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“. . . and your only option about our talking is when we do it.”

“Let’s get it over with.”

Clete tapped his glass to Jimmy’s.

“Okay. Bad news first. The Old Man’s had a heart attack.”

“Jesus!”

“That’s the reason I went to Midland. It was what Souers suggested in there, that it was another example of my tendency to act impulsively. I went only after I put everything on the scale and decided, fuck the OSS, they’ve just buried the Squirt, the Old Man had a heart attack, my family needs me. Making that decision took me all of two seconds.”

“How is he?”

“When your father called me . . . it was the usual lousy connection . . . he said that the Old Man had had a heart attack on his Connie on their way out there, and they diverted to Dallas and rushed him to Parkland Hospital. He said it didn’t look good, and that he would keep me posted.

“Hansel was with me. I told him to get out to Jorge Frade and get one of our Connies ready while I found our wives and told them why we would be out of town for a few days.

“That of course didn’t work. Argentine women are big on family. When we took off an hour later, my wife and kids and Hansel’s wife and kid were aboard. And so were two nannies, two hundred pounds of kiddy supplies, and Gonzalo Delgano—”

“Who?”

“You met him. He’s SAA’s chief pilot.”

Cronley shook his head indicating he didn’t remember.

“And another pilot, a radio operator/navigator, and a steward. Gonzo was not about to have the boss go flying in the fragile mental condition he was already in caused by the death of his sister, and further aggravated by the grave illness of his grandfather.

“Actually, I was pretty touched even though I wanted to go alone.

“About twenty-one hours later, we touched down at Mid

land—Gonzo graciously gave me the left seat for the final leg—and I looked out the window and there’s the Old Man leaning on the fender of his Town and Country—you know, that enormous station wagon?”

“I’ve seen one or two.”

“He was waiting for us. With Souers.”

“I thought you said he had a heart attack?”

“My grandfather, with a straight face, said he had a little too much to drink on the airplane. Dr. Neiberger, at the Squirt’s wake, or viewing, or whatever the hell they call it, told me he had had a ‘medium to severe’ heart attack probably brought on by stress. Aside from a daily aspirin—honest to God, an aspirin, to thin the blood—and avoiding stress, there wasn’t much else that could be done for him. Neiberger also said the only way to keep him in the hospital would have been by force, and that would cause precisely the kind of stress he should avoid.”

He paused, then said admiringly, “That Old Man is one tough sonofabitch.”

“Yes, he is.”

“I suppose you want to hear about the viewing and the interment.”

“No, I don’t.”

Clete did not miss a beat: “The Squirt had a lot of friends and they all showed up, including a delegation of her sorority sisters from Rice. You, surprisingly, have more friends than I would have guessed and they all showed up, including a delegation from A&M who served as Marjie’s pallbearers.”

Jimmy suddenly felt his chest heave in an enormous sob. His eyes began to water.

“All in all,” Clete said—and then his voice broke. After a moment, and with great difficulty, he was able to finish, “It was quite an event.”

He picked up the bottle of Dewar’s and added to both their glasses.

“She was buried at Big Foot, of course. On your side.”