Free City of Spies by Nina Berry

think of it that way! Ach.” She made a helpless gesture with both hands, exhaling smoke through her nose. “I’m going home tomorrow, and you’ll get to deal with him. Rada will be here for the shoot.”
    â€œThe suit will tear,” Rada said gloomily. “The netting will rip. It is inevitable.”
    â€œIs he that bad?” Pagan lowered her voice, even though they were the only ones in the large cluttered room. “Victor?”
    â€œYou haven’t met him?” Madge lifted her painted eyebrows and paused to remove the burned nub of her cigarette from her mouth. “You won’t like him.”
    â€œTony likes him,” Rada said, and raised a melancholy eyebrow that said it all.
    Pagan’s heart sank. Why couldn’t things ever be easy? The thought of a man who was anything like Tony Perry in charge of an important movie in her career made her want to dive straight into a martini glass. But then a nice, sunny day sometimes did the same thing.
    â€œThere should be a word for men who prefer the company of other men—not to sleep with, mind,” Madge said, stubbing out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray by the sewing machine. “But who cannot abide to speak to women unless it is to condescend or seduce.”
    â€œI believe the word for men like that is jerk , Madge,” Pagan said.
    Madge snorted and lit another smoke. “Sorry to be so blunt, honey. But you should be prepared.”
    â€œI’m always ready for men like that,” said Pagan. “My whole dang life has prepared me.”

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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œMaybe 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?”
    â€œDown the street that