W Griffin - The outlaws

The driver asked if Roscoe could possibly pay in cash, preferably dollars, explaining that not only did American Express charge ten percent but also took two weeks or a month to pay up. He then showed Roscoe the English language Buenos Aires Herald, on the front page of which was the current exchange rate: one U.S. dollar was worth 3.8 pesos.

"If you give me a one-hundred-dollar bill, I'll give you three hundred and ninety pesos," the remise driver offered.

Roscoe handed him the bill, and the driver counted out three hundred and ninety pesos into his hand, mostly in small bills.

Roscoe then got rid of most of the small bills by counting out two hundred pesos-the agreed-upon price-into the driver's hand. The driver thanked him, shook his hand, and said he hoped el senor would have a good time in Argentina.

Roscoe liked what he saw of the lobby of the Plaza-lots of polished marble and shiny brass-and when he got to reception, a smiling desk clerk told him they had his reservation, and slid a registration card across the marble to him.

On the top of it was printed, WELCOME TO THE MARRIOTT PLAZA HOTEL.

Shit, a Marriott!

Corporate Travel's done it to me again!

Roscoe had hated the Marriott hotel chain since the night he had been asked to leave the bar in the Marriott Hotel next to the Washington Press Club after he complained that it was absurd for the bartender to have shut him off after only four drinks.

At the Plaza, though, he felt a lot better when the bellman took him to his suite. It was very nice, large, and well furnished. And he could see Plaza San Martin from its windows.

He took out the thick wad of pesos the remise driver had given him and decided that generosity now would result in good service later. He did some quick mental math and determined the peso equivalent of ten dollars, which came to thirty-eight pesos, rounded this figure upward, and handed the bellman forty pesos.

The bellman's face did not show much appreciation for his munificence.

Well, fuck you, Pedro! he thought as the bellman went out the door.

Ten bucks is a lot of money for carrying one small suitcase!

Roscoe then shaved, took a shower, and got dressed.

The clock radio beside the bed showed that it was just shy of two o'clock. As he set his wristwatch to the local time, he thought it was entirely likely that the U.S. embassy ran on an eight-to-four schedule, with an hour or so lunch break starting at noon, and with any luck he could see commercial attache Alexander B. Darby as soon as he could get to the embassy.

Miss Eleanor Dillworth had told him that Darby was another CIA Clandestine Service officer, a good guy, and if anybody could point him toward the shadowy and evil Colonel Castillo and his wicked companions, it was Darby.

Roscoe took out his laptop and opened it, intending to search the Internet for the address and telephone number of the U.S. embassy, Buenos Aires.

No sooner had he found the plug to connect with the Internet and had turned on the laptop than its screen flashed LOW BATTERY. He found the power cord and the electrical socket. His male plug did not match the two round holes in the electrical socket.

The concierge said he would send someone right up with an adapter plug.

Roscoe then tipped that bellman twenty pesos, thinking that the equivalent of five bucks was a more than generous reward for bringing an adapter worth no more than a buck.

This bellman, like the last one, did not seem at all overwhelmed by Roscoe's generosity.

Roscoe shook his head as he plugged in the adapter. Ninety seconds later, he had the embassy's address-Avenida Colombia 4300-and its telephone number, both of which he entered into his pocket organizer. "Embassy of the United States."

"Mr. Alexander B. Darby, please."

"There is no one here by that name, sir."

"He's the commercial counselor."

"There's no one here by that name, sir."

"Have you a press officer?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I speak with him, please?"

"It's a her, sir. Ms. Sylvia Grunblatt."

"Connect me with her, please."

"Ms. Grunblatt's line."

"Ms. Grunblatt, please. Roscoe-"

"Ms. Grunblatt's not available at the moment."

"When will she be available?"

"I'm afraid I don't know."

"May I leave a message?"

"Yes, of course."

"Please tell her Mr. Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post is on his way to the embassy, and needs a few minutes of her valuable time. Got that?"

"Will you give it to me again, please? Slower?" [THREE] The Embassy of the United States of America Avenida Colombia 4300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1410 5 February 2007 It was a ten-minute drive from the Plaza Hotel to the American embassy.

The taxicab meter showed that the ride had cost fifteen pesos. Roscoe dug out his wad of pesos, handed the driver a twenty-peso note, and waited for his change.

Five pesos is too much of a tip.

Two pesos ought to be more than enough.

The driver looked at the twenty and then up at Roscoe. When Roscoe didn't respond, the driver waved his fingers in a "give me more" gesture.

Roscoe pointed to the meter.

The cab driver said, "Argentine pesos."

He then pointed to the note Roscoe had given him, and said, "Uruguay pesos."

He then held up his index finger, and went on: "One Argentine peso is"-he held up all his fingers-"five Uruguay pesos. You pay with Uruguay pesos, is one hundred Uruguay pesos."

Roscoe looked at his stack of pesos. They were indeed Uruguayan pesos.

That miserable sonofabitch remise driver screwed me!

He counted the Uruguayan pesos he had left. He didn't have enough to make up the additional eighty pesos the cab driver was demanding.

He took a one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet.

The cab driver examined it very, very carefully, and then first handed Roscoe his twenty-peso Uruguayan note, and then three one-hundred-peso Argentine notes. He stuck the American hundred in his pocket.

Roscoe was still examining the Argentine currency, trying to remember what that sonofabitch remise driver had told him was the exchange rate, when the cab driver took one of the Argentine hundred-peso bills back. He then pointed to the meter, and counted out eighty-five Argentine pesos and laid them in Roscoe's hand.

Roscoe then remembered the exchange rate. It was supposed to be 3.8 Argentine pesos to the dollar, not 3.0.

"Muchas gracias," the cab driver said, and drove off.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Roscoe said as he began walking toward the small building guarding access to the embassy grounds. "My name is Roscoe Danton," he said to the rent-a-cop behind a thick glass window. "I'd like to see Mr. Alexander B. Darby, the commercial counselor."

"You got passport? American passport?" the rent-a-cop asked in a thick accent suggesting that he was not a fellow American.

Roscoe slid his passport through a slot below the window.

The rent-a-cop examined it carefully and then announced, "No Mr. Darby here."

"Then I'd like to see Miss-" What the fuck was her name? "-Miss Rosenblum. The press officer."

"No Miss Rosenblum. We got Miss Grunblatt, public affairs officer."

"Then her, please?"

"What your business with Miss Grunblatt?"

"I'm a journalist, a senior writer of The Washington Times-Post."

"You got papers?"

Have I got papers?

You can bet your fat Argentine ass, Pedro, that I have papers.

One at a time, Roscoe took them from his wallet. First he slid through the opening below the window his Pentagon press pass, then his State Department press pass, and finally-the ne plus ultra of all press credentials-his White House press pass.

They failed to dazzle the rent-a-cop, even after he had studied each intently. But finally he picked up a telephone receiver, spoke briefly into it-Roscoe could not hear what he was saying-and then hung up.