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

"What were you wondering, Beatrice?"

"Mommy's punch bowl. Do you have it here in the city? Or is it at the estancia?"

Mother's punch bowl?

It was enormous. He suddenly remembered that he and Beatrice were whipped as children after filling it with a litter of nearly grown Llewellyn setters.

"I was thinking it would look so nice," Beatrice explained, "filled with flowers, if we put it in the center of the foyer. We could move in one of the tables from the library and put it on that."

"I think it's here," Frade said. "If it's not... if it's at San Pedro y San Pablo, I'll have it brought to you."

"Just the punch bowl. Not the cups."

"Just the punch bowl."

"You are always so kind to me, Jorge. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Don't be silly, Beatrice."

Alberto appeared with the coffee on a silver tray, a cortado for his mistress, and a cafe doble for Frade.

"Everything for the invitations is ready, except the date. We won't know the date, of course, until the General Belgrano arrives. Humberto spoke with someone at the shipping company ..."

"L.M.A.E.," Frade said without thinking—Lineas Mar?timas de Argentina y Europa.

"Yes," Beatrice said, ever so genteelly letting him know she didn't like the interruption. "L.M.A.E. The General Belgrano sailed November eighth, so it's due here around the first of the month. In a week or so. The casket is to be brought here. Humberto wanted to put it in the library, but I said there will be so many people that we'll have to put it in the foyer, to keep the traffic moving, so to speak. Don't you agree?"

If I don't escape from here in the next thirty seconds, I am going insane!

"Yes, Beatrice, I agree."

He looked at his watch.

"Beatrice, I must go."

"You haven't finished your coffee."

"I drink too much coffee. It's bad for my nerves. I can't sleep."

"Those Brazilian cigars of yours are what keeps you awake,"

Beatrice proclaimed. "I read an article..."

"Beatrice, I'll have the punch bowl sent over to you as soon as I can; within the next several days."

"And there's one more thing," Beatrice said.

"Yes?"

"There's nobody in your house but you, so I wondered if it would be a terrible inconvenience for you to put up Captain von Wachtstein for a while, at least until the funeral is over."

"Captain who?"

"Captain Hans-Peter von Wachtstein. He is the officer bringing Jorge home. Ambassador von Lutzenberger said that he comes from a fine Pomeranian family; and that his father is a Major General. I don't think he would be comfortable here, Jorge, and we certainly can't put him into a hotel."

In that case, let the goddamned German ambassador take care of him!

"Certainly, Beatrice. I'll tell Se?ora Pellano to set up an apartment for him in Uncle Guillermo's."

"The Guest House?" she asked, surprise and hurt in her voice. "Not in your house?"

Beatrice, for the love of God!

"I think he would be more comfortable in the Guest House. My house will probably be full of senior officers."

"Yes, of course it will," she replied, after considering that. "The Guest House will be better, won't it, for the Captain?"

"I think so. I will arrange for an officer of suitable rank to be with him."

"Muy bueno,” Beatrice said, then changed the subject: "I have the proofs, or whatever they're called, of the invitations. Would you like to see them?"

"I'd love to, Beatrice, but I have to go."

He kissed her and fled. She called his name as he was passing through the front door, but he pretended he didn't hear. He walked quickly down the Avenue Alvear toward the Alvear Palace Hotel.

El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade did not believe in drinking during the day. A glass or two of wine with lunch was not drinking, of course, and a glass or two of beer in the afternoon never hurt anyone; but he often said that he learned as a young officer that drinking spirits during the day caused nothing but trouble.

Right now, after that pathetic scene with Beatrice, he wanted a drink, a good stiff drink, very badly. He told himself that he would nobly resist that temptation, of course. He didn't want his son to smell alcohol on his breath at their first meeting and get the wrong idea.

As he waited for two women to negotiate the revolving door to the lobby of the Alvear Palace, he glanced at his watch. It was eleven forty-five—specifically, 11:46:40.

He looked around the lobby, in case Cletus might have arrived early.

No. He will arrive late. Stylishly late. Five or ten minutes late. I have plenty of time for a drink. There is no reason at all why I should not have a quick one.

I would not be at all surprised if Beatrice's emotional difficulties are contagious. I pity poor Humberto.

He walked up to the bar. It was crowded.

I wonder what work these people do that allows them to come in here at noon and drink whiskey.

He found an empty stool near the end of the bar and slipped onto it. One of the bartenders came to him immediately.

"S?, Mi Coronel?"

The man sitting to his right, on the last stool of the bar, had a bottle of Jack Daniel's American whiskey sitting in front of him.

If you must take a drink for medicinal reasons in the middle of the day, you might as well do it right. Bourbon whiskey was not at all subtle. When you drink American bourbon whiskey, you know instantly you are drinking.

El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade pointed at the bottle of American bourbon whiskey, then held up two fingers, meaning a double. He pointed at the ice bucket sitting in front of the man next to him and shook his index finger. No ice. He pointed to the water pitcher, then to a small glass, signaling he wanted water on the side.

"S?, mi Coronel," the bartender said, smiling, and made the drink.

He picked up the glass of bourbon and took a healthy swallow. He felt a burning sensation in his mouth and then in his throat. Warmth began to spread in his stomach.

Precisely what I needed. Good decision, the American bourbon.

He set the glass down and almost immediately picked it up and took another swallow.

It gave him the same reaction, except the burning sensation didn't seem as harsh or as enduring.

I will ask the barman for a slice of lemon, and eat it, pulp and rind, just before I go upstairs. I don't want Cletus imagining the reek of his father's alcohol fumes when he recalls the first time in his adult life he ever met him.

He sensed the attention of the gentleman sitting beside him, and turned to glower at him. It was no one's business but his own if he wanted to take a couple of quick swallows of American bourbon whiskey.

"Excuse me, Sir," the man asked in Spanish. "But are you Colonel Frade?"

"S?, Se?or. Yo soy el Coronel Frade," Frade said, the words coming out before he could stop them.

"My name is Frade too," Clete said.

"I know full well what your name is," Frade snapped. He was horrified at the sound of his own words, but they just kept coming. "You were supposed to meet me in the lobby at noon."

Frade saw anger form in Clete's eyes, in the tightening of his lips, in a faint reddening of his cheeks.

God, what have I done?

Then Clete's lips loosened, and turned into a smile.

"I see that I'm not the only one who needed a little liquid courage for the great confrontation."

"Is that how you view it, as a 'great confrontation'?"

"Isn't that what it is?"

The barman appeared, asking with the inclination of his head whether Clete wanted another drink. Clete pushed his empty glass across the bar to him.

"Do you customarily drink whiskey at the noon hour?" Frade asked, and was again horrified at the sound of his words.

What in God's name is wrong with me?

"Only when about to confront a great confrontation," Clete said. "What about you?"