded with people, most of them there because it was also the local bus depot. Clete found a table and ordered hot chocolate, which was his solution to Argentinian coffee strong enough to melt one’s teeth. Enrico was made uncomfortable by this, too. The waiter, apparently agreeing with Enrico’s conviction that men drank coffee, women and children hot chocolate, asked him to repeat the order.
Clete went in search of the baño. It was clean but not very sophisticated. A concrete wall served as the urinal; water trickled down it. Flat porcelain fixtures at floor level, with a hole and places to place one’s feet, served those who had to move their bowels. The odor was not pleasant.
Don’t be a snob. This is far more elegant than the slit trenches on Guadalcanal. And it’s at least inside.
When he returned to the table, he saw that he and Enrico were the subject of great interest to their fellow patrons.
What did the waiter do? Tell everybody that the guy in the funny hat and boots ordered chocolate?
He smiled warmly at an enormous truck driver with bad teeth and three days’ growth of beard. After a moment the man gave him a somewhat uneasy nod of the head.
When they left the restaurant, he put the convertible’s top down but left the windows rolled up. Enrico was visibly relieved that they were leaving the truck stop.
He drove past Lake Chascomús to the Pila turnoff, then down it to and through the town of Pila, a sleepy village lined with stone houses that looked as if they were built a century or more before.
A mile out of town, they reached a brick and wrought-iron sign at the side of the road, reading ‘‘San Pedro y San Pablo.’’ A moment later they bounced over eight railroad rails laid closely together across the road as a cattle barrier. On both sides of the road, the grassy pampas rolled gently off to the horizon. It looked something like the Texas prairie, except the grass was greener and here and there were stands of trees. Except for water tanks and their windmill-powered water pumps, no buildings or other signs of human life were in sight. Cattle roamed, in small groups or alone, as far as the eye could see.
Ten minutes later—at sixty-five m.p.h., a bit less than ten miles past the sign—he had his first glimpse of the windbreak—a triple row of tall cedars—which surrounded the main buildings of the ranch. And a minute or so after that, he was able to pick out the sprawling, two-story, white-painted stone house, sitting with its outbuildings in a three-hectare manicured garden, and then, just outside the windbreak, the landing strip, with two Piper Cubs parked on it.
I really don’t want to go looking for that goddamned replenishment vessel in one of those puddle-jumpers.
As he came closer, he could see that the doors of the hangar where the Beechcraft stagger-wing used to be kept were open, and he could just make out the nose of a third Piper Cub.
Why not? The stagger-wing’s on the bottom of Samboromb ón Bay.
Even if somehow I get that C-45, could I land it on this strip? Why not? I have all the room I need to make a slow, low-level approach. And I brought the stagger-wing in and out of here without any trouble, so why not a C-45? The problem will not be taking off, but the landing roll coming in. If I land long here, I’ll run out of runway. You can’t stop a C-45 as easily as you can a stagger-wing.
His attention on the landing strip, he drove without paying much attention through the cedar windbreak and found himself on the cobblestone drive inside.
Suddenly he became aware that there were people lining both sides of the road, men, women, and children. Many of the gauchos—Clete thought of them as cowpokes—held the reins of horses in their hands, and all of them had removed their hats and were holding them in their hands.
Christ, it’s a reception committee. Paying homage to the new Patrón. The Patrón is dead; long live the Patrón!
And they knew I was coming. I didn’t see anybody as we came in here, but somebody damned sure saw us, and called here and let them know we were coming.
What the hell am I supposed to do, wave at them?
Made uneasy by the unabashed humility, he raised his left hand and waved it somewhat stiffly as he fixed his eyes straight ahead and drove to the house.
The household staff, half a dozen maids, three women in cook’s aprons, and a middle-aged woman he recognized as the housekeeper—What the hell is her name?—were lined up on the steps of the shaded verandah behind three priests. Two of them were in—whatever the hell they call that skirt-like costume—and one wore a black business suit—I recognize the old priest and the young one from Señora Pellano’s funeral, but who’s the one in the suit? Antonio, his father’s butler, stood beside the priests. What the hell did Antonio do? Get up at four in the morning to get down here before me? Or drive down here last night after I finally went to bed?
One of the maids ran down to the car and pulled open Clete’s door.
‘‘Thank you,’’ he said, and stepped out.
The older priest, apparently taking advantage of his seniority, walked up to Clete.
‘‘God bless you, my son,’’ he said.
Clete offered his hand. It was ignored as the priest made the sign of the cross.
‘‘Good to see you, Father,’’ Clete said, and nodded to the younger priest, who also responded by making the sign of the cross.
The priest in the business suit, who looked to be in his forties, walked up to Clete and offered his hand. He was a bespectacled, slim, fair-skinned man who had lost most of his light-brown hair. Clete’s immediate impression of him— his well-cut black suit didn’t come off a rack in a cheap clothing store; there were gold cuff links on his shirt; and something about him suggested, if not arrogance, then unusual self-confidence—was that he was anything but a simple parish priest.
‘‘I’m Father Welner, Mr. Frade,’’ he said in only slightly accented British English. ‘‘On those—too rare, I am afraid—occasions when your father felt it necessary to seek absolution, I was his confessor.’’
‘‘How do you do?’’
‘‘There wasn’t the opportunity, the time, for us to talk in Buenos Aires. Perhaps we can find time here.’’
‘‘I’d like that,’’ Clete said.
I know who this guy is. The only lowly priest in that squad of bishops and monsignors at the church. What does he want to talk about?
‘‘Fathers Denilo and Pordido would like your approval of the arrangements for the requiem mass for your father tomorrow,’’ Welner said.
‘‘I’m sure whatever they’ve laid on will be fine,’’ Clete said.
‘‘ ‘Laid on’? Set up? Arranged?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘I think Father Denilo would be grateful if you were to review what he’s laid on,’’ Welner said.
‘‘I would be honored, Father Denilo,’’ Clete said, switching to Spanish and smiling at the older priest. ‘‘If you and Father Pordido would take a coffee, or a glass of wine, with me while you tell me of the arrangements you have made for the mass.’’
The old priest beamed.
; ‘‘Where do we go, Antonio?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘I suggest the library, Señor Cletus.’’
‘‘Father, I will be with you in just a moment,’’ Clete said. ‘‘There is something that requires my immediate attention. ’’
‘‘I understand,’’ Father Denilo said.
Clete motioned the priests to proceed ahead of him into the house. They insisted that he go first.
Clete went with them to the library, and then motioned Antonio to follow him back into the corridor.
‘‘Has Señora Carzino-Cormano been here? Last night, or this morning?’’
‘‘No, Señor.’’
‘‘That will be all, Antonio, thank you,’’ Clete said, and walked down an interior corridor with Enrico on his heels.
‘‘Where’s the safe?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘In el Coronel’s study.’’
‘‘Christ, we may need a key!’’
Enrico went into his pocket and came up with a single key on a key ring. Most of the keys to doors at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo were old-fashioned, large and simple. The key Enrico held up was small and modern; the lock it fit could not be picked by an amateur burglar with a screwdriver.
El Coronel’s study had been off limits to just about everybody, and kept carefully locked. Clete was not surprised to find it locked now.
‘‘I’ll need my own key, Enrico,’’ Clete said.
Enrico stepped past him and put his key in the lock.
"Sí, Señor,’’ Enrico said, and pushed the door open for him, and flicked on the lights. The heavy metal blinds on the window were down. Enrico looked to Clete for orders about the blinds.
‘‘Leave them down for now,’’ Clete said.
El Coronel’s study was furnished simply. There was a comfortable-looking, thickly upholstered dark-red leather armchair with a matching footstool. Beside it was a table holding a cigar humidor and a large ashtray. Two smaller, cloth-upholstered armchairs that showed no signs of use faced a large wooden desk, behind which was a high-backed, red leather office chair, the cushions showing signs of much use. A library table held four leather-bound photo albums. A large oil portrait of Elizabeth Ann Howell de Frade with her infant son, Cletus, in her arms hung over the fireplace.
Jesus, I’d swear I saw that hanging in Uncle Willy’s house. Are there two of them?
Clete walked to a small table holding a large photograph in an ornate silver frame and looked at it. He had seen it once before, on the only previous time he had been in his father’s study. It had been taken before the altar of the Cathedral of St. Louis on Jackson Square in New Orleans. It showed Elizabeth Ann Howell de Frade in her wedding dress standing beside her new husband, in formal morning clothes. They were flanked by His Eminence, the Archbishop of New Orleans; Mr. James Fitzhugh Howell; and Miss Martha Williamson, his fiancée. At opposite ends stood Mr. Cletus Marcus Howell, whose smile was visibly strained; and a tall, erect, olive-skinned young man in morning clothes, whom Clete had not previously been able to identify. Now he was sure he could.
‘‘Enrico?’’ he asked. Enrico came to him. Clete pointed.
"Sí, Señor Clete. Juan Domingo Perón.’’
‘‘He was my father’s best man?’’
Enrico looked confused.
‘‘El Coronel Perón—he was then, as your father was, Capitán—stood beside your father. Had the rings. Is that ‘best man’?’’
‘‘Yes, it is,’’ Clete said.
I’ll be damned!
‘‘Open the safe, Enrico, please,’’ Clete ordered.
One of the walls in the study was covered with framed photographs of Clete. At age nine, taking first place in the Midland FFA Sub-Junior Rodeo Calf-Roping Contest. As Cadet Corporal Cletus Frade in the boots and breeches of the Corps of Cadets of the Texas Agricultural and Mechanical College. In sweat-soaked whites, looking as if he had already had at least three post-tournament Sazeracs, with the rest of the Tulane Tennis Team . . .
The photo albums on the table were full of photographs and newspaper clippings, mostly from the Midland, Texas, Advertiser and the New Orleans Times-Picayune. Since there was no other way for Jorge Guillermo Frade to keep up with the activities of his son, he had hired a lawyer in Midland, and the lawyer had hired a clipping service. Every time Clete’s name was mentioned in the newspapers—for example, when he was a guest at some six-year-old’s birthday party—it was clipped out and sent to Argentina.
Clete’s eyes teared, and his throat was tight.
What the Old Man did to you, Dad—what he did to me— was wrong. You were my father, and I was your son, and he should have let us get to know one another.
He didn’t kill my mother. She killed herself. When she converted to Catholicism, she went whole hog—not surprising, considering who her father was—and swallowed that horseshit about birth control being a mortal sin— murder—and got herself in the family way even after she was told it would very likely kill her.
And you lied to me, every time the subject came up. My father did not simply put me out of his mind as if I never happened. The proof of that is all this crap in this room. He never got in touch with me because you did everything in your power to keep him from even writing me a goddamned letter.
And he told me, and I believe him, that he considered having me kidnapped and brought here. And the only reason he didn’t was that if he did, his sister would have raised me, and she’s as nutty as a fruitcake. He didn’t have me kidnapped because he thought Martha raising me was better for me than having Beatrice raise me. And he was right.
He didn’t forget me. For Christ’s sake, the only reason he didn’t marry Claudia was because it would have posed problems about my inheritance. He wanted me to have everything he owned.
Another wall of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade’s private study was a bookcase. Books that he actually read, Clete had decided the first time he saw them, not books bought by the yard to look good.
When Clete raised his eyes from the leather-bound photo albums, Enrico was tugging at one of its shelves. A four-shelf section of the bookcase swung slowly outward, revealing a substantial-looking safe. There was a combination dial and a small, spoked, stainless-steel wheel. On the safe was the legend HIMPELL G.M.B.H, BERLIN in gold letters.
Enrico leaned over to work the combination.
‘‘While I think of it, you’d better give me the combination, ’’ Clete said. ‘‘Wait till I find a pencil and some paper.’’
He went to his father’s desk, opened the center drawer, and found both.
‘‘OK?’’
‘‘Señor Clete, you are going to write the numbers down?’’ Enrico asked dubiously.
‘‘Let’s have them,’’ Clete ordered.
‘‘Right two times, then stop at eleven,’’ Enrico reported reluctantly. ‘‘Left, past eleven, to eighteen. Right past eighteen to twenty-two. Left past twenty-two to nine.’’
Clete wrote the numbers down.
‘‘Let me see if I can work it,’’ he said, and went to the safe. He showed Enrico what he had written down: Right 12. Left 27. Right 26. Left 13.
‘‘That is not what I told you,’’ Enrico said, his curiosity showing.
‘‘It is if you add the year 1943 to it,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Eleven and one is twelve; eighteen and nine is twenty-seven, et cetera. Get the idea?’’
"Sí, Señor Clete,’’ Enrico said. ‘‘Clever!’’
‘‘I am a clever fellow with a lousy memory,’’ Clete said. ‘‘That little trick is very helpful.’’
He had done the same thing with the telephone numbers Leibermann gave him in the Café Colón.
Clete bent over the safe and, reading from the notepaper, worked the combination. The dial turned very smoothly; there was no audible or tactile sensation as he moved the dial to the numbers.
I’m going to look like a fool if this thing doesn’t open.
He stopped on thirteen and turned the spoked, stainless
-steel wheel. Again there was no sound or tactile sensation, but when the wheel had turned its limit, and he pulled on it, the safe door swung smoothly open.
There were two shelves in the safe, dividing it into thirds. The upper shelf held an inch-thick stack of paper held together with a metal fastener, obviously a document of some sort. Clete started to reach for it, then stopped when his eye fell on the butt of a Colt .45 ACP pistol nearly concealed under a large light-blue manila envelope on the second shelf.
What the hell is the .45 for?
A melodramatic scenario came into his mind.
El Coronel, forced to open the safe at gunpoint, does so, and suddenly turns, blazing automatic in hand, and puts a round right between the eyes of the bad guys. Oh, horseshit!
He pushed the manila envelope to the side and picked up the pistol. The hammer was cocked and the safety was off. He ejected the clip, then worked the action. A stubby, glistening .45 cartridge arced though the air, bounced on the tile floor, and came to rest on a rug.
Jesus Christ! Loaded, cocked, and safety off! And obviously on purpose. El Coronel was not the sort of man to leave a loaded, cocked pistol around, safety off, through carelessness.
Enrico picked up the cartridge and handed it to Clete. Clete put the cartridge into the magazine, then inserted the magazine into the pistol, letting the slide slam forward, chambering a round. He put the safety on, then carefully laid it on the rug. After that, he picked up the envelope and untied the string holding it closed.
It contained two Argentine passports made out in names he didn’t recognize, but carrying the photographs of Dave Ettinger and Tony Pelosi. He glanced at them quickly, put them back in the envelope, then put the envelope on the floor beside the pistol.
Then he reached into the safe and took out the document. When he did so, he saw that it had been lying on half-inch stacks of currency.
What the hell is all that money doing in there?
He started to pick up one of the stacks of money, then changed his mind.
I don’t think Claudia would be all that concerned about money, not even this much money.
He looked at the document. Its light-blue—like the blue in the Argentine flag, he thought—cardboard covers were blank. He turned to the first page. Neatly typed in the center were the words ‘‘ESQUEMA AZUL’’—OUTLINE BLUE.
Blood and Honor Page 30
