"I don't know," he said. "Probably. I'll know for sure when Colonel Graham tells me when he wants me in New Orleans."
"What are you going to do in New Orleans?"
"Except have the Old Man find fault with the way I blink my eyes, you mean?"
The Old Man was Cletus Marcus Howell, Martha's father-in-law and Clete's grandfather.
"He's not that bad, Clete."
He laughed.
"You didn't say what you're going to do in New Orleans."
"Mine not to reason why, Ma'am, mine but to ride into the Valley of Death, or wherever it is. You keep forgetting, Ma'am, that I'm just a lousy first lieutenant, and they don't bother to tell me a hell of a lot. Just do it."
She chuckled.
He purposefully changed the subject. "Jim's pistol is in the glove compartment. Did you know that?"
"That's my pistol," Martha said. "His guns are in town. They had to inventory them when they probated the will. You got them, too, of course, except for the .250-3000 Savage. Beth killed her first deer with that, and he thought she should have it."
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 airportI'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.