***
The tea room was emptying quickly as the time drew short for midmorning trysts. Wives and daughters would be lunching in local eateries, but they’d soon return for siesta-time conferences about what they’d wear for the bon voyage parties. The no-longer-swank hotels had contracted with the cruise lines to be gathering places for tourists heading for the Caribbean—many of the boys would go along as cooks and waiters.
But Nicholas Borghese would return to his seaside bungalow and ready himself for his evening callers, the local artists and musicians who dropped by for free food and booze. “Perhaps you’d like to join me tonight, John. I’m giving a soiree at nine-thirtyish. I really should get out of this heat. Miami is only bearable at night.”
“Thank you, no. My wife has committed us to a dinner with the National Geographic crowd.”
“How nice.”
John gave him a harrumph. “Boring as hell. That meeting on the beach wasn’t the end of Olivad’s dealings with Compton though, was it?”
“No, Olivad began caring about the war in Europe when Natalie got pregnant in ’40. Catholics! She was in Paris, for God’s sake. There was an abortionist around the corner from every drug store. Olivad could get into France on his Argentine passport, but getting out with Natalie and three children? He’d need some pull. So he hopped a plane from Hollywood to Washington—he was working as a sound technician on Santa Fe Trail. Anyway, he was useless for Compton’s purposes in Argentina, but he’d learned Spanish and some German while he was there. He bartered his services for help rescuing Natalia and the children. All that radio training he had, I suppose. Lovely as he was, he was still forty and few people remembered him or recognized him if they did.”
They were alone on the balcony now. David-the-waiter was hovering over adjacent tables pretending to be readying them for the dinner crowd. Nicholas slung a bag strap over his shoulder. “Just one more question, Mr. Borghese.” John said. “Where were you all this time?”
“Playing house with Enrique at one of Olivad’s beach cottages in Santa Monica. He owned four, and rented them out to starving artists. That’s where I met Eduardo Gilletto. A wonderful man. Sang while he painted. Drove us all crazy. Naturally, he wanted to paint me—as a stand-in for Olivad who was busy fucking up the Nazis while his contractor built Natalia a fancy house in Bel Air. A five bedroom Spanish with terra cotta tiled roof and three bathrooms she hated. Spent most of her time with Eduardo. We really should go.”
“Please, just one more thing. This Eduardo . . .”
“Natalia’s live-in lover. Oh, didn’t I tell you? Olivad rescued him too.”