Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“The Argentines are allied, de facto if not de jure, with the Germans. Two peas from the same pod. Certainly, you must be aware of that.”

Clete didn’t reply.

“Anyway, Staff Sergeant Ettinger is in the Monteleone. He arrived yesterday, and telephoned. I told him you were due today or tomorrow, and would contact him. Then I called one of the Monteleones, Jerry, I think, and told him I would be obliged if he would see that Staff Sergeant Ettinger is made comfortable.”

“That was gracious of you, thank you.”

“Simple courtesy,” the old man said. “I was going to suggest, now that you’re here, that we take him to dinner. Would that be awkward? If it would, we could have him here.”

“Why would it be awkward?”

“As I understand it, there is a line drawn between officers and enlisted men.”

“Well, I’ve never paid much attention to that line. And I would guess that Ettinger will be in civilian clothing.”

“We could take him to Arnaud’s,” the old man said. “It’s right around the corner from the Monteleone, and it has a certain reputation.”

In other words, unless absolutely necessary, no Jews in the house. Not even Jews who are bound for Argentina to kill Argentineans.

“Arnaud’s would be fine. It’s been a long time.”

“When we have our drink, you can call him,” the old man said. “Do I correctly infer that you are no longer wearing your uniform?”

“Yes. I have a new draft card, identifying me as someone who has been honorably discharged for physical reasons.”

“Have you your uniform?”

“It’s in the car. They are in the car.”

“Your dress uniform among them?”

“Yes.”

“And your decorations?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I would have your portrait made,” the old man said. “In uniform. I thought it could be hung in the upstairs sitting room beside that of your uncle James.”

“I’m not sure there would be time.”

“I don’t mean to sit for a portrait,” the old man said impatiently. “That’s unnecessary. They can work from photographs. Your mother’s portrait was prepared from snapshots.”

“Yes, I know.”

“When you know something of your schedule, we’ll make time for a photographer. It will only take half an hour or so.”

“If you’d like.”

Jean-Jacques returned, carrying a silver tray on which were four squat glasses, two dark with Sazeracs, two of water, and two small silver bowls holding cashews and potato chips.

Clete and the old man took the Sazeracs. Jean-Jacques set the tray down on a table.

“Just a moment, please, Jean-Jacques,” the old man said. Then he turned toward the oil portrait of the pretty young woman in a ball gown hanging over the fireplace.

“If I may,” Cletus Marcus Howell said, raising his glass toward the portrait. “To your mother. May her blessed, tortured soul rest in God’s peace.”

“Mother,” Clete said, raising his glass.