Death and Honor

“May I have your attention, please, gentlemen?” the Border Patrol captain said, raising his voice. “If you’ll gather around me, please?”

He waited until they had done so, then said: “This is the Chateau Marmont Hotel, where for the next day or two you’ll be housed as the guests of the Lockheed Aircraft Company. You are not permitted to leave the hotel grounds, and you are not permitted to use the telephone or send a telegram or a letter. You will not be permitted visitors. If you violate any of these simple rules, you will lose your status as ‘detainees’ and be arrested, handcuffed, and taken to the Los Angeles County Jail for illegal crossing of the United States border.

“My advice, gentlemen, is to enjoy Lockheed’s hospitality until your status can be cleared up. If you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about. Welcome to Los Angeles and the United States.”

He waved them toward a wide, shallow, curving flight of stairs that apparently led to the hotel’s interior.

[FOUR]

The room to which Frade was taken was more like a small apartment—a real apartment, he thought, not a hotel apartment. It had a comfortable bedroom, a complete kitchen with a full-size refrigerator and gas stove, a dining table that could easily seat six, and a large, well-furnished living room—which made him wonder what the Chateau Marmont was really all about.

The refrigerator held a half-dozen bottles of beer, and he grabbed one by the neck, opened it, and took a healthy swallow. Then he sat at the table.

He realized that he was really exhausted and that that had caused him to almost lose his temper. Twice. Once, about being “detained,” and, the second time, when the customs officer had made the crack about him possibly being a draft dodger.

Well, I didn’t, thank God.

And I got everybody here from Buenos Aires.

So, after I finish this beer, I’ll grab a shower, then get in the rack, and when I wake up, I’ll be full of piss and vinegar and able to decide rationally what to do next.

I’m not really in trouble. And my ace-in-the-hole is Graham. I’d call him now if I wasn’t convinced the Border Patrol hadn’t cut off the phones.

As he finished his beer, he glanced at the telephone beside the table and, just to be sure, put the phone to his ear. It was dead.

He gave the finger in the direction of the front door, the Border Patrol captain being somewhere the other side of it, and then went into the bedroom, found his toilet kit, and went into the bath and took a long shower and then shaved.

He decided that a second bottle of beer was in order, and wrapped a towel around his waist and went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There were three bottles of beer in it.

I’d have sworn there were a half-dozen the first time I was in here.

He took one of the remaining bottles and looked for the opener.

Where did I put the goddamn bottle opener?

He went to the stove to open the bottle using the edge of the stove. When he sort of squatted to see that he would open the bottle and not break its neck, the towel around his waist fell to the ground.

He rather loudly uttered a lengthy vulgar and obscene curse in the Spanish language, then with the heel of his hand knocked the cap neatly off the bottle.

He had just put the bottle to his lips when a familiar voice said, “Unless you knew better, you’d never guess that that sewer-mouthed, naked man in dire need of a haircut was a Marine officer, would you, Howard?”

“Oh, I could,” another male voice said. “You can always tell a Naval Aviator by the tiny dick and huge wristwatch.”

Frade snatched the towel from the floor, wrapped it around himself again, and went into the living room. There the mystery of the missing beer bottles was explained, as was the missing bottle opener.

Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR, was seated in an armchair and holding one of the bottles. Howard Hughes, sitting in a matching armchair across the coffee table from Graham, held another bottle. The opener was on the table between them.

Hughes wore scuffed brown half-Wellington boots, stiffly starched khakis, a crisp white-collared shirt, and an aviator’s leather jacket. Even slumped in the armchair, it was clear that he was a commanding and confident figure: a tall— if somewhat sinewy—ruggedly handsome man with slicked-back black hair and deeply intelligent eyes.

“How goes it, Clete?” Hughes said casually in a clearly obvious but not thick Texas accent. “Long time no see.”