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

"Why don't you come here, Frade?" Nestor had said on the telephone. He had a Boston accent. More precisely a Harvard Boston banker accent. "I'll introduce you to the people who will be handling your account. And then we'll have lunch. Have you eaten in the Plaza?"

"No, I haven't."

"El Grill, on the ground floor, is the oldest restaurant in Buenos Aires. Everybody who visits Buenos Aires should eat there at least once."

Is that what I'm doing, "visiting Buenos Aires"?

"Sounds fine."

"Come by the office—I'm on the third floor—say about noon?"

"Right."

"I'll look forward to it."

Aware that he was doing it because he was thinking about Martha, Clete pulled on a pair of boots Martha had had made to his measure by a bootmaker in Matamoros. They had walking rather than riding heels, and calfskin uppers which took a high shine. Dress-up boots, Martha had called them. So he wouldn't look like a saddle-bum when she made him take her to church.

Ramon drove him from Belgrano to the Banco de Boston Building in Florida in the Jaguar Saloon; and it turned out to be a disappointing car. It had a marvelous name, of course—it was hard to think of a Ford Saloon, or even a Lincoln Saloon, without smiling—and the body was beautiful, inside and out. But it didn't have any power. Ram?n had to row it along with the gearshift.

I'll be glad when the Buick gets here.

The Banco de Boston Building, and the area around it, reminded Clete of Wall Street in New York City—1890s elegant, heavy, the facade elaborately decorated. The bronze doors of the main entrance, on a corner, were enormous; the entrance itself was floored and flanked with marble. He noticed, too, a brass plate mounted on the wall reading "Embajada de los Estados Unidos de America," with an arrow pointing to a doorway. Clete gave in to the impulse, took several steps backward on the sidewalk, and looked up. There it was, several floors above him, the American flag hanging limply from a pole.

He entered the bank and asked directions to Nestor's office.

Nestor looked the way he sounded on the telephone. He was a slim man, about forty, wearing a nearly black gray suit, a button-down collar shirt, and a maroon Harvard tie.

"Well, Mr. Frade," he said, flashing not much of a smile and offering a somewhat clammy hand. But, surprising Clete, he did his best to give him a painfully hard handshake. "I'm very happy to meet you. Had any trouble finding the place?"

"None at all, thank you."

"Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Or would you rather we tend to our business and then feed the hungry man?"

"No coffee, thank you," Clete said.

Nestor took a small leather card case from his jacket pocket, and peeled one off.

"My card. Feel free to call me at any time," he said.

"Thank you," Clete said.

Nestor took his arm and led him out of the office and back down to the main floor, where he introduced him to two Argentineans and two Americans, too low in the bank hierarchy to rate more than a desk and a chair for visitors in a long row of identical desk sets.

Each time he introduced Clete the same way:

"This is Mr. Frade, Mr. Cletus Howell Frade, of Howell Petroleum."

One of the Americans was David Ettinger, who gave no sign he had ever seen Clete before.

"Mr. Ettinger has just come down here himself," Nestor said. "He was in our New York office."

At the desk of one of the Argentineans, Clete was given a signature card to sign. He was then informed it would be a week or two before checks with his name printed thereon would be available; in the meantime, he should feel free to use counter checks; "the tellers will be alerted to the situation." He was handed a pad of a dozen counter checks, which were twice the size of an American check.

As they started out of the bank, Nestor touched his arm, and whispering as if he were about to impart a deep secret, asked, "I presume you're all right for ready cash? Or should I arrange something before we leave?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Clete said.

Nestor had a 1939 Buick Special Coupe parked in a garage near the Banco de Boston Building. The right fender and door bore red splotches. A body job was obviously in progress.

Apparently my new boss has not been able to adjust to driving on the left. Either that, or these people are as crazy behind the wheel as they seem. Or both.

Halfway to the Plaza Hotel, Clete concluded that it was both. Nestor was an inept, nervous driver, and a substantial percentage of the other drivers seemed to be insane.

"Well," Nestor finally asked, "how are things going?"

"Either today or tomorrow Pelosi is moving into an apartment on Avenida Corrientes. Mallin tells me the 'negotiations' for my apartment should be completed either today or tomorrow and that I should be able to move in as soon as they are."

"Where did you say that was?"

"Posadas 1354, Piso sexto"—sixth floor.

Clete had the strange feeling that a mechanical recorder had just started running in Nestor's brain: Once hearing that address, he would never forget it, and he would spew it back with perfect accuracy whenever called upon.

"And the telephone number?"

"I don't have that. One of the reasons the 'negotiations' are going so slowly was a disagreement over the price of the telephone."

"Yes," Nestor said.

"Where is Ettinger staying?"

"At the bank's guest house. An apartment near Recoleta. I'm working on an apartment for him. When I have an address and a phone, I'll pass it to you."

"Am I permitted to ask questions?"

"Yes, of course."

"What do you do if one of your agents doesn't have an independent income?"

"You mean for money?"

"Yeah. Mallin told me the man who owns the apartment wanted two hundred fifty dollars for the phone, and he was trying to get it down to two hundred."

"They've gone for as much as five," Nestor said. "And then there will be a bribe to the telephone company, probably for at least that much, to activate the line. You're lucky to have Mr. Mallin handling it for you." He paused and then turned and smiled at Clete. "We try very hard to recruit young men of independent means."

"Pelosi and Ettinger don't have independent incomes."

"Their expenses, within reason, for their telephone or to purchase automobiles, for example, will be reimbursed. I have funds for that. It's important, you see, Frade, that no questions are raised about whence the money, beyond a reasonable salary, cometh. In your case, of course, that's not a problem. Your middle name is Howell, as in Howell Petroleum. You can buy any kind of a car you want, and I suggest you do so as quickly as possible."

"I've shipped my car from New Orleans," Clete said. "You didn't know?"

"No, I didn't. Something ostentatious, I hope?"

"You tell me. It's a '41 Buick."

"Splendid. A convertible coupe would be even better."

"It's a convertible," Clete said.

I don't believe this conversation.

"May I call you 'Cletus'?" Nestor asked.

"I'd rather you called me 'Clete.' "

"The thing is, Clete, the way to avoid suspicion is not to act suspiciously. The word will gradually get around who you are, which is to say the heir apparent to Howell Petroleum..."

"That's really not so," Clete interrupted, with a smile. "I'm one of three grandchildren."

"... and the son of Jorge Guillermo Frade."

"Mr. Nestor, do you know that I've never met my father?"

"Why don't you call me 'Jasper'?"

"Thank you."

"People won't believe, Clete, that you don't know your father." He smiled. "Everybody knows their father. They may not get along with him, but they know him."

"I thought I'd better mention it," Clete said.

"Yes. Of course," Nestor said. "As I was saying, Clete, the word will get around that you're a bachelor of means. That suits our purposes neatly. And, in one of the world's most sophisticated cities, with—in case you haven't already noticed—some of the world's most beautiful women."