He said it like it was that yellow-bellied groundhog, the marmot.
But it’s built like a French manor, and pronounced, Chateau Mah-MO.
What in hell are we doing here?
Frade said, “What exactly has to be cleared up?”
“I told you that, too, Mr. Frade. For these gentlemen, why they have no visas.”
“And I told you, they’re aircrew, they don’t need visas.”
“And you were told, Mr. Frade,” the Border Patrol captain went on, his voice suggesting he was about to lose his patience, “that for our purposes, aircrew are people actually involved in flying the airplane. Being able to fly the airplane doesn’t count.” He paused. “And in your case, Mr. Frade, you have to clear up why you don’t have a draft card, or a certificate of discharge from the Armed Forces, and why your passport doesn’t show when you left the United States. For all we know, you could have sneaked out of the U.S., probably via Mexico, and gone to Argentina to dodge the draft.”
“Wait a damn minute . . .” Frade began, then stopped himself.
I’m screwed. . . .
I didn’t get my American passport stamped because I went down there on my Argentine passport.
But I can’t tell you that because that would open the dual-citizenship can of worms.
And I don’t have a draft card or a discharge because I am a serving officer of the U.S. Marine Corps.
But I can’t tell you that, either, because Delgano and the other SAA pilots would hear me. And even if I did say it, you’d probably never look past this long-haired Argentine haircut that my wife so loves—and the last damn thing a Marine would have.
And then there’s my OSS area commander’s badge. I can’t show you it because (a) you probably wouldn’t know what the hell it was and (b) I don’t want Delgano or anyone else to see it.
So, all things considered, Clete ol’ boy, what you should do is just keep your mouth shut until you can get on a telephone and call Colonel Graham.
If you weren’t so goddamned tired, you would have thought of that before you got into an argument with this guy.
The Border Patrol captain looked at Frade, waiting for him to go on.
“Do whatever it is you were about to do,” Frade said.
“May I have your attention, please, gentlemen?” the Border Patrol captain said, raising his voice. “If you’ll gather around me, please?”
He waited until they had done so, then said: “This is the Chateau Marmont Hotel, where for the next day or two you’ll be housed as the guests of the Lockheed Aircraft Company. You are not permitted to leave the hotel grounds, and you are not permitted to use the telephone or send a telegram or a letter. You will not be permitted visitors. If you violate any of these simple rules, you will lose your status as ‘detainees’ and be arrested, handcuffed, and taken to the Los Angeles County Jail for illegal crossing of the United States border.
“My advice, gentlemen, is to enjoy Lockheed’s hospitality until your status can be cleared up. If you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about. Welcome to Los Angeles and the United States.”
He waved them toward a wide, shallow, curving flight of stairs that apparently led to the hotel’s interior.
[FOUR]
The room to which Frade was taken was more like a small apartment—a real apartment, he thought, not a hotel apartment. It had a comfortable bedroom, a complete kitchen with a full-size refrigerator and gas stove, a dining table that could easily seat six, and a large, well-furnished living room—which made him wonder what the Chateau Marmont was really all about.
The refrigerator held a half-dozen bottles of beer, and he grabbed one by the neck, opened it, and took a healthy swallow. Then he sat at the table.
He realized that he was really exhausted and that that had caused him to almost lose his temper. Twice. Once, about being “detained,” and, the second time, when the customs officer had made the crack about him possibly being a draft dodger.
Well, I didn’t, thank God.
And I got everybody here from Buenos Aires.
So, after I finish this beer, I’ll grab a shower, then get in the rack, and when I wake up, I’ll be full of piss and vinegar and able to decide rationally what to do next.
I’m not really in trouble. And my ace-in-the-hole is Graham. I’d call him now if I wasn’t convinced the Border Patrol hadn’t cut off the phones.