CHAPTER SIX

      Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires

      January 10, 1962

      AMAGUE

      From amago, meaning threat. An embellishment done on one’s own before taking a step.

      “I hate this movie,” Pagan said.

      She and Mercedes had changed into cotton frocks and were walking down the grand avenue to end all grand avenues in Buenos Aires. Pagan had returned from the wardrobe fittings in a baleful mood, and at Mercedes’s request, Carlos had dropped them off in front of the Casa Rosada, or “Pink House,” where the presidents of Argentina lived and worked. The casa was indeed as pink as the desert hills outside Los Angeles, squatting like a sun-baked birthday cake at the eastern end of the plaza. This was where Eva Perón and many others had spoken to assembled crowds from the balcony. Now, beside the yellowing grass and weary jets of the water fountains, tourists wandered, and women in sensible shoes supervised tours of shuffling schoolchildren.

      Mercedes kept consulting her guidebook, telling Pagan the history of each statue and plaque in an eager voice that was cute for the first fifteen minutes. After that Pagan tuned her out and tried to enjoy the sunshine until Mercedes finally asked how the wardrobe tests had gone. The whole story about her first rehearsal with Tony and what she learned about Victor the director at the fitting today came pouring out.

      “I almost feel guilty about kicking that snake Tony that first day,” Pagan said. “I was so angry, but at least he’s behaved since then. What is it?”

      Mercedes had stopped by the ubiquitous statue of some guy on a horse in front of the Casa Rosada and was staring up at the huge baby-pink arch over the entrance. “There’s a museum inside,” she said, and smiled at Pagan.

      Oh, God, Mercedes and her eternal thirst for knowledge. It made Pagan feel positively stupid sometimes. She should go to more museums probably, to fill up all the empty places in her brain. But right now she was too restless and discontented to stand in front of display cases listening to M drone on about political movements and population growth.

      “Maybe some other time, if that’s okay.” Pagan took a few steps away from Casa Rosada, trying to pull Mercedes away from it. “I’m starving. Where’s that café you wanted to go to?”

      “Down the street that way.” Mercedes pointed toward a tall white, elongated, pyramid-type monument with a small Statue of Liberty on top. “We could eat soon, but I might not get a chance to come back here...”

      “You can come back while I’m on set. Time to eat.” Pagan turned decisively and walked toward the pyramid thing.

      Education and history were important and all, but...you know what? No. To hell with them. To hell with books and museums and, most of all, to hell with Devin Black. What was she doing here, ruining her career in a terrible film, putting up with handsy jackass costars and rendered immobile in ugly outfits for a guy who didn’t bother to show up?

      Through the heat of the day, a tantalizing mirage of a glass filled with ice, rum and lime swam into her view. She was more of a vodka-martini girl normally, but when the weather was warm, her thoughts turned to rum.

      Mercedes caught up to her silently, a line between her brows, and they moved in silence through the plaza, keeping to the shade of the leafy green trees. The strain between them tightened like a guitar string being tuned too high.

      The huge, open square narrowed to a broad, busy avenue lined with tall, European-style buildings and bustling with sharply dressed pedestrians. The warm summer air was filled with dust, and the scent of grilled meat wafted out of the restaurants and cafés as they passed.

      Pagan’s stomach growled. She really was hungry. And cranky.

      A cranky, hungry alcoholic. That pretty much made her the worst person in the world.

      “God, I want a drink,” she said. “I just... Holy hell, M. I’m ready to jump that street vendor for a beer.”

      Mercedes’s face cleared. “Yeah,” she said. “Sorry.”

      “No, I’m sorry,” Pagan said. “I do think food will help, though. Just don’t let me order a rum and Coke.”

      “We’ll eat soon,” Mercedes said. “It’s not far. And don’t feel guilty. About Tony.”

      Dang, M was savvy, changing the subject from drinking to the crap underlying her need to drink. Pagan’s shrink had told her that while she was out of town and unable to go to an AA meeting or contact her sponsor, she should to talk to her friend. She’d almost forgotten that advice.

      “Tony thinks I’ll put out because that’s what everybody thinks about a girl who isn’t pure,” Pagan said, head down staring at the sidewalk moving slowly under her feet. “No one’s ever going to want to date me properly if they know my history. I’m ruined.”

      “Pure?” Mercedes looked her over from her brown oxfords to her pink flowered sundress to the ribbon holding her ponytail. “It’s strange that I hadn’t noticed you were ‘ruined.’”

      “Mama would be ashamed of me if she knew,” Pagan said, her voice small.

      “Your mother—the Nazi sympathizer?”

      Pagan swiveled her head to stare at her.

      Mercedes shook her head, not backing down. “Your mother had plenty to be ashamed of herself. You remember the Nazis—people who thought those with blood that didn’t fit their definition of pure should be wiped out.”

      Mercedes had an irritating way of making sense that clashed with Pagan’s self-pity.

      “Okay, so much for pure,” Pagan said. “And maybe Mama’s opinion would be questionable. But everyone thinks girls who don’t wait for marriage are dirty.”

      “Well, everyone can get bent,” Mercedes said.

      She talked tough, but she had to know as well as Pagan that the mixed messages were everywhere. Society loved it when you were sexy, like Marilyn Monroe, but they thought you were morally bankrupt if you fooled around, like Marilyn Monroe. So you had to keep the fooling around very quiet.

      They walked in silence for a few moments. “Do you think