Enrico returned carrying a gray box printed with the legend Sulka et Cie, Rue de Castiglione, Paris.
“Oh, my God!” Perón said. “If that’s what I think it is!”
“What would that be?” Frade asked.
He took another swallow of the wine.
I’m about to get fed, why not?
“You were with us, Suboficial Mayor,” Perón said. “Remember?”
“I remember, mi Coronel,” the old soldier said.
“We had time off—I forget why—from the Kriegsschule and your father took me and Eduardo Ramos to Paris,” Perón recalled emotionally. “We stayed at the Hotel Continental. We had lunch, with a good deal of wine. No. Now that I think of it, your father was drinking cognac and water—the French call it ‘fin de l’eau,’ which means ‘the end of water.’ And after lunch we went across the street to Sulka, where your father bought shirts . . .”
“There’s still boxes of them in the wardrobe,” Enrico furnished.
“. . . and then he saw the robe,” Perón finished.
Enrico opened the box. He held up what Clete realized was a “dressing robe” rather than a bathrobe. It was of padded blue silk with a white collar and lapels.
“That’s it,” Perón said. “And your father said, ‘I’ll take all you have. Send them over to the hotel.’ Your father was like that, Cletus. Generous to a fault. I always thought he was going to give one to Eduardo and me, but that didn’t happen. . . .
“But now he has! He’s given me not only the robe, but his son, as well!”
Oh, shit! Frade thought, looking over the rim of his wineglass as he sipped.
Enrico held out the robe for Perón to put it on.
“There’s a mirror in there,” Perón said, pointing, and then marched out of the kitchen toward the apartment.
Enrico asked permission with his eyes, and when Clete nodded, Enrico followed Perón.
The cook put a plate before Clete. It held the large bife de chorizo, now covered with four sunny-side-up eggs, and a pile of what he thought of as “home-fried” potatoes.
Clete looked up from his breakfast as Tío Juan came back in the kitchen wearing the robe.
Even with that bandage on his face, he is a good-looking sonofabitch.
He looks like someone in charge, someone who can be trusted.
Unless you know him well, in which case you know not to trust him half as far as you can throw him.
“Sit down and have some breakfast,” Clete said, as he dipped a piece of potato in an egg yolk.
“That was my intention, Cletus,” Perón said, his tone making it clear he didn’t like being told what to do. “And I believe I will have a taste of the wine.”
—
As the wine had had a near-immediate effect on Clete, so did the steak and eggs.
He really thought he could feel strength come back into his body.
Christ, how much of my blood did Mother Superior pump out of me and into my Tío Juan?
Or is it just the wine making me feel better?
That seems logical.