It’s almost eight p.m. Why not?
“Thank you,” Frade said.
But who the hell is this guy?
The man walked to a table on which were bottles of whiskey, glasses, bottles of soda, and a silver ice bowl.
“What’s your preference, Major?”
“Is that Jack Daniel’s?”
“Indeed. And how do you take it?”
“Straight, with a couple of ice cubes.”
The man made the drink, then handed it to Clete and put out his hand.
“Allen Welsh Dulles,” he said.
“Cletus Frade.”
The man’s grip was firm.
“Yes, I know,” the man said. “How was your flight?”
“Very nice, thank you. Who are you?”
“I told you. My name is Allen Welsh Dulles.”
“That’s your name”—your three-part name, just like Richard Cobbs Lacey, and it’s for some reason vaguely familiar—“not who you are.”
Dulles smiled.
“We have mutual friends.”
“We do?”
“Your grandfather, for one.”
Clete’s eyebrows rose.
“That’s not precise,” Dulles said. He raised his glass. “Cheers!”
Clete tapped the glass and took a sip.
Taking this drink is probably not very smart.
This guy wants something from me, and I’ve already decided he’s smarter than I am.
What the hell is going on?
“Actually, my brother—John Foster Dulles—is an attorney in New York City. Among his firm’s clients are Cletus Marcus Howell and Howell Petroleum.”
“Is that so?”
“I’ve never had the privilege of meeting Mr. Howell—which I am led to believe is often an interesting experience—but nevertheless I relay, through my brother, your grandfather’s best wishes.”
Okay. Now I know what’s going on.