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“As we took off from the airfield yesterday, the goddamned Horse Rifles fired machine guns at us. I was struck by a piece of broken window.”
“But you’re all right?” Nulder said.
Perón nodded and went on: “I bled quite a bit. Ruined an almost new uniform. Cletus had to give me a blood transfusion.”
Nulder for the first time acknowledged Frade’s presence.
“Don Cletus,” he said.
What do I call this guy? He’s a cashiered pervert.
My father threatened to kill him if he ever put foot on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo again.
“Mi Coronel” is not an option.
Frade nodded wordlessly at Nulder.
Nulder turned to Juan Domingo and announced: “Fernando Lopez will bleed more when we stand him against a wall!”
“No one is going to stand Fernando Lopez or anyone else against a wall,” Perón said.
“Trying to assassinate the vice president of the Argentine Republic is high treason in anyone’s book, Juan Domingo. You have every right to have him shot. To have every one of the bastards involved shot.”
“Where the hell have you been, Rudy?” Perón flared. “Didn’t you listen to anything I said?”
Nulder didn’t reply.
“This time, pay attention, Rudy, because this is the last time I’m going to tell you. The objective is for me to become president—peacefully, without a single shot being fired or making any more enemies than we already have. And the last thing we want to do is give anyone—our friends or our enemies—any excuse whatever to do anything that could result in civil war.”
He turned and looked at Cletus and announced, “I will now change into a uniform.”
Perón then walked across the room, opened a door next to where Evita was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, her skirt pulled high above her knees, wiping tears from her eyes. He ignored her and went through the door.
He didn’t even look at his beloved Evita, Clete thought.
All of my life I was taught, and believed, that men don’t hit women.
So why didn’t I have the slightest inclination to rush to that poor woman—as I know I should have both, as an Eagle Scout and as a Marine officer—wrap her in my manly arms and tell my Tío Juan if he wanted to belt her again, he’d have to come through me?
Why don’t I have the slightest inclination now to go to her and help her to her feet?
What the hell is happening with me?
All the questions became immediately moot as Evita suddenly leapt to her feet with surprising agility and followed Perón through the door and pushed it closed after her.
If she screams at him again, calls him a sonofabitch again, he’s really liable to hurt her.
He walked quickly to the door.
Maybe just seeing me will be enough, and I won’t have to hit him.
When he opened the door, Clete saw that Evita was in Perón’s arms. She was running her fingers over the bandage on his face and referring to him as her “poor precious darling.”
“I’ll be with you shortly, Cletus,” Perón announced.
Clete hurriedly closed the door and turned.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch” he said, softly but aloud.
