by Blood
It wasn't really a problem. He knew where the man he wanted to see was going to be at seven-thirty. He stopped in for a going-home glass of beer at a bar on Avenida Foster, less than a dozen blocks from the Casino Hotel. Ettinger had met him there three times before. The bar was crowded at that time of day, and it was relatively easy to exchange a few words about how and where they could meet in privacy.
Ettinger hadn't had much to eat in the restaurant on the ferryboat, and it was possible that dinner might be delayed by the business he had to do tonight.
There were a half-dozen cafes and restaurants within easy walking distance of the Casino Hotel. The restaurants would probably not yet be open, but you could generally find a small steak at any cafe.
He experimented with the best place to carry the Smith & Wesson, finally deciding that the right rear hip pocket offered the most concealability.
He had a bottle of beer, a small steak, and a small salad. For dessert, there was a very nice egg custard, called "flan."
Then he walked back to the hotel and went down into the basement.
It took him several minutes to find the light switch to illuminate the cav-ernous basement garage. He walked to the Chevrolet and slipped behind the wheel.
David Ettinger's last conscious thought before the man in the back of the Chevrolet twisted his neck and shoved an ice pick through his ear into his brain was that he remembered locking the car when he parked it.
Chapter Nineteen
[ONE]
The Santo Tome-Sao Borja Ferry
Corrientes Province, Argentina
0730 16 April 1943
A long line of vehicles, trucks, pickup trucks, motorcycles, and even two two-wheeled horse-drawn carts were waiting on the dirt road to the ferry when the official Mercedes of el Coronel Pablo Porterman drove up. Colonel Porterman's car was followed by a well-polished 1937 Buick Limited four-door convertible sedan, its Kp down. In the backseat of the Buick rode, somewhat regally, el Pa-tron of Estancia San Miguel, Se¤or Cletus Frade, and Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez, Retired.
Both cars drove past the vehicles waiting their turn to pass through Cus-toms and Immigration to the head of the line.
The senior Customs officer and the senior Immigration officer on duty came out of the Customs and Immigration Building to present their respects to the Commanding Officer of the Second Cavalry. They then walked to the Buick, where they were introduced to Se¤or Frade.
One of them announced that he had been privileged to know the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade both as el Patron of Estancia San Miguel and when el Coronel was assigned to the Second Cavalry. Both expressed their con-dolences for Se¤or Frade's recent tragic loss.
Se¤or Frade then shook el Coronel Porterman's hand and expressed his gratitude for all the courtesies the Coronel had rendered. The Buick was then passed to the head of the line of vehicles, without troubling Se¤or Frade with the routine Customs and Immigration procedures. From there it rolled onto the ferry.
The Buick was Enrico's solution to the problem of getting from Sao Borja to Porto Alegre. A telephone call was placed to Estancia San Miguel, and the Buick, kept at the estancia for the use of el Patron, was dispatched to Santo Tome.
After that, of course, Clete was unable to tell Enrico that he wanted him to stay in Santo Tome. He thought he might be able to talk him into returning to Santo Tome with the car when it returned, but he was aware that was probably wishful thinking.
Before the ferry left the shore, the driver took a rag from the trunk and wiped the dust from the Buick.
Clete left the car and stood in the bow of the open ferry as it moved away from the shore.
With something close to alarm he saw there was no more than ten inches of freeboard. The river was smooth but the current was fast-running, and it looked to him as if it wouldn't take much-running against a sandbar, for example-to cause water to come on board and send the ferry to the bottom.
Ashton was right. Trying to paddle across this in a rubber boat carrying boxes that weighed two hundred pounds apiece would have been idiocy.
Ten minutes later, when the Buick rolled off the ferry on the Brazilian side of the Rio Uruguay, the Brazilian Customs and Immigration officials who came to the car also elected not to trouble the passenger of such an elegant chauffeur-driven vehicle with routine administrative procedures.
The road on the far side of Sao Borja was wide, well-paved, and straight. The driver proceeded down it at a steady forty miles per hour.
"Enrico," Clete said, "I would like to drive."
"It would not be fitting, Se¤or Clete."
"Can you ask him to drive any faster?"
"Ernesto wishes to impress you with his reliability, Se¤or Clete."
"I'm impressed," Clete said, and raised his voice. "A little faster, Ernesto, por favor."
"S¡, Patron," Ernesto replied, and raised the speed no more than two miles per hour.
"Much faster, por favor, Ernesto."
"S¡, Patron," Ernesto said, and shoved the accelerator to the floor.
[TWO]
Big Foot Ranch
Midland, Texas
0945 16 April 1943
While it was not the custom of Mrs. Martha Williamson Howell-who was, among other things, Chairman of the Ladies' Guild of Trinity Episcopal Church-to partake of spirituous liquors often-rarely before the cocktail hour, and never before noon-today was to prove an exception.
The Old Broad, she thought as she sat down to eat her breakfast at the kitchen table, needs a little pick-me up. Martha's got a bad case of the I-Feel-Sorry-For-Poor-Old-Martha.
She had, she thought, justification for her low spirits. Primarily, of course, she missed Jim. Everybody told her-and it seemed logical-that time heals all wounds, and that her grief over the loss of her husband would pass.
It didn't pass. It changed. Though she no longer wept herself to sleep, the realization-a black weight on her heart-that Jim wouldn't be back seemed to grow by the day.
She had originally been angry, at God primarily, for doing that to Jim, tak-ing him when he was still a relatively young man, depriving him of a long and full life. Now she was angry at God for taking Jim from her, for leaving her alone. She was too young to lose her man.
And that wasn't all that was wrong with her life. Every time-this morning included-she walked into the kitchen, she was flooded with memories of the kitchen full with Jim and Clete and the girls, of spilled orange juice, pancakes laid carefully atop fresh fourteen-year-old coiffeurs, French toast seasoned with Tabasco in the maple syrup, and all the rest of it.
The girls were gone, too. Beth was twenty-one and about to graduate from Rice. There was more than that, too. The way Beth and the latest Beau behaved when she saw them just before Clete went off to South America again, Martha knew that Beth and Whatsisname were more than just good friends. Phrased delicately, Beth was now a woman, and Whatsisname, whose father was in the drilling business in East Texas, was the one to whom she had given the pearl be-yond price.
She was reasonably sure that Marjorie was still a girl, but she wouldn't have laid heavy money on that, either. Marjorie had always been precocious. If she hadn't been with some boy, it was because she hadn't met one she really liked. And one she really liked was likely to be the next one through the door.
So they were gone, too, as Clete was gone.
The family would never have breakfast again in the kitchen.
Never.
She was alone, and it looked as if she was going to be alone from now on. Getting married again seemed absurd. Jim had been one hell of a man, and it was damned unlikely that she would find anyone who came close.
So when Juanita-who didn't really have a hell of a lot to do herself any-more with everybody gone-went in the back of the house to make up the bed, Martha poured herself a tall glass of tomato juice, then added horseradish and Tabasco and salt and a large hooker of gin.
Then she went out on the porch to wait for Rural Free D
elivery. The mail would probably be all bills, she thought. Or invitations she wouldn't want to ac-cept. Or another communication from the Texas Railroad Board or the Internal Revenue Service, or more likely both, to cause her trouble. The odds against a letter from Marjorie or Beth were probably a hundred to one, and the odds against a letter from Clete were astronomical.
The astronomical long shot came in.
"Got a special-delivery letter for you, Miss Martha," Henry the Mailman announced. "From some Navy chief petty officer."
What the hell can that be ?
"Are you sure it's for me?" she asked as she took the envelope. It was in-deed addressed to her. She tore it open.
"It's from Clete," she said.
"Back in the Pacific, is he?" Henry asked, and stayed around until she had read it.
"Not bad news, I hope, Miss Martha?"
"No. Not bad, Henry."
"You tell him I was asking for him, you hear?"
"I surely will, Henry," Martha said.
She waited until Henry's old Ford had disappeared from sight, then picked up the letter and read it again.
Estancia San Pedro Y San Pablo
Midnight, 11/12 April 1943
Dear Martha:
I don't have much time, so this will get right to the point.
The Old Man will get a letter, about the time you get this, in which I told him that in two weeks, more or less, I'm getting married.
I think you will take me at my word when I say that I am doing the right thing, and that when, sometime in the future, you meet her-she's Dorotea Mallin, Henry and Pamela's daughter-you will wonder how in the world a nice girl like that got stuck with a bum like me.
I will probably have a big favor to ask of you, but not right now.
What I'm worried about now is the Old Man. He hates all things Argentine, and you know what kind of a hater he is. I don't want him to start hating me, or Dorotea, before he even gets a chance to meet her. And I don't want him trying to stop me for my own good, or anything like that. And I don't want him to have a heart attack, and that's not a joke.
I will really appreciate anything you can do. I'll leave telling the girls about this up to you. If you don't want to tell them, I'll understand.
Let me know how he reacted. You have the address, Box 1919, National Institutes of Health, Washington, D.C.
Love,
Clete
"It's Mrs. Howell for you, Mr. Howell," Mrs. Portia Stevens announced, putting her head into the door.
Cletus Marcus Howell was standing at the plate-glass window of his twenty-sixth-floor office atop the Howell Petroleum Building, looking out at the traffic on the Mississippi River. Without turning to look at her, he replied, "Please tell her that I'm tied up and will call her later."
Mrs. Stevens, who had been Mr. Howell's personal secretary for thirty-two years and had known Cletus Howell Frade for most of his life, did not feel the slightest reluctance when slicing open the morning's mail to take out and read the letter bearing the return address C.H. Frade, Box 1919, National Institutes of Health, Washington, D. C. She was quite sure she knew why her employer did not wish to talk to his daughter-in-law.
She entered the office, picked up one of the telephones on his desk, walked to the window, and handed it to him.
"I told you to tell her I would call her later."
"So you did," Mrs. Stevens said, and walked out of the office.
"Good morning, Martha," the Old Man said. "How are you? The girls?"
"I just got a letter from Clete," Martha said.
"Did you?"
"And from the tone of your voice, so did you."
"As a matter of fact, I did," the Old Man said.
He walked to his desk, put the telephone base on it, and picked up the letter.
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Midnight, 11/12 April 1943
Dear Grandfather:
I hope you're sitting down when you open this.
In about two weeks, I'm getting married. To Henry Mallin's daughter, Dorot‚a.
That's the bottom line. It's not open for discussion. I'm doing what I think is the right thing, and that's it.
I don't expect you to understand. And I don't want you calling Henry and threatening him. He's about as unhappy about this as you will be when you get this letter, and there's nothing he can do about it either.
I'm telling you because I love you, and figure you have a right to know.
If you haven't already figured this out, you're going to be a great--grandfather.
Somebody told me yesterday that a newborn melts stone hearts. I really hope he's right.
Love,
Clete
"It came special delivery," the Old Man said. "Mrs. Stevens apparently read it, and then laid it on my desk. Cletus has apparently lost his mind. A genetic defect, I suppose, dormant all these years."
"I suppose I should have known you would say something like that."
"What did you expect me to say?"
"I told myself when I put in the call that I wasn't going to get into a fight with you, and I won't. I called because I need something."
"What do you need?
"I called Pan American Airlines and they told me there's a waiting list with three hundred names on it of people who want to fly to Buenos Aires and don't qualify for a government priority."
"Martha, do you think you can talk some sense to him if you go down there?"
"I need three tickets, Marcus, and I don't want to wait my turn on the wait-ing list."
"Who's going with you?"
"Who would you guess?"
"You're not taking the girls down there? Whatever for?"
"So they can see Clete getting married."
"Did he tell you why he feels he has to marry this Argentine female?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He didn't tell you, then. He was too ashamed to tell you." "He told you that she's... in the family way?"
"The way he put it was that I am about to be a great-grandfather," the Old Man said. "I can't believe you would want to humiliate the girls, my grand-daughters, by forcing them to-"
"Not one more goddamned word, Marcus!" Martha flared. "Are you going to get me three tickets or not?"
"And if I don't?"
"Then it will be a cold goddamned day in hell before me, or my daughters, ever talk to you again."
"That sounds like a threat! Nobody threatens me!"
"I just did," Martha said. "Oh, go to hell, you nasty old bastard! I'll get the tickets myself!"
There was a click as the line went dead.
The Old Man hung the telephone up and then stood looking down at it for a long moment.
"Mrs. Stevens," he called, "would you see if you can get Mrs. Howell back for me, please?"
"All right."
"And then see if you can get Juan Trippe on the line for me."
"Where is he?"
"I have no idea. Call Pan American Airways, tell them you're calling for me, and ask."
Two minutes later, Mrs. Stevens reported the telephone at Big Foot Ranch was busy, but that she had a Mr. Walpole at Pan American Airways on the line. The Old Man snatched up the telephone and demanded, "Who's this?"
"Ralph Walpole."
"My name is Cletus Marcus Howell. Does that mean anything to you?"
"We've met, Mr. Howell. Good to hear your voice, Sir."
"I was trying to talk to Mr. Trippe."
"He's not available at the moment, Mr. Howell. Is there any way I can be of service?"
"You're connected with Pan American?"
"Yes, I am," Mr. Walpole said, somewhat stiffly. "As a matter of fact, I hap-pen to be Vice-President, Operations."
"Well, Mr. Walpole, I need four seats on your Buenos Aires flight the day after tomorrow."
"Well, that may be somewhat difficult, Mr. Howell. Those planes are in-variably full."
"I'm not concerned with how difficult it is, Mr. Walpole."
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"Well, let me take your priority information, and I'll be happy to look into it for you, Mr. Howell. I'm sure that something can be worked out, if not-be-ing completely honest with you-as soon as the day after tomorrow."