Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 01 - Honor Bound

The problem of farewell letters resolved, it occurred to him that he hadn't had anything to eat lately. He could, of course, push the call button and have them rustle up something in the kitchen.

What I really want—God knows what the Old Man will serve tonight, but it certainly won't be simple— is a hot dog with onions and a beer. And there's a place a couple of blocks down Libertador where I can get one.

He was in his underwear, because of the heat. He went to the wardrobe, took out a red polo shirt, a pair of khaki pants, a cotton blazer, and Sullivan's boots. When dressed, he examined himself in the mirror and was satisfied that he was wearing the right thing—that he actually looked rather spiffy—for an en famille dinner.

Then he went down and backed the Buick out of the basement, drove half a dozen blocks down Avenida Libertador until he found the small sidewalk restaurant he was looking for, and went in.

He had a private chat with the man tending the carbon parrilla (a wood-fired barbecue grill), finally convincing him that he really wanted the hot dogs grilled and not boiled, and served with chopped raw onions on French bread. Then he took a table, ordered cervezas, and watched the people walk by.

Three grilled hot dogs with raw onion and a pair of liter bottles of beer later, he glanced at his watch. It was nine o'clock. He would just have time to drive to the house on Avenida Coronel Diaz and arrive at the socially accepted time—fifteen minutes late.

[THREE]

1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz

Buenos Aires

2115 29 December 1942

A butler in a tailcoat opened the door to his knock.

"Buenas noches, Se?or Frade," he said, straight-faced. "El Coronel and his guests are in the first-floor reception room."

The first floor, the way the Argentines count, is really the second floor,Clete was pleased to remember.

He went up the curving, wide staircase two steps at a time, in happy anticipation of seeing the No-Longer-Virgin Princess, only halfway up remembering that if the opportunity presented itself to kiss her, he would reek of beer and raw onions.

He entered the reception room. The first person he saw was Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, resplendent in a white Luftwaffe summer uniform, with his Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross dangling over his chest. He was chatting with Se?orita Alicia Carzino-Cormano, who was in a floor-length white dress cut so that not only a strand of pearls but a wide expanse of bosom— both magnificent—were on prominent display.

Also present in the room were Se?orita Carzino-Cormano's mother and sister, also wearing shades of white; Uncle Humberto and Aunt Beatrice, she in a floor-length black gown, he in a white dinner jacket; half a dozen other people, including an Argentine admiral and the fat colonel of the Husares de Pueyrredon in mess dress; and their ladies; Se?or A. F. Graham, in a white dinner jacket; and of course the Mallin family, Mama, Papa, the No-Longer-Virgin Princess, and even Little Enrico, all done up in a dinner jacket.

Plus, of course, the host, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, in a white dinner jacket.

The No-Longer-Virgin Princess, when she saw him in the red polo shirt and blue blazer, smiled warmly and then giggled. Though they didn't giggle, Se?or Graham's and Major Freiherr von Wachtstein's faces reflected a certain amusement at Clete's discomfort, and then at the sight of his father stalking across the room to greet him.

"At least you managed to arrive," Clete's father said as he took his arm and led him out of the room, "at the dinner I gave at your request. I suppose that's something."

"What I had in mind was just the Mallins," Clete said. "Sorry."

"You should be glad that didn't happen."

"Excuse me?"

"Mallin came early," his father said as he led him down a wide corridor and then through a double door. "I have some clothing in here that should fit you."

"I don't think so," Clete said. His father was forty pounds heavier than he was. "Mallin came early and ... ?"

"I bought much of this when I was your age," his father said, throwing open a closet that looked like a rack in a formal clothing store. "There's a dinner jacket in here from Close and Marsh in London that should do."

He found what he was looking for and thrust it at Clete.

"I don't know about a shirt," he said. "But there's a drawer of them over there, and you'll find studs and so on on my dresser. And now, the entertainment of the evening finished, I will return to your guests."

Clete put his hand on his father's arm and stopped him.

"Answer the question. Mallin was here, and ... ?"

“He wished to talk to me privately, man-to-man, as one father to another," Frade said. "About your relationship with his daughter. While he assured me that he felt you were a fine young man of sterling character, who would never take advantage of an innocent young girl, as men of the world, we both knew that when two young people fancy themselves in love ... et cetera, et cetera ... and that he hoped I would be good enough to have a word with you. I told him that you are a man, and that I have no control over your romantic life." "That's it?"

"I also told him that I rather understood your interest in his innocent young daughter. I suggested that you perhaps acquired your interest in young girls in the bar at the Plaza Hotel, watching middle-aged men fawning over Mi?as young enough to be their daughters."

"You didn't!"

Frade nodded. "And I also told him that he should be glad that you are both my son and an officer and a gentleman, who therefore can be expected to do the right thing by his innocent daughter, rather than one of the middle-aged men in the Plaza bar who behave despicably toward their young women."

"He took this?"

"He seemed rather discomfited," Frade said, obviously pleased with himself. Then his tone changed. “Cletus, I looked at Dorotea tonight for the first time as a young woman, not as a girl."

"I'm in love with her, Dad."

"To look at your faces when you greeted one another, I would never have guessed," Frade said. "But the way you said that makes the other things I intended to say to you unnecessary." He paused. "You will be taking Dorotea into dinner—sitting with her. I had the butler rearrange the seating arrangements." Frade looked at his watch.

"Dress quickly; your odd Norteamericano notion of appropriate dinner dress is delaying the serving of dinner."

"Sorry about that."

"You should be," Clete's father said, and walked out of the room.

Clete was at the bathroom mirror tying his bow tie, when he heard the door to his father's apartment creak open. He'd had his choice among dress shirts—too large or too small. He opted for a loose collar. After he adjusted the tie as best he could, he returned to the bedroom, expecting to see his father, or maybe the butler, sent to help him dress.

He found instead Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, leaning on the closed door, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. Peter held out the glasses to him.

"Hold these," he ordered, "while I open the bottle."

"I'm grateful, mi Comandante, especially since this act of Christian charity obviously tore you away from the magnificent Alicia ... and her magnificent..." He made a curving motion above his chest to indicate what he meant.

Peter popped the cork.

"If you were a real officer and gentleman, which fortunately you are not," Peter said as he poured the champagne, "I would be forced to challenge you to a duel for insulting the lady with whom I intend to share my life."

"I'll be goddamned, you sound serious."

"The duel, no. The lady, possibly. She has, certainly, a splendid body. But she also has qualities I've never encountered before."