He flung himself across the bed, yielding to the fatigue that was tearing at every nerve and muscle in his body. In the dark, he managed to get rid of his shoes and his suit, letting them drop to the floor when he had taken them off. He tried to think of all that had happened that day, of what he would have to do tomorrow. The fading shouts of the crowds in the Plaza grew fainter. The bed grew softer. He fell asleep.
The phone bell woke him in a few minutes. Souza was calling. "Señor Hall, the drinks you ordered are on the way upstairs," he said. "I am sorry for the delay, but we have a new waiter, and he is not accustomed to our system yet."
"Oh, I get it." The cabrón of a night waiter was gone. The invisible, detested cabrón whom Hall had never seen. He half expected Miguelito or Juan Antonio to be standing in the hall when he heard the knock on the door. Instead, there was a short, swarthy man in his forties, balancing a tray of brandy and soda in his right hand, a professional waiter down to his flat feet and his bland smile.
"Shall I bring it in, señor?"
"Please. Set it down here, on the little table."
The waiter closed the door, put the tray down. "Compañero Hall," he said, the bland smile gone, "permit me to introduce myself. I am Emilio Vicente, delegate of the Waiters' Union." He shook Hall's hand, then gave him a calling card. It was Major Segador's private card.
"Turn it over, Compañero Hall."
The short message on the reverse side indicated that Hall was to trust Vicente.
"I am happy to know you," Hall said. "Will you have a drink with me?"
"Some other time, compañero. Tonight I have a message. Major Segador suggests that should you need any assistance in a hurry, you can call upon me. I am at your orders."