Then he told himself he was being foolish.
It's incredible to think that someone is in the grandstands with a rifle. If there were, they would have taken a shot at me when I drove up in the Horche.
And besides, those Argentine FBI guys the Internal Security agents are outside on the street.
But then he remembered that he didn't see a car on the street when he drove up, and no South American Humphrey Bogart in a trench coat standing under the tree.
I probably lost them when I took the Old Man's Horche from Uncle Humberto's. They are standing around watching for the Buick.
That made him smile. And with the smile, he lost the feeling of terror. He pushed himself off the wall.
You are a melodramatic asshole, Clete Frade!
But, shit, Peter sounded serious. Better safe than sorry.
He walked quickly around the room, turning off the lights. Then he carefully lowered the shutters.
He turned the lights on again.
As 1 learned as a Boy Scout, Be Prepared!
He went to the wardrobe where he was hiding the Argentine copy of the Colt Model 1911 .45 pistol and took it out. He removed the clip, emptied and reloaded it, dry-fired the pistol, satisfied himself that it was functioning properly, and then reinserted the clip and worked the action, chambering a round.
And then he felt a little absurd, again.
"Why don't I do this right?" he asked himself aloud. "If this is going to be a replay of the Gunfight at the OK Corral, why not do it with a Colt six-shooter?"
He went to the desk and took out the felt-lined walnut box containing the old Hog Leg, the Colt Army .44-40 revolver that his grandfather carried while commanding the Husares de Pueyrredon.
You'd be proud of me, Grandpa, sitting here with your Hog-Leg about to defend myself against the Argentine equivalent of the Apaches.
Jesus Christ, it's hot in here with those goddamned blinds closed!
He stood up and walked to the rear of the apartment, where there was a second balcony behind the elevator shaft and the steep stairway. It was barely wide enough for two simple wooden chairs with leather seats and backs. And it offered a far-from-charming view of the service entrances of other housesand to judge from the smell of it, the Buenos Aires version of a privy.
But it was in the open, and there was a small breeze. He started to sit down, but decided a warm beer was better than no beer, and returned to Uncle Guillermo's playroom.
Feeling more than a little sheepish, he turned off the lights, opened one of the vertical blinds, and crept onto the balcony. He took two beers from the ice chest, then crept back inside. He lowered the blind again, then started back toward the other balcony.
The .45 automatic was on the desk, beside the .44-40 Hog Leg.
I should put that away before Se?ora Pellano comes in here with my breakfast and sees it.
Ah, to hell with it. I'll take it with me and put it away before I go to bed.
He went to the rear balcony and laid the pistol on the floor of the balcony. Then he settled himself as comfortably as he could sitting in one of the chairs, resting his booted feet on the other and opened one of the beers.
Warm beer is better than no beer at all.
While he sipped the beer, thoughts of the Virgin Princess passed pleasantly across his mind.
Can I tell her I love her?
Why the hell not, she already said that to me . . . probably.
And she looked at me out of those beautiful eyes and pursed her lips in a kiss....
Jesus Christ, I'd give my left nut to put my arms around her and kiss her!
He heard the sound of feet on the stone stairs.
What the hell is that?
A cat or something? Rats?
What the hell is it?
He carefully lowered his booted feet to the floor and stood up. He had left the door to the rear balcony slightly ajar. He approached it, put his hand on the knob, and started to open it. Then he changed his mind, dropped to his knees, and felt around the floor until his fingers touched the Argentine .45.
He went back to the door. He heard feet on the stone stairs again, then his heart jumped as he realized someone was coming up the stairs.
No. Someone is already on the top floor; and somebody else is coming up the stairs. And it goddamned sure isn't Se?ora Pellano. Then who the hell is it?
He smelled a man.
A man who hasn't had a bath in a long time. Smells like an infantry Marine from the 'Canal.
The second man walked toward Uncle Guillermo's playroom.
What the hell do I do now?
Clete eased the door open. Walking on his tiptoes, he left the balcony and walked toward the playroom.
It was absolutely dark inside.
He found the light switch, closed his eyes, and turned the lights on.
He opened his eyes. In the time it took them to adjust to the sudden glare, he saw two men.
What the hell is he doing next to my bed?
The second man was closer, shielding his eyes. He held a long, curved knife. When he saw Clete, he brought the arm holding the knife up across his chest, so he could slash at Clete when he moved in.
The man next to Clete's bed turnedhe had an even larger knifeand assumed a crouching position.
Clete glanced at the closer man, in time to see him start to rush at him.
Did I chamber a round in this thing?
The .45 kicked in his hand, and then again and again. The noise was deafening.
The man rushing him staggered, with a look of surprise on his face. He fell to the ground. The back of his head was a horrible, bloody mess, shattered like a watermelon.
Where the hell did I hit him? In the mouth? I had to; there's no other mark on his face.
The other man was now rushing at him with his knife held high over his shoulders.
The .45 bucked again and again and again and again. The man rushing him started to fall.
Clete pulled the trigger again. The pistol didn't fire. He checked it. The slide was locked in the rear position. He had emptied the magazine.
The man he had just hit was now screaming in agony, holding his right leg with both hands.
Jesus Christ, when Se?ora Pellano hears all this noise, she'll be terrified!
Se?ora Pellano! How did these bastards get past her?
He looked at the man screaming in pain. The way his leg was bent, it was clearly broken. Blood covered the man's hands.
I shot at him four times and only hit him once, in the lower leg?
He walked to him, kicked his knife across the room, then went to the desk. He picked up a loaded .45 magazine, ejected the empty one in the pistol, loaded the fresh one, and let the slide go forward.
He went to the stairs and started down them.
There were no lights.
He went down carefully, rubbing his back against the wall, desperately hoping he wouldn't fall.
He reached the first floor and found the handle to the kitchen door.
He raised the pistol and pushed the door open. The kitchen, too, was dark. He felt around for the switch, found it, and snapped on the lights.
Se?ora Pellano, in a black bathrobe, was sitting at the kitchen table. Her eyes were open and her head was thrown back.
Her throat had been cut. Through the gaping wound he could see bone and her slashed throat. Blood soaked her bathrobe and dripped onto the floor.