Empire and Honor (Honor Bound 7) - Page 169
“We will meet you at the hospital, General,” Perón said, and then ordered, “You may land now, Cletus.”
[SIX]
Apartamento 5B
Arenales 1623
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1645 18 October 1945
“Thank God you’re alive!” Señorita Evita Duarte said when Perón let himself into the apartment.
She ran to him and they embraced.
A moment later, she said: “My God, what happened to your face?”
And a moment later: “What are they doing here?”
The latter question was in reference to Don Cletus Frade and Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez. They had followed Perón into the apartment.
“Cletus, I don’t believe you know my fiancée, Señorita Duarte. Darling, this is my godson, Cletus Frade.”
“Actually, we’ve met,” Cletus said, and the moment the words were out of his mouth, he thought, Well, that was fucking stupid, Stupid!
“I don’t think so,” she said icily, offering her cheek to be kissed. “I would remember.”
Oh, but you do remember, don’t you, señorita?
You probably even remember rubbing my crotch when you said you hoped we would meet again.
He smiled at her warmly.
“Whatever you say, señorita.”
“I said,” she flared, “that I have never met you.” Then she turned to Perón. “I asked you, Juan Domingo, what this rude person is doing here.”
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“One,” Perón said icily, “don’t use that tone when talking to me. Two, Cletus is here (a) because I asked him to be here and (b) because he saved my life yesterday. Three, since he is going to play a large part in my life in the future, you had better learn to get along with him.”
“You sonofabitch!” she screamed. “I’m going to make you president!”
Perón slapped her, hard enough to make her stagger backward until she encountered the wall, whereupon she slid down it. She started to cry.
Perón walked to her and stood over her, looking down.
“I don’t know what is bothering you, Evita, and I don’t care. I don’t have time for whatever it is right now. Now, either behave yourself or get the hell out of my apartment!”
He turned away from her, raised his voice, and called, “Rudy!”
“Here, Juan Domingo,” Rodolfo Nulder replied from an inner doorway.
Nulder looks, Clete thought, like a cheap copy of Juan Domingo Perón.
There’s something about him that is the opposite of confidence-inspiring.
Nulder walked to Perón, embraced him, and asked, “Your face?”
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