Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“And may your father receive his just deserts here on earth,” the old man added.

Clete said nothing. He sometimes felt a little disloyal that he couldn’t share the old man’s passionate loathing for his father. Based on his grandfather’s frequent recounting, over the years, of that chapter of Howell family history, he understood the old man’s hatred: He held el Coronel Frade accountable for the death of his only daughter. But Clete’s mother died when he was an infant, and he had no memories of his father.

That’s about to change. I’ll certainly meet him in Buenos Aires. And he probably won’t have horns and foul breath. But he is obviously a sonofabitch of the first water. I’ve never known the old man to lie. And Uncle Jim and Aunt Martha have silently condemned him as long as I can remember. Both believed, and practiced, the principle that unless you can say something nice about someone, you say nothing. Anytime I asked them about my father, they answered with evasion and a quick change of subject.

If nothing else, it should be interesting to finally see the man—how does the Bible put it?—from whose loins I have sprung.

Been spranged?

He smiled, just faintly, at his play on words.

Clete saw in the old man’s eyes that he had seen the smile, and hoped it wouldn’t trigger anything unpleasant. The old man looked at him intently for a moment, then turned to the butler.

“Jean-Jacques, would you please call the Monteleone and see if you can get Mr. Ettinger on the line for Mr. Cletus?”

Clete took a healthy sip of his Sazerac.

It is true, he thought, that the only place you can get one of these is here. Strange but true. You can take all the ingredients with you, right down to Peychaux’s Bitters—as I did to Pensacola—but when you make one, it’s just not a Sazerac.

He looked up at his mother’s portrait and had a thought that disturbed him a little: Jesus, she looks just like the brunette in Beth’s sorority house, the one I think I could have jumped.

“I have Mr. Ettinger for you, Mr. Cletus,” Jean-Jacques said, handing him the telephone.

“Ettinger?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“This is Clete Howell.”

“Yes, Sir. I was told that you would be arriving about now.”

“Is there anyone else there?”

“No, Sir. There was a telegram several hours ago, saying that the…people from Virginia…will be here tomorrow morning. And I was told that Lieutenant Pelosi will be on the Crescent City Limited tomorrow. He’ll be coming here. I don’t know about the others.”

“Have you made plans for dinner?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good, then you can have it with my grandfather and me. Would eight be convenient?”

“Sir, I don’t want to impose.”

“You won’t be. Can you be in the lobby at eight, or maybe outside, if it’s not raining?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You have civvies?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Wear them,” Clete said.

“I was told to, Sir.”

“And one more thing, Ettinger…David…from here on out, we will dispense with the military courtesy.”

“Yes, S—All right,” Ettinger said.