“Best friend?” Clete challenged sarcastically. “I find that very hard to believe.”
“He’s your godfather,” Welner said.
“He’s a goddamned Nazi, and you know it.”
“I don’t know that, and neither do you,” Welner argued.
“He’s toeing the Nazi party line,” Clete said. “‘El Coronel was killed by bandits.’ He knows goddamned well the Germans ordered him killed.”
The priest shrugged. There was no point in arguing about that.
Clete chuckled bitterly. “And he’s a dirty old man,” he said. “Who likes little girls. And don’t tell me I don’t know that. I was in the house on Libertador when he brought one in. She was fourteen. Maybe younger.”
“Judge not, lest ye be judged.”
“I don’t want that sonofabitch at my wedding,” Clete said.
“I get back to my original irrefutable argument, Cletus: This is not Texas. Things are different here. If you are wise, you will learn to understand that, and make the necessary adjustments.”
Welner was very much afraid the argument was about to get out of hand—Clete was his father’s son, just as hardheaded—when Enrico came into the room.
“You’re sorry, but the tubing split, right?” Clete challenged.
“The line is back on the car, Señor Clete, and the oil pressure is now correct,” Enrico said.
“El Padre here has invited el Coronel Perón to my wedding,” Clete responded. “I suppose you think that’s a good idea, too?”
“Of course, Señor Clete,” Enrico said, making it clear the question surprised him. “He was your father’s friend. He is your godfather.”
“Jesus!” Clete said, and shook his head in resignation.
But from the tone of Clete’s voice, Welner concluded that the issue of Juan Domingo Perón had been defused. He was relieved. Cletus Frade would have enough trouble in Argentina without insulting Perón.
“I don’t trust that oil line,” Clete went on. “After lunch, we’ll take it for a ride.”
“Sí, Señor,” Enrico said, “I will bring it to the house.” He nodded his head respectfully to the priest and left the room.
[THREE]
Don Cletus Howell Frade, el patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and its 84,205 (more or less) hectares, sat at the head of a table elegantly set for six in a gazebo in the formal English gardens in front of the main house.
At the foot of the table sat his grandfather, Cletus Marcus Howell, a tall, pale, slender, and sharp-featured septuagenarian wearing a gray pin-striped suit. Howell was Chairman of the Board of Howell Petroleum, and of Howell Petroleum (Venezuela). Everyone thought of him, more or less fondly, as “the Old Man.”
Father Welner was sitting to Cletus’s right. Martha Williamson Howell sat across from him, while Martha’s daughters, Marjorie, nineteen, and Elizabeth (Beth), twenty-one, dressed very much like their mother, sat opposite each other. The girls were Cletus’s cousins, but their relationship was that of brother and sisters.
When one of the maids approached the head of the table with a bottle of wine, Cletus turned his wineglass over. The maid moved to Cletus Howell, poured a small amount of wine in his glass, and stepped back to await his judgment. He took a sip, smiled appreciatively, and made a thumbs-up gesture to
the maid, who then walked around the table to fill Mrs. Howell’s glass.
“No wine, Cletus?” the Old Man asked in Spanish, as if surprised.
“Don’t encourage him, Dad,” Martha Howell said, also in Spanish. “I don’t know how much he had before lunch.”
“I’m going to take the Horch for a ride after lunch,” Clete said. “To change the subject. But don’t let me stop you.”
“Oh, I won’t. This isn’t bad,” Howell said, unconsciously switching to English.
“You’ve got it fixed, Clete?” Marjorie asked.