The Mexican brought out five bottles of beer. "I've got more in the ice box," he said. "What's the matter?"
"He wants to kill someone," Pepe said.
"Me too. What of it?"
Hall put the mouth of the opened bottle to his lips, tilted his head back. "God," he said, "Pepe is right. Let me make one phone call, and then I'll spill it. I've got to get it off my chest before I blow the top."
He reached the Vardieno girl on the phone. She was so sorry. The lists had all gone down to the Hall of Congress. Anyway, all requests for foreign writers had to come through their embassies. That was the Press Chief's new ruling.
"That's fine. That settles it," Hall said when he put the phone away. "Now I must ask the Ambassador to approve me for the press gallery."
"Sit down, Mateo," Duarte said. "I can wait a full hour if necessary." He put a bottle of cold beer into Hall's hand. "Tell us about it."
"I'll wait outside," Pepe said.
"No. Stay with us, Pepe. I want you to know the facts. Do you both remember that I was waiting for a letter from Havana? Well, I got it. Two letters, in fact. They told me what I wanted to know about Ansaldo." He drained the second bottle and then told them what had happened to him at the Embassy.
"Don't bother with him," Duarte said. "You don't need his permission. I'll give you my diplomatic invitation and my carnet. The uniform is all I need to get through the gates. You'll sit in the diplomatic gallery with me."