“You would and you are, Señor Clete,” Enrico said very sadly.
“I don’t know if I should tell you this or not. I’m afraid it will hurt your feelings,” Clete said to Enrico as they turned onto Avenida Alvear in the Buick convertible.
“Tell me what, Señor?”
“You forgot your shotgun.”
“Reach under the seat and see for yourself, Señor Clete.”
Clete put his hand under the seat and encountered the barrel of a shotgun.
“There is more than one shotgun,” Enrico said. “I leave one there, and another in the Horch. And I always have a pistol.”
“I apologize profusely, Enrico.”
“You are very much like your father, Señor Clete. He was always making fun of me too.”
Clete didn’t reply.
“When I was a very young soldier, and away from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for the first time—we were stationed in Entre Rios province with the 2nd Cavalry—it was very painful for me. When I told Mariana Maria Delores—may she be resting in peace with all the angels—who was then your grandmother’s—may she be resting in peace—personal maid, she told me that if your father didn’t love me, he would not tease me.”
“I’m sure that was true.”
“And is that why you make fun of me?”
“Yes, it is,” Clete said.
“I have come to love you as I loved your father, Señor Clete. It is good that you love me too.”
“I am honored to have your love, Enrico.”
“We will say no more,” Enrico said.
Clete pulled the Buick off Avenida Alvear into the small, curving driveway under the first floor of the hotel and stopped. He left the engine running, because he knew that a bellman would come quickly to take the car to the garage; there was space for only three cars in the drive.
Enrico reached over and snatched the keys from the ignition.
“How are they going to park the car if you have the keys?” Clete asked.
“We do not allow them to park our cars, Señor Clete,” Enrico said. “I will park it myself shortly.” He gestured toward the revolving door, where a silk-hatted doorman was prepared to turn it for them.
Jorge-the-concierge, who was fiftyish and bald, came from behind his desk as they entered the lobby. The symbol of his office, a large gold key on a gold chain, hung from around his neck and rested on his ample stomach. He offered his hand to Clete. “How nice to see you again, Señor Frade,” he said.
Clete, who could not remember ever seeing the man before, said: “And it’s nice to see you, Jorge.”
“We will go to the apartment, Jorge,” Enrico announced.
“Of course,” Jorge said. He snapped his fingers—it sounded like a pistol shot—and when he had the instant attention of one of the bellmen standing against the wall, motioned for him to take his position at the concierge’s desk. Then he bowed Clete ahead of him toward the bank of elevators.
They rode to the fifth floor.
“To the right, Señor Clete,” Enrico said softly, and then, a moment after Clete had started walking down the corridor, added: “There, Señor Clete.”
A waiter was rolling a cart out of an open door.
“Buenas noches, Señor Frade,” the waiter said as Clete waited for him to clear the door.
“Buenas noches,” Clete said, and went through the door.