Corporal Bradley looked doubtful, and then on the edge of saying something.
Jesus Christ, he's working up the courage to ask me why Britton can't go buy a charger!
"Bradley, all you have is your pistol. Special Agent Britton has the Madsen and"-to keep you from letting me know you shot Expert with the Madsen-"is generally acknowledged to be the best Madsen marksman in the Secret Service."
"Aye, aye, sir," Corporal Bradley said reluctantly, as he examined the cell phone.
He handed it back to Castillo.
"I'll be as quick as I can, sir," Bradley said, and trotted off toward the elevators.
"Best Madsen marksman in the Secret Service, my ass," Britton chuckled.
"To the best of my knowledge you're the only Madsen marksman in the Secret Service, making you ipso facto its best." Castillo smiled at him and went back into room 677.
The plump nurse had made herself comfortable in a metal folding chair by the window. She had her feet resting on an overturned wastebasket, and was reading a magazine with a picture of the king of Spain on the cover. What looked like a kitchen timer was clicking away on the windowsill.
I guess when that goes off, she goes and checks on Betty.
Castillo went to the bed and looked down at Betty. After a couple of moments, he gently rested the balls of his fingers on Betty's wrist, just above the needle that had been inserted in the back of her hand and was dripping something into her vein. Charley was still there when Corporal Bradley came quietly into the room and offered whispered apologies for having taken so long.
Then Bradley searched the room for a socket into which the cellular charger could be plugged. He found one behind the bedside table, plugged in the charger, and connected it to Castillo's cellular, which chirped encouragingly.
"There you are, sir," he said.
"Good man," Castillo said, and reached for the cellular.
When connected to the cellular, the cord was not long enough for Castillo to use it standing up, or, he immediately learned, even when he was sitting in a folding metal chair.
He sat on the floor next to the bedside table and punched in a long string of numbers from memory.
There was not an immediate answer, and he had just decided it was seven o'clock-supper time-in San Antonio and the kids were making so much noise the phone couldn't be heard, or that the El Patron of the Casa Lopez was watching O'Reilly on Fox and didn't want to be disturbed, when a voice impatiently snarled, "What?"
"Don Fernando?"
"Si."
"This is Don Carlos."
Castillo heard Fernando Lopez, his cousin, exhale in exasperation. Then Fernando said, "I wondered when you were going to check in, Gringo. You're all over television."
"Excuse me?"
" 'Live from our Fox man in Buenos Aires. Long lines of Argentines wait patiently outside the National Cathedral to pay their last respects to J. Winslow Masterson…' "
"Jesus!"
"And since you're el jefe of what's going on down there, we've all been sitting here hoping to catch a glimpse of Uncle Gringo on the tube."
Castillo heard, faintly but clearly, two female voices.
One said, "Don't call him that in front of the children, for God's sake." Castillo recognized the voice as that of Maria, Fernando's wife.
The second said, "Fernando!" in a tone suggesting both annoyance and sadness. Castillo recognized that voice, too. It was that of his-and Fernando's- grandmother, Dona Alicia Castillo.
"As you walk out of the room, Fernando, so Abuela can't hear this conversation, answer this question carefully: Was my name or picture or the phrase 'President's agent' or anything like that on the tube?"
Castillo heard Fernando say, "I can't hear him. I'll go in the library."
A moment later, Fernando said, "Okay."
"Answer the goddamn question."
"No."
"Then how the hell did you know about me being el jefe?"
Fernando hesitated, long enough for Castillo to find the answer to his own question.
"I'm going to burn that bigmouthed sonofabitch a new anal orifice."
"Calm down, Gringo," Fernando said.
"Fuck you, too."
"When you're through with your tantrum, let me know."
"Jesus Christ, he's a federal agent! He should know better than to run off at the mouth!"
"Let's start with why he's in the DEA."
"I don't give a goddamn!"
"Ricardo originally wanted to be an Army aviator. Like the family heroes, Jorge Castillo and his son, Carlos. When he couldn't pass that physical, he was willing to become an ordinary Armor officer, like me. And when he couldn't pass that physical, either, and filled with a noble desire to serve his country, he settled for the DEA. All they wanted was somebody with a college degree who could speak Spanish."
"You seem to know a lot about the sonofabitch."
"Of course I do."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You don't know, do you?" Fernando asked, incredulously.
"Know what, for Christ's sake?"
"If you had more than a passing interest in the family, Carlos, maybe you would."
Fernando only calls me "Carlos" when he's really pissed at me.
"Get to the goddamn point!"
"Abuela is Ricardo's godmother."
"I didn't know that."
"I figured you didn't. And when Ricardo's mother died-he was thirteen at the time. How old were you when your mother died?"
"Twelve."
"Three guesses, Gringo, which really nice old lady who took her godmother vows seriously just about raised Ricardo Solez?"
"I didn't know that," Castillo admitted, softly. "And he didn't say anything."
"So what happened is Abuela called Ricardo-they have this thing, Gringo, called the telephone, which some people use just to say 'Hello, how are you?' and not only when they're in trouble and want something- and he said, 'Hey, Dona Alicia, guess who's el jefe in charge of finding out who killed Jack the Stack and protecting his family?' Or words to that effect. And our Abuela, who really is always running off at the mouth, called me, and said, 'Hey, Fernando, guess who's el jefe…' "
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Which had the whole family sitting in front of the tube hoping to see-what is it Otto calls you?-'the prodigal son' in action."
Castillo didn't reply.
"So what kind of trouble are you in now, Gringo? And how can the family help?"
"You're right," Castillo said.
"Does that mean you agree that you're a sonofabitch or that you're in trouble?"
"Both."
"What kind of trouble, Gringo?" Fernando said. There was now concern in his voice.
"I'm sitting on the floor of a room in the German Hospital. In the bed next to me is Betty Schneider-"
"What? What the hell is she doing in Argentina?"
"Right now, she just came out of the operating room, where they took three nine-millimeter bullets from a Madsen out of her…"
"?Madre de Dios!"
"… one from the leg, one from the jaw, and one from what the doctor euphemistically refers to as 'the groin area.' "
"Is she going to be all right?"
"She's going to live."
"Thank God!"
"Yeah, I did that. At the time Special Agent Schneider suffered her wounds, she was being transported in my car from her place of duty-the Masterson house-to a bar called the Kansas, where her boyfriend was waiting for her. The most likely scenario is that the bastards who whacked Masterson attacked said car in the belief that I was in it. I wasn't, but what the hell, since they were there, they stuck a Madsen through the driver's window, emptied the magazine, and succeeded in blowing away the driver, a really nice, twenty-year-old Marine named Staff Sergeant Roger Markham, by putting two, maybe three, rounds in his head, and getting Betty three times."
"They didn't get the boyfriend?" Fernando asked. "And who the hell is he?"
Castillo didn't reply. After a moment Fernando understood.