He was still studying the picture. “You think he’s sexy?”
“Ask me after I’ve eaten. Right now, I only have eyes for food.”
***
Half a mile down the beach, the Hotel Excelsior’s orchestra began playing Begin the Beguine, and Compton paused. It was written for nights like this. The palms cast their shadows on silky sand that tickled his toes as he walked, and the street lamps that lined the pier fought back a deep blue sky. It was difficult to talk of war.
Ten paces ahead of him, Olivad stopped too and returned to the man he was told represented MGM, the man who spoke to him of unpleasant memories and a camp named Mathausen. “That’s not a borrowed Bentley Embricos I drive, Compton. Most of my friends are rich and I want to keep them as friends.”
“Of course you do. But Argentina was neutral in the last war. Will the sentiment hold in the next one? All we’re asking is that you do what you do best. Sing, dance, and listen to gossip, rumors . . .”
“And report to you.”
“Exactly.”
Olivad took off his linen sport coat and laid it on the sand like a picnic blanket. He’d already shed his sandals and rolled up his pants. It was no way to treat expensive clothing, or cheap clothing if it was all you had, but Compton did as the Roman did, placing his jacket two feet away. “You know why I fought in the war? I didn’t have a job and I knew some French. I learned how to operate a radio, shoot a gun, and put on a gas mask in three seconds.”
“Nobody’s gonnna use gas this go ‘round, Borghese, but the cannons will be bigger and the tanks deadlier. Relaying gossip seems a safe job. By the way, have you heard that Italy has passed its own version of the Nuremburg Laws?”
“And Your government has begun an Un-American Activities Committee that’ll snare a few Jews. Hollywood is full of them.” Olivad grabbed his sandals and jacket. “Give my regards to Uncle Sam Goldwyn, Mr. Compton.”
***