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

At ten of the morning after their meeting, his father called to ask if he was comfortable, and to apologize: He had to leave town and would be in touch in a couple of days, after he returned; if Clete needed anything in the meantime, Se?ora Pellano would provide it. He did not mention how they parted the day before.

When Clete tried to call Mr. Nestor at the Bank of Boston to tell him where he was living, he was told that Nestor, too, was out of town.

"And is there a message, Se?or?"

"No, thank you. I'll call again."

And Pelosi was unavailable. Mallin had arranged a tour of the tank farm for him, and he would be gone all day.

Clete took a stroll around the neighborhood, including a walk through the stables of the Hipodromo. The horses were magnificent, and he liked their smell. It was comforting.

But with that out of the way, he couldn't find much else to do. Except explore Granduncle Guillermo's playroom. It was still relatively early in the evening when he searched through an absolutely gorgeous, heavily carved desk, made from some kind of wood he didn't recognize, and came across a locked compartment at the rear of one of the large drawers.

Feeling childishly mischievous, he looked for keys. None of the two dozen he could find fit the simple lock. So, telling himself that he knew better than what he was doing—but his father did tell him the place was his—he went downstairs and asked Se?ora Pellano were he could find tools.

"If anything needs fixing," she told him patiently but firmly, "I will fix it myself; or else the houseman will do it."

"All I need is a screwdriver," he said. "A small one. And maybe a small knife. I'll take care of it myself."

She led him to a toolbox in the basement. The box held both a penknife and a screwdriver.

The locked drawer quickly yielded to the removal of the brass screws of the lock.

It contained more evidence of Granduncle Guillermo's preoccupation with the distinguishing characteristics of the opposite gender. The drawer contained two leather-covered boxes, each containing fifty or sixty lewd and obscene photographs.

Clete had never seen anything like them (even at stag movies at his fraternity house at Tulane). They were glass transparencies, about four by five inches. Not negatives, positives. He suspected that there was probably some kind of a projector, to project them on a screen.

To judge by the appearance of the women, they had been taken a long time ago, certainly before the First World War, possibly even before the turn of the century. The women were far plumper—plusher—than currently fashionable, and wore their hair either swept up or braided, while all the men had mustaches and were pretty skinny.

Holding them up to the light, he examined every last one of them, concluding that they knew the same positions then that he was used to. The women far outnumbered, the men, and it was possible to suspect that the women were more interested in other women than in the scrawny men in their drooping mustaches.

After carefully replacing the glass plates in their boxes and relocking the drawer, Clete realized that he was going to have to commit the sin of Onan. Somewhat humiliated by the process, he did so.

At least I won't stain the sheets tonight,he thought afterward.

Unfortunately, things didn't work out that way. He woke up from a painfully realistic dream—Princess Dorothea the Virgin was exposing her breasts to him—to find that he had soiled the sheets after all.

He took a shower, hoping that by morning the sheets would be dry and the maid would not notice, and tittering, report her finding to Se?ora Pellano.

Clete drank the orange juice and half the coffee, took another shower, put on a short-sleeve shirt and a pair of khaki pants, and rode the elevator down to the main floor. The twelve-seat dining-room table had been set for one and laid out with enough food to feed six hungry people.

Halfway through his scrambled eggs, he heard the telephone ring, and a minute later, Se?ora Pellano set a telephone beside him. It looked as if it had been built by Alexander Graham Bell himself.

"It is a Se?or Nestor. Are you at home, Se?or Clete?"

He picked up the telephone.

"Good morning, Sir."

Shit, I'm not supposed to call him "Sir."

"Good morning, Clete," Nestor said. "Jasper Nestor of the Bank of Boston here."

"I tried to call you yesterday to tell..."

"I called the Mallin place, and they told me where to find you."

"My father offered me this pla—"

"The reason I'm calling, Clete," Nestor interrupted, "and I know this is damned short notice. The thing is, there's a small party at the Belgrano Athletic Club this evening. We sponsor, the bank, one of the cricket teams. Nothing very elaborate—no black tie, in other words. Just drinks and dinner. There's a chap I want you to meet. I introduced you at the bank, if you'll remember. Mr. Ettinger?"

"Yes, I remember meeting Mr. Ettinger."

"Well, you have things in common—being newcomers and bachelors. Why don't we put you two together and see what happens? Or do you have other plans?"

"No. Thank you very much."

"Perhaps we'll have a few minutes for a little chat ourselves. Right about seven? Would that be convenient? Do you know where it is, can you find it all right?"

"Yes. I have a guest card. I've played tennis there."

"Good. Look forward to seeing you about seven."

[THREE]

The Belgrano Athletic Club

Buenos Aires

1925 29 November 1942

I wonder what the rules of that game are,Clete thought as he looked out the window of the bar at a cricket game being played under field lights.

He held a scotch and water—he had told the barman to give him a very light one—and was munching on potato chips, waiting for Nestor to show up.

The Belgrano Athletic Club looked as if it had been miraculously transported intact from England. In the bar, a paneled room with photographs on its walls of the Stately Homes of England, the conversation was in English—English English—and even the bartender spoke as if London was his home.

The bar was for men only, but there were a good number of women outside in the stands watching the game, and parading past the windows of the bar. Good-looking, long-legged, nice-breasted blond women, in lightweight summer dresses.

Just what I don't need after Granduncle Guillermo's dirty pictures. -

I wonder what the boys on Guadalcanal are doing right now.

"Ah, there you are, Clete!" Nestor said behind him. "Admiring the view, are you?"

Clete turned to face him. Ettinger was with him.

"Good evening."

"You remember David, of course. You met him at the bank?"

"Yes, of course. How are you, Mr. Ettinger?"

"We're quite informal here," Nestor said. "It really should be 'David' and 'Clete.' "

"Nice to see you again, David," Clete said.

They shook hands.

"Let me find us something to drink. You all right, Clete, or will you have another?"

"I'm fine, thank you just the same."

As soon as he was out of sight, David asked, "No Tony? I thought maybe I'd be introduced to him too."

"He wasn't invited. He's not even supposed to know who Nestor is."

"I meant I thought Nestor the banker might invite him as a courtesy to an employee of Howell Petroleum. One of the things I've learned is how much Howell money flows through the Bank of Boston."

Clete shrugged.

"Maybe later. Nestor strikes me as a very cautious man." He smiled at Ettinger. "All things considered, you like being a banker?"

Ettinger looked at Clete a moment as if wondering if he should say what he wanted to. He glanced around to make sure no one was within eavesdropping range, and then said, "I had a very strange, disturbing thing happen to me yesterday."