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Jimmy tossed the jacket on a red leather upholstered bolster in the center of the room, unbuttoned his Ike jacket, and tossed that on the bolster. Then he slipped out of his shoulder holster.

“What’s that for?” Marjorie asked.

Jimmy hadn’t seen her come into the room.

“He needs it, Squirt,” Clete said. “Leave it at that.”

“Needs it for what? And don’t call me Squirt.”

“Why does he need it, Cletus?” Martha asked.

“If he needs a gun, what about you?” Marjorie challenged. “I don’t see you wearing a shoulder holster like Edward G. Robinson in a gangster movie.”

“She used to be such a sweet little girl,” Clete said.

“Answer her question,” Martha said. “And my questions. It’s time for that.”

“I don’t usually carry a pistol because Enrico and his riot gun are ten steps away ninety percent of the time. And because Dorotea carries a revolver in her purse. And because . . .”

He pushed aside the suits hanging close to the door and pulled out a Thompson submachine gun.

“Okay?”

“Tell me about this General Gehlen,” Martha said.

“Shouldn’t we get Beth in here?” Marjorie asked. “Shouldn’t she hear this, too?”

“Not necessary,” Clete said. “Karl has already told her.”

“You told Beth—or told Karl he could tell Beth—and didn’t tell me?” Martha asked.

“I told Karl he could tell Beth because I knew he would anyway,” Clete said. “If you haven’t noticed, they’re pretty close.”

Martha ignored the sarcasm.

“And didn’t tell me?” Martha pursued.

Clete didn’t reply directly.

“Jimmy, pick out enough clothing for a week,” he ordered. “Shoes, socks, shirts, ties—everything. Take it all in the dressing room”—he pointed to a door—?

??and try it on. Try everything on. And after you’ve done that, put on one set of civvies and put the rest on that”—he pointed to the bolster—“and I’ll rustle up a valise for it.”

“Am I going somewhere?”

Again, Clete didn’t reply directly. “And, while you’re doing that, I’ll explain to the ladies what’s going on.”

He jerked his thumb in a get moving gesture.

[SIX]

Jimmy backed out of the dressing room into the wardrobe, his arms full of his new clothing. He was wearing some of it, the tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, a white dress shirt, a striped silk tie, gray flannel trousers, and a pair of what looked like new loafers. The shoes had surprised him—he’d thought loafers were purely American. These, which had belonged to Clete’s Argentine father, were English. Stamped on the leather inside was Joseph Cheaney & Sons London.

All the clothing—even the shirt and shoes—almost fit, which also had surprised him. It was a little loose, but it fit. To judge by that, Clete was only slightly larger than he was, which was a little surprising as he had always thought of Clete as being “bigger.”

He dropped the armful of clothing on the bolster and turned around. Mrs. Howell and Clete were no longer in the wardrobe.

But Marjorie was. She was holding the Thompson submachine gun.