Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

Humberto nodded.

“You think Tío Juan will be able to help?”

“I tend to think Father Kurt is usually right,” Humberto said.

Dorotéa went to Clete and adjusted the foulard. “Now you look fine,” she said. “Go easy on the wine, darling.”

Clete exhaled audibly. “I hope I can charm the sonofabitch,” he said, then added: “You haven’t said anything to Alicia?”

“Of course not,” she said.

She leaned upward, kissed him rather chastely on the lips, and left the room.

Almost exactly five minutes later, the 1939 Packard 280 touring car provided by the Republic of Argentina for the use of its Minister of War rolled majestically up before the Casa Grande and stopped. The chauffeur jumped out and ran around the front, almost succeeding in reaching the rear passenger door before Sargento Rudolpho Gomez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired, who had been waiting on the veranda.

The passengers in the rear seat got out. Everyone—the chauffeur, Rudolpho, Minister of War General de Division Edelmiro Farrell, Minister of Labor Coronel Juan Domingo Perón—was in civilian clothing, and the canvas roof of the enormous Packard was up; but Clete had no trouble envisioning the roof down, everybody in uniform, and Farrell and Perón standing up in the backseat, hanging on to the chrome of the rear-seat windshield and trooping the line of the Húsares de Pueyrredón.

Rodolfo led them into the house, and a moment later, the door to the cloakroom opened. “Patrón,” Rudolpho barked, “el General Farrell and el Coronel Perón.”

Clete walked across the cloakroom. “A sus órdenes, mi General,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

Farrell spread his arms wide. “Ah, Cletus,” he said, “thank you for including me.”

They shook hands.

Clete turned to Perón. “Tío Juan,” he said. They embraced and went through the kissing ritual of intimate males. The touch of Perón’s mouth on Clete’s cheeks made him uncomfortable, but he forced himself to return the intimacy.

“My boy,” Perón said, patting Cletus’s back.

Farrell kissed Humberto’s cheeks—pro forma, Clete decided; there was no lip contact—and they each spoke the other’s Christian name.

“What are we doing in here?” Perón asked.

“Tío Juan,” Clete said. “With your permission, I want to introduce you and General Farrell to an old Texas custom.”

“Which is?” Perón asked, smiling.

“We call it ‘cutting the dust of the trail,’” Clete said.

He led them to the table with the array of bottles. He picked up two glasses half full of whiskey, handed them to Farrell and Perón, and then picked up two more, handing one to Humberto and raising the other one. “Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,” he said.

“I think I like your custom,” Farrell said, and drained his glass.

“I am pleased, mi General,” Clete said.

Perón chuckled. “And the Champagne, Cletus?” he asked, pointing at the open bottle in a cooler.

“The dust of the trail having been cut,” Clete said, “you now can pick up the Champagne glasses and carry them into the small sitting to join the ladies. And if the ladies presume you have cut the dust of the trail with nothing stronger than Champagne…” Farrell and Perón both laughed. “On the other hand, if the dust is still thick in your throats…it is a long ride from Buenos Aires.” Clete picked up a bottle of scotch.

“Now that you mention it, Cletus,” Perón said, holding his glass out.

Cletus refilled his glass.

“Does everyone get this treatment?” Farrell asked.

“Sargento Gomez has a very short list,” Clete said, “of those he suspects have dusty throats.”

Humberto took Farrell’s arm and led him to the window so he could see Gomez at work.