"I got a sister in Milwaukee," he said. "Once a month, like, I drop her a note. Send her a couple of bucks. She's married to a bum."
"How?"
"Through the Embassy. They put a pouch-you know this-on all the Pan American flights. You just write your name and serial number and 'free' where the stamp is supposed to go on the envelope, and that's it."
"I'm no longer in the service...."
"Yeah, so you keep saying."
"Would you put your name and serial number on a couple of letters and get them in the mail for me?"
"Sure. You got 'em?"
"I'm going to have to write them. Is Tony still out there?"
"He said he would stick around in case you wanted to say something about it when you got this."
"Then he's going back to Buenos Aires?"
"Right."
"Make sure Ettinger does not go to Buenos Aires, Chief. If you have to chain him to a tree. He's a good man, but he hasn't quite grasped the idea that an order is an order. He ignores those he doesn't like."
"Well, Mr. Frade-" the Chief interrupted himself. "I was about to say he's got a personal interest in this war we don't have. But now you've got one too, don't you?"
"Ettinger told you about his family?"
"His family, and a lot more. I hate to admit it, but before I got to know Dave, I thought all this business about the shit the Nazis are doing was propa-ganda bullshit-the concentration camps, putting people in rooms and gassing them, just because they're Jews. You know, like in World War One, they said the Germans were bayoneting babies in Belgium."
"It's not bullshit. What they do is so bad your mind doesn't want to accept it. And when it hits you personally... I understand Dave, Chief. But I can't permit him to wage a private war. For one thing, we can't afford to lose him. You keep him out here until you personally get the word otherwise from me."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Have another little taste, Chief. This won't take long. And tell Mr. Pelosi to make sure they go out with tomorrow's pouch."
He sat down at the venerable Underwood with the Spanish keyboard, rolled a piece of paper into it, and started to type.
Clete walked Chief Schultz through the house and out to where he had parked his Model A on the drive.
"I thought maybe you would have learned t
o ride while I was gone," Clete said.
"Don't hold your fucking breath, Mr. Frade," Chief Schultz said. "Horses is dangerous."
He put the car in gear and drove off.
Clete walked back to his apartment. There was an untouched cognac snifter on the desk in the sitting.
Well, it's done now. In three, four days the Old Man'll have that letter, and what will happen will happen.
He picked up the snifter and drained it, then pushed open the door to his bedroom.
Just enough light was coming through the open window to make out the bed, so he didn't turn on the light.
He sat down at the bed and grunted as he pulled off the boots.
/ wonder what happened? The goddamned things weren't so tight when I first put them on. But then I couldn't walk. Did I have that much to drink? Or was it the charming company?