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.
“¿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.
“Sí, 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?”
“Sí, Señor. 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?