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“Charley,” Castillo said, and when she finally let go of his hand, he waved, then turned and started walking toward a sign reading PASSENGER LOUNGE.
When he pushed open the door to the passenger lounge— a large room furnished with chrome-and-plastic armchairs and couches, a wall of Coke and snack-dispensing machines, and a table with regular and decaf coffeemakers—a man sitting in an armchair and drinking coffee from a plastic cup called out, loudly,
“Hey, Gringo!”
The man was heavyset, almost massive—it was said he took after his late maternal grandfather—dark-skinned, and dressed in a yellow polo shirt, blue jeans, and well-worn western boots.
It took Castillo a moment to locate the source of the voice, and then, smiling, he walked quickly toward the man, who, with surprising agility for someone of his bulk, came quickly out of the chair.
They embraced. Fernando Manuel Lopez effortlessly lifted Carlos Guillermo Castillo off the floor.
“How the hell are you?” he asked. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Out at the Carolina White House,” Castillo said when he had finally freed himself. “The president needed my advice on foreign policy matters.”
“I would say, ‘Oh, bullshit,’ but I never know when you’re pulling my chain.”
“My boss was out there,” Castillo said. “I was brought along to carry his briefcase and pass the hors d’oeuvres.”
“How long can you stay?” Fernando asked.
“I have to be back in Washington Monday at noon.”
“Oh, Jesus, don’t you ever get any time off?”
“Sure, I do. But . . .”
“I know, wiseass. ‘But I prefer to spend it in the company of naked women.’ Right?”
“That’s cruel, Fernando,” Castillo said with more than a hint of an effeminate lisp. “I can’t believe you think that of me.”
Fernando chuckled.
“If you need to take a leak, Gringo, take it. It’s going to be a little bumpy up there and I don’t want you pissing all over my new toy.”
“What new toy?”
“Take your piss and then I’ll show you. I may even let you steer it for a minute or two.”
“Pretty,” Castillo said several minutes later as he and Fernando walked around a small, sleek, glistening white jet airplane. “What is it?”
“A Learjet . . .”
“I can see that.”
“A Bombardier/Learjet 45XR, to be specific.”
“You said ‘yours’?”
“Ours,” Fernando said.
“You finally got Abuela to get rid of the old Lear?”
“Grandpa loved it,” Fernando said. “She wouldn’t admit that, of course. Until I finally wore her down. It was
the old ‘the wolf’s at the door’ rationale.”
“What did it cost?”
