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

They rode in silence for several minutes down the dirt road— really no more than tracks in the land leading down from the highest spot on the ranch toward the ranch house, which was built in a small valley to get it out of the wind.

"Your car is in town," Martha said, breaking the silence, "up on blocks. But if you're going somewhere where you can have a car, maybe you'd better get it running."

"I thought I would go into town anyway, to have a drink at the Petroleum Club. Is somebody at the house?"

"Juanita's there. I just hope she doesn't find out you're here and didn't stop by there first to see her."

"It was after midnight when I got to Midland," Clete said.

"Well, we'll fix you some lunch, so that you'll have something in your stomach before you hit the P-Club bar, and you go see Juanita. Before you go to the P-Club."

"You don't want to go with me?"

"I don't think I could handle that, not yet, honey," Martha said.

"I'm not sure if I'll be able to either," Clete said. "But I think I should go."

"Just go easy at the bar, honey. AH the booze in the world isn't going to bring him back."

"Yes, Ma'am," Clete said.

He turned on the seat to look at her.

I really love this woman. She is not biologically my mother; but that's what she is in fact. She took me in when I was eighteen months old and she was for all practical purposes just a bride. I was her husband's sister's motherless child, and she still raised me as her own. I must have been four or five before I understood that I had another mother, a dead mother.

"Martha," Clete said. "I don't know if I ever told you before, I don't know why I didn't, but I love you."

She turned to look at him quickly.

"Clete, honey, that's nice. That's real nice. But you didn't have to say it. I know."

She returned her attention to the road for a moment, then said, "I think I could use another little taste, honey. Or did you drink it all?"

[THREE]

The Petroleum Club

Midland, Texas

1615 21 October 1942

The very black, very dignified bartender in the very white jacket handed Clete Howell a Jack Daniel's and water. He was still feeling the pulls he'd taken in Aunt Martha's car and really didn't want the drink; but it occurred to him that if Uncle Jim happened to be peering over the edge of his cloud looking down, he would like to see him having what he himself drank in his club.

"Were you here when it happened, William?" Clete asked.

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Clete. I was."

Clete looked at him, waiting for him to go on.

"There's not much to tell, Mr. Clete," the bartender said. "He hadn't been in here long. He was sitting right where you are, with Mr. Dennison. He said he had a headache, that it must be the new hat..."

"This hat," Clete said, touching his new Stetson.

"Yes, Sir. I thought that might be it. And he took it off and laid it on the bar and said he was going to the gentlemen's, and when he got to the door... I was watching ... he just... he just fell down."

"Miss Martha told me it was a cerebral hemorrhage," Clete said.

"Yes, Sir. Well, Mr. Dennison and I run over there, and Dr. Sayre was out in the lounge with Mrs. Dennison, and he came running, and I went back to the bar to call an ambulance, and I was still on the phone when Dr. Sayre said he was gone."

"A good way to go, wouldn't you say, William?" Clete said.

"Yes, Sir. I thought about that. What he was talking about to Mr. Dennison was that a hole had come in that morning flowing a thousand barrels. It was a wildcat they put down with their own money. I had a one-twenty-eighth interest in the hole. It was, a happy time."

"Thank you, William."

"We're going to miss Mr. Jim around here, Mr. Clete, for a long time."

"Yeah," Clete said.

William went to the end of the bar and picked up a towel and started to polish a whiskey sour glass. The telephone under the bar rang. He picked it up, then returned, carrying the handset on a very long coiled cord to Clete.

"There's a gentleman in the lobby asking to see you, Mr. Clete."

"You have a name?".

"No, Sir. He's on the phone."

Clete held out his hand for it.

"Hello?"

"Clete, I'm sorry to intrude on your leave, but I have to talk to you."

Christ, it's Colonel Graham. I thought he'd send me a telegram, or call.

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you think you could possibly squeeze in a few minutes for me in your busy schedule?"

"Yes, Sir. Of course. I'm just a little surprised you're here."

"I'm an amazing man. I thought you understood that. Would you tell this fellow to let me in, please?"

"Let me speak to him, Sir."

Clete picked up his glass and walked out of the bar into the lounge. It was furnished with tables and red-leather-upholstered captain's chairs, for ladies and for business conversations. The tables were arranged far enough apart to make it difficult to hear what was said at the adjoining tables.

He picked out one of the tables and stood beside it until he saw Graham entering the room, then signaled to him with his raised glass.

Graham was in somewhat mussed civilian clothing, and looked in unabashed curiosity around the room as he walked to Frade.

"Good afternoon, Sir," Clete said.

Graham smiled at him. "Howdy, Tex," he said. "Have you got a cowboy hat to go with that outfit?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. A brand-new Stetson, by the way. A family heirloom, so to speak."

"Why don't we sit down?" Graham asked, and sat down.

Clete set his glass on the table and sat down across from him.

Another very black barman in a very white jacket appeared almost immediately.

"I'll have whatever Mr. Frade is drinking," Graham said. He turned and smiled at Frade. "Very nice place," he said.

"You have any trouble finding it?"

"No. I called your aunt from the airport—I'm on my way to California again, and the pilot said he could refuel here just as well as someplace else. So I told him to stop here."

"What are you in?" Clete interrupted, in a pilot-Pavlovian reflex.

"A TBF"—a torpedo bomber—"on its way to San Diego," Graham said. "Anyway, your aunt Martha said you would either be at her house or here; and she gave me the number. So I called the house and a very nice lady told me I'd just missed you and that you were coming here."

"Juanita," Frade said.

"We had a nice little chat about you," Graham said. "You apparently learned your Spanish from her?"

Frade nodded. "She was my aunt Martha's nurse when she was a child in East Texas. And then she came out here when my aunt was married and started all over again with me."

The waiter delivered Graham's drink.

Graham took an appreciative sip, waited until the waiter was out of earshot, then asked, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm all right, thank you."

"No signs of malaria? Sometimes it shows up ..."

Clete shook his head. "I feel fine. I can't eat as much as I thought I would when I got home...."

"The stomach actually shrinks on a diet like you had on Guadalcanal," Graham said.

"And I don't seem to be able to handle as much of this as I used to be able to," Clete said, holding up his glass.

"The ideal OSS agent would be a tea-total," Graham said, smiling. "Maybe that's a good thing."

"I wondered when you were going to get around to that," Clete said, returning the smile.

"A number of things have happened," Graham said. "Is there any reason you couldn't be in New Orleans on the first of November? That's ten days, and the first is a Sunday."

"No, Sir. No problem. Where do I go in New Orleans?"

"I know from experience that the chow and the bunks at 3470 St. Charles Avenue are a little better than average," Graham replied. "Anything against you staying there?"

It was the address of Cletus Marcus Howell's mansion.