Radio Belgrano? That rings a bell. My father had money in a radio station. Was it Radio Belgrano? Maybe I own Radio Belgrano; every time I turn around, I bump into something else that belonged to el Coronel, Incorporated. That would sure explain how she knew who I am and that I’m getting married.
There was a knock at the door. When Clete opened it, Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was standing there. “Oh, Señor Gonzales,” Clete said. “Please come in.”
Peter walked in, took a quick look at the redhead and the blonde, and then looked at Clete.
“Ladies, may I present Señor Pedro Gonzales, of Madrid?” Clete said. “Pedro, the ladies are Señorita Medina and Señorita Duarte.”
Peter went to each of them and told them he was enchanted. And both of them seemed delighted that Señor Gonzales was not forty-five, bald, and overweight.
“Can I offer you a glass of Champagne, Pedro?” Clete asked.
“I’d like nothing better, but I’m a little pressed for time.”
“We can talk in there,” Clete said, nodding to one of the bedrooms. “But take a glass of Champagne with you.” Clete poured a glass of Champagne, handed it to Peter, and then motioned him ahead of him into the bedroom. “Will you please excuse us, ladies?” he said. “We won’t be long.”
He didn’t close the door. Peter looked at him as if he thought Clete was either drunk or had lost his mind, and went to the door and started to close it.
“Leave it open,” Clete said.
“You want to tell me what’s going on here?” Peter asked.
“If we close the door, the girls will think we’re faggots, and it will be all over Buenos Aires by morning.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Trust me. Enrico set it up. Leave the door open.”
“Jesus Christ!” Peter said, but then the humor got to him. “What the hell, close the door. Give them something to talk about.”
“Fuck you, Fritz!”
“How did you set this up so quickly?”
“I didn’t know about it, but the apartment is mine. Enrico got the concierge to get the girls—”
“Prostitutes?”
“No. Not quite. But with them here, no one will talk about us. Got the picture?”
“OK,” Peter said.
He took Clete’s arm and led him into the bathroom, leaving that door open.
“You told me one time you felt in my debt,” he said.
“What I said was you have a blank check,” Clete said.
“Excuse me? Blank check?”
“If I’ve got it, it’s yours,” Clete said. “Except, of course, for Dorotéa and my toothbrush.”
Judging by his face, Clete sensed that Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein did not understand the humor. “What do you need, my friend?” Clete asked seriously.
“I’m going to Germany in the morning,” Peter said. “I think I will be coming back. I don’t think I’m really under suspicion of telling you about the Océano Pacífico. They don’t think I knew beforehand, in other words.”
“That’s good news.”
“It may be whistling in the dark. I may not come back.”