***
Col. Gerald Compton read Borghese’s dossier and knew the thirty-eight year old Director of Art and Culture was his man. High profile. Apolitical. Still wildly popular in elite circles although his mentor, Carlos Gaudel, had died in ’35. “Borghese would be an asset if the rumor about Argentina’s planned neutrality was accurate,” he said.
“True,” General Mott agreed, “if war breaks out. It’s a mighty big if.”
“Churchill says Chamberlain just postponed the inevitable by giving Hitler the Sudetenland. “
“And you agree with the old Cassandra?”
“The Czechs agree with him. Do you really believe Hitler’s going to be satisfied with carving up their country and annexing Austria?”
Mott gave his protégé a pat on the shoulder. “Let’s not have a war in the officer corps. What makes you think Borghese will bat for our team? There’re as many Germans in Buenos Aires as there are in Berlin.”
Compton handed him a copy of Borghese’s immigration application dated 12 August 1920. “America was his first choice.”
“Then what’s he doing in Argentina?
“Because bureaucrats can’t read the future. Borghese had no trade, education, family connections, no money and no sponsor. Eighteen years later he’s rich and famous. He may forgive us. My sources tell me he’ll be in Miami talking to Porter Weiss from Warner Brothers.”
Mott put a pencil sideways between his teeth and clapped his hands twice in the air. “You think Hollywood needs another Lain Lover?”
“Valentino’s dead, Navarro was homosexual, and Lamas can’t sing and dance worth a damn. Why not?”
***
At 7:30 Jocelyn pulled into the parking lot of her Normal Heights apartment, suddenly hungry for Trey’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Purse over one shoulder and picture case in hand, she climbed the stairs on tip-toe. If the Lopez’s dog heard her, his howling would set the neighbors squabbling. She slid inside the door, catching naked Trey heading to the bedroom with a spoon and a pint of pistachio ice cream. “What’ya got?” he said.