They were not large cubes.
"Two more, please," Clete said.
Then Alberto took what looked like a silver shot glass with a handle, held it carefully over the glass, filled it with scotch to the brimand perilously over the brimand only then dumped it. Then he picked up the water pitcher and, looking at Clete for orders to stop, added water. When Clete held up his hand, he stopped pouring and stirred the drink with a silver mixing stick.
If I drink all of that, I'll be on my knees.
"Gracias, Alberto."
Alberto repeated the ritual for Enrico Mallin. After Alberto placed the tray on a table and left the room, Mallin raised his glass.
"Welcome to our home, Clete," he said. "And to Argentina. May your visit be long and pleasant."
"Hear, hear," Pamela said.
"Thank you," Clete said, and took a sip. The drink was even stronger than he expected.
You will limit yourself to half of this, Clete, my boy. You had champagne on the airplane, a beer in the hotel, now this; and there is going to be wine for dinner, and you don't want to make an ass of yourself in front of these nice people.
The door opened again.
What now? Hors d'oeuvres?
He turned to see.
"Sorry, Mommy," the Virgin Princess said, "I didn't know you had a guest."
She looked to be about nineteen, as old as his "sister" Beth, and she was standing just inside the doorway. She spoke with Pamela Mallin's delightful British accent. She was wearing tennis clothes: a very brief skirt which showed most of her magnificent legs, a thin white blouse that pleasingly contained her absolutely perfect bosom, white socks, and tennis shoes. She carried two tennis racquets in covers under one arm, and held a red leather bag with the other hand. Her hair was long and light brown (prob ably shoulder length, Clete decided), swept up loosely and quite attractively at the back of her head. She had a wonderful innocence in her look and manner (innocent... but by no means childlike), yet she was confident too. Virgin and Princess.
"Come in, darling," Pamela said, "and say hello to Mr. Frade. He's an old friend of Daddy's; he will be staying with us."
The Virgin Princess crossed the room to her mother, kissed her, crossed to her father, kissed him, and then turned to face Clete. She put out her hand.
"Hello, Mr. Frade. I'm Dorotea," she said, offering him a glowing smile; her complexion was even more lovely than her mother's.
Her hand was warm and soft.
"Clete Frade," he said. His voice sounded strange to him. And his heart was beating strangely, too.
She's just a kid; she is the daughter of your hosts. Control yourself! What's wrong with you, pal, is that you haven't been laid since Christ was a corporal, and you are full of booze. Watch yourself!
"How was the game, querida?" Mallin asked fondly.
"My God, Daddy, it was hot out there! Even at this hour."
"Do you play tennis, Clete?" Pamela asked.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Good, then we'll have a game, Henry plays well, but dragging him onto the courts is like dragging him to the dentist."
"I'd like that."
Ram6n, the chauffeur, appeared in the doorway, holding his cap in his hand.
"I have had the gentleman's luggage sent to his room, Se?or," he reported.
"What happened at customs?" Mallin demanded. "When there was a delay, why didn't you speak with Inspector Nore?"
"I did, Se?or. He said it was out of his hands; it was an Internal Security matter."
Maybe I'm not so paranoid after all,Clete thought. It is entirely possible that that charming Argentinean Consul in New Orleans warned them we were coming. Well, they found nothing. The last thing Adams did before we got on the train to Miami was go through our luggage to make sure there was nothing that could raise questions about us.
Mallin grunted. "And the luggage of the other gentleman?"
"It is at the Alvear Palace, Se?or."
"Thank you, Ramon. Would you ask Alberto to come in, please?" Mallin said, and turned to Clete. "Well, better late than not at all."
"Thank you, Ram?n," Clete said. "And now, if I may be excused?"
"Alberto will show you to your room," Pamela said. "If you need anything, just ring. Should I order dinner for... say, in forty-five minutes?"
"That would be fine with me."
"I'll see you at dinner, Mr. Frade," the Virgin Princess said.
Clete nodded at her but did not trust himself to speak.
Alberto led him to a large, high-ceilinged bedroom. After he left, Clete found proof that the search of his luggage at the terMi?al had been thorough. While Clete was still in the house on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans, Antoinette did his laundry. Specifically, she washed his socks and rolled them in her peculiar manner. He remembered thinking about that when he packed: Antoinette's rolled socks would pass the inspection of even the most critical, nasty-tempered drill instructor at Parris Island. The socks neatly laid out in a drawer in a chest of drawers here were neat, but not Antoinette neat. When they what did Mallin's chauffeur say? "Internal Security"examined his luggage they went so far as to unroll his socks.
Graham had told him that Argentine Internal Security was very good.
Did finding nothing satisfy them? Or just increase their curiosity?
Forty minutes later, after a long hot shower to remove the grime of the flight, and an even longer cold shower to force his libido under control, Clete dressed in a seersucker suit, went down the wide stairs to the foyer, and looked in the sitting room.
Mallin waved him in.
"Feel a little better?" he asked.
"Much better, thank you."
"Another little belt before dinner?" Mallin asked.
"Thank you, no."
"One is usually enough for me, too," Mallin said.
Christ, it should be. There must have been four ounces of scotch in the drink you gave me.
"... and then I usually have a glass of wine for the appetite. May I interest you... ?"
"Thank you," Clete said.
Mallin poured him a glass of a red wine. Clete sipped it. It was very good. He said so.
"They call it Malbec. It... the vines, the cuttings, originally came from France. Bordeaux. This comes from a vineyard in Mendoza Province, near the Andes, in which I have a small interest."
"It's very nice," Clete said.
"There are thoseyour grandfather among them, by the way-who have been kind enough to suggest that Malbec is better than some French Bordeaux. I sent a few cases to him after my visit to your home in New Orleans."
"It's very nice," Clete repeated. "A little cleaner than most French Bordeaux, now that you mention it."
"If you like it, I am pleased," Mallin said.
"Papa?" a young male voice called from the door. Clete turned to see a boy of fourteen, fifteen, blond and fair-skinned, standing in the door. He was wearing short pants, knee-high socks, and a blazer with an embroidered insignia on the pocket.
That's obviously a school uniform,Clete thought. He looks as if he's in the Third Form at St. Mark's, or one of the other St. Grottlesex schools patterned after English public schools. For that matter, he looks as if he's in his second year at Harrow.
"Enrico, come in and greet our guest," Mallin said. "And since this is a special occasion, you may join us in a glass of wine."