Roscoe then got rid of most of the small bills by counting out two hundred pesos—the agreed-upon price—into the driver’s hand. The driver thanked him, shook his hand, and said he hoped el señor would have a good time in Argentina.
Roscoe liked what he saw of the lobby of the Plaza—lots of polished marble and shiny brass—and when he got to reception, a smiling desk clerk told him they had his reservation, and slid a registration card across the marble to him.
On the top of it was printed, WELCOME TO THE MARRIOTT PLAZA HOTEL.
Shit, a Marriott!
Corporate Travel’s done it to me again!
Roscoe had hated the Marriott hotel chain since the night he had been asked to leave the bar in the Marriott Hotel next to the Washington Press Club after he complained that it was absurd for the bartender to have shut him off after only four drinks.
At the Plaza, though, he felt a lot better when the bellman took him to his suite. It was very nice, large, and well furnished. And he could see Plaza San Martín from its windows.
He took out the thick wad of pesos the remise driver had given him and decided that generosity now would result in good service later. He did some quick mental math and determined the peso equivalent of ten dollars, which came to thirty-eight pesos, rounded this figure upward, and handed the bellman forty pesos.
The bellman’s face did not show much appreciation for his munificence.
Well, fuck you, Pedro! he thought as the bellman went out the door.
Ten bucks is a lot of money for carrying one small suitcase!
Roscoe then shaved, took a shower, and got dressed.
The clock radio beside the bed showed that it was just shy of two o’clock. As he set his wristwatch to the local time, he thought it was entirely likely that the U.S. embassy ran on an eight-to-four schedule, with an hour or so lunch break starting at noon, and with any luck he could see commercial attaché Alexander B. Darby as soon as he could get to the embassy.
Miss Eleanor Dillworth had told him that Darby was another CIA Clandestine Service officer, a good guy, and if anybody could point him toward the shadowy and evil Colonel Castillo and his wicked companions, it was Darby.
Roscoe took out his laptop and opened it, intending to search the Internet for the address and telephone number of the U.S. embassy, Buenos Aires.
No sooner had he found the plug to connect with the Internet and had turned on the laptop than its screen flashed LOW BATTERY. He found the power cord and the electrical socket. His male plug did not match the two round holes in the electrical socket.
The concierge said he would send someone right up with an adapter plug.
Roscoe then tipped that bellman twenty pesos, thinking that the equivalent of five bucks was a more than generous reward for bringing an adapter worth no more than a buck.
This bellman, like the last one, did not seem at all overwhelmed by Roscoe’s generosity.
Roscoe shook his head as he plugged in the adapter. Ninety seconds later, he had the embassy’s address—Avenida Colombia 4300—and its telephone number, both of which he entered into his pocket organizer.
“Embassy of the United States.”
“Mr. Alexander B. Darby, please.”
“There is no one here by that name, sir.”
“He’s the commercial counselor.”
“There’s no one here by that name, sir.”
“Have you a press officer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I speak with him, please?”
“It’s a her, sir. Ms. Sylvia Grunblatt.”
“Connect me with her, please.”