“And his father’s,” the old man said. “We can’t leave Ol’ Horr-gay out of that equation, can we?”
“Enough!” Dorotea said furiously. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with all of you, but I’ve had enough of it.”
“What I think we should do, Cletus,” the old man said, “to escape the wrath of the females of the clan, is go somewhere—your splendidly equipped library comes to mind—and have a Sazerac.”
“My God, it’s half past ten in the morning!” Martha said.
“It is never too early for a Sazerac. As long as you have been married into this family, Martha, you should know that.”
He headed for the elevator. By the time he reached it, so had Cletus.
[FIVE]
“Dare I hope that you have Peychaud’s?” the old man asked as Clete stepped behind the bar in the library.
Peychaud’s bitters were an absolutely necessary ingredient to make a genuine Sazerac.
Clete held up a small bottle.
“I stole this from the house on Saint Charles Avenue.”
“Jean-Jacques told me that you taught Dorotea to drink Sazeracs.”
“A mistake—they make her mean,” Clete said as he looked for, found, and triumphantly held up a bottle of Templeton Straight Rye Whiskey.
“I never heard what you were doing there.”
“And you never told me what you’re doing here. Or how you got here.”
“The grandson said, mistakenly believing the grandfather to be so far into his dotage that he will not realize the subject has been changed.”
Clete smiled, then said, “So how did you get here?”
“In a Lockheed Constellation. They’re really the only way to fly.”
Clete finished making the cocktails and handed his grandfather one of them.
“Whatever the circumstances, I’m glad you’re here,” Clete said.
They touched glasses.
“No matter how you got here,” Clete added.
“I just told you. In a Lockheed Constellation.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Clete said, after a moment.
The old man shook his head, smiling.
“Whose Constellation?”
“Mine.”
“Now, that I don’t believe.”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“Yes, you have. And sometimes they’ve been whoppers.”