Twenty-Eight

The waiter arrived holding out a tray of mini empanadas, stuffed mushrooms, and cheese puffs. Hollis was tempted to take the whole tray, but she took only what would fit on a small napkin.

“We barely had lunch,” she explained.

The waiter smiled, then moved toward the front. Hollis decided to follow. Carlos was hugging Silva, keeping him from the large scotch he’d poured for himself.

“Silva and I began in the streets together,” Carlos told Hollis and Finn. “I had the ambition, he had the talent for theft. Brains and brawn. We were a great team.”

Better to be clever than strong. Silva had said that on the plane. Obviously, he felt Carlos had gotten the better end of their partnership.

Silva finished his drink, despite the hug. Once free, he poured himself another and drank it in one gulp. “Do you remember the time we stole an Emilio Pettoruti from the gallery moments after it sold?”

Carlos laughed. “There was a huge argument between the gallery owner and the man who had bought the painting as to who should take the loss. I stood there watching while my friend here loaded the painting in his car.”

“Pettoruti was a cubist, wasn’t he?” Finn asked.

“A man of considerable knowledge,” Carlos said. “Far more than I expected from someone of your … other talents, Señor McCabe. I’ll tell you about that painting. It was so hot, I had it in my apartment for five years before I could move it.”

“It hung in your dining room,” Silva said. “I missed it when it was gone.”

“Me too. But the money helped me get over it.”

“You did make a killing,” Silva said.

“Just the beginning.”

Silva curled his mouth into a pained smile. “I missed some of those good times when I was away.”

Carlos nodded. “You’re here now. And times are good.” He poured Silva a third scotch.

“Things have gotten easier since globalization,” Finn offered. “No need to sit on specialized goods. There is always someone half a world away who will pay.”

“But there is another price we must pay.” Carlos turned to Finn and Hollis. “It becomes harder to fulfill expectations when they get so high. That is why I’m so grateful for your help in procuring the item.”

Silva drank, but slower this time.

The door opened, and a woman slid in wearing an exquisite red silk chemise, cut to skim her tall slim body the way a dress from the jazz age might have done. Hollis recognized her immediately as the woman from the museum who’d directed them to the cemetery—to Declan. The woman looked over at Hollis and smiled. “I’m his wife,” she said, nodding toward Carlos. “You must be Mrs. McCabe.”

“Yes. Nice to meet you.”

“Teresa, finally, you’re here,” Carlos said.

He kissed her cheek, more ownership than affection. For her part, she made no pretense to enjoy it. There were May–December marriages, and Hollis tried not to judge, but Carlos was old enough to be Teresa’s grandfather.

Teresa grabbed two glasses of champagne, drinking one in a gulp. “I see you’ve invited your old friend,” she said, glaring at Silva.

“He is always welcome,” Carlos told her.

Teresa turned to Hollis. “Did you enjoy the clothes I picked out?”

“You picked them?”

“I was given instructions to help you fit in.”

“They’re gorgeous.”

“The dress fits you well,” she said.

“It does,” Carlos agreed. “I told my wife to spare no expense, and clearly—probably for the first time since I proposed—she heeded my instructions.”

Teresa ignored him. “Have you seen any of the city?”

“The Recoleta Cemetery,” Hollis said to let her know that they had figured out her clue at the museum. There was no point in lying about it anyway. Bryan had followed them there. She wondered if she should mention the museum, but she left it up to Teresa.

“I hope you see more,” Teresa said. “Carlos and I met at a milonga, a club to dance the tango, but there are so many other things to see and do in the city.”

“The pink house,” Silva suggested.

“Yes, our president’s home,” she agreed. “It’s where Evita did her famous goodbye speech.”

Silva began to sing the lyrics to “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” off-key. It was obvious he was no longer sober.

Teresa gritted her teeth. No love lost there. “And of course, everyone goes to La Boca. It’s a tourist trap, but a colorful one. Promise me tomorrow you’ll make the time.”

“La Boca is overpriced, and you have to watch your pockets,” Carlos said. “Go to El Ateneo Grand Bookstore. It used to be a movie theater. Tim, you will fall in love.”

“Tomorrow is a busy day,” Silva said.

“Monday is busier.” Carlos cut him off. “So much to see. But first we should have some wine, some food, and some entertainment.”

Hollis sat beside Finn at one of the tables and touched his thigh under the table. “Okay?” she whispered.

“So far. He’s a very entertaining man.”

“That makes me nervous.”

“Me too.”

A trio of musicians set up in the corner—a woman playing cello and two men, one with an acoustic guitar, the other with an accordion. The music started slow and sad but grew faster and more insistent as the piece went on. Carlos stood at the bar watching them intently, his head moving to the music. Teresa sat on a barstool near him, obviously bored, or at least doing a good imitation of the arm candy turned resentful spouse. Silva sat alone at a table watching Carlos. The gunmen had their backs to the musicians and their eyes on everyone in the room.

It was an odd party.