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“What—or who—the hell are you babbling about now?”
“The Duchess of Windsor. King Edward the Eighth gave up the throne of England because of his love for her.”
“Oh, yeah,” Clete said, vaguely remembering.
“‘But you must believe me,’” Perón began to quote, “‘when I tell you that I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love.’”
Jesus, I remember that. I heard it on the radio.
“And I cannot lead Argentina into the problems of the rest of this century without the help and support of the woman I love. Eva Duarte.”
“You’re going to marry her?” Clete asked incredulously.
“As soon as it is politically practical.”
“After you become president, you mean?”
The sarcasm went right over Perón’s head.
“Either after I become president, or when I’m sure I will be.”
Jesus H. Christ!
There came a knock at the kitchen door.
Enrico grabbed his shotgun and went to see who it was.
He turned from the door and announced, “It’s Major Habanzo and Captain Garcia.”
“Who?” Clete said, then remembered. They were the BIS officers who had come to the Jockey Club.
“They want to see you, Don Cletus,” Enrico added.
“Tío Juan, you get behind the parrilla,” Clete ordered. “Now. Don’t show yourself.”
Clete went to Enrico and said, “Give me your pistol.”
Ashton had already taken his .45 from his holster and was racking a round into it.
“I knew they’d find me here!” Perón said.
“Shut the hell up!” Clete said in a furious whisper.
When he was satisfied Perón was out of sight, he held Enrico’s .45 behind him and opened the door.
Both officers saluted him.
They don’t look menacing.
“What happened at the airport yesterday?” Clete said.
“Where is el Coronel Perón?” Major Habanzo asked.
“What the hell happened at the airport yesterday?” Clete demanded angrily.
“I am here,” Juan Domingo Perón announced suddenly. “I am not going to hide behind a parrilla.”
Major Habanzo saluted again.
