The boy glared at him but didn’t reply.
“Clear, Randy? Say, ‘Yes, sir.’”
After a long moment, the boy nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“This is not to suggest that I am a man of principle and sterling character,” Castillo went on. “The opposite is true, as a great many people, including your mother, have learned from painful experience.
“And that’s the reason that your mother, when she found out that you were on the way . . .”
Castillo paused. He made a face as he visibly gathered his thoughts.
“Did I lie to your mother? Yes, I did. Did I feed her martinis knowing full well how they would affect her? You bet your ass I did. Did I take advantage of her naive notion that because I was a West Pointer I had the same moral attributes as her father and Lieutenant Randolph Richardson III—and that I would not lie, cheat, or steal to get what I wanted from her? You can bet your naive little ass I did.
“Getting the picture?”
Randy stood stone-faced.
“Your mother had a tough call to make. She had to decide between who would be the better father to the child she was carrying—a thoroughly decent man who loved her or . . .”
“You,” Randy said.
“. . . or a man who would lie, cheat, and steal to get whatever he wanted, and never lose a moment’s sleep over it. And it is now self-evident that she made the right decision.”
The boy just looked at him.
“So now you have a decision to make, Randy. You can wallow in self-pity—‘poor little me’—and tell everybody how everyone—your mother, your grandfather, me, Abuela, the man you call Uncle Fernando—has abused you. And if you do, the result of that will be that you will hurt, deeply hurt, not only all of them but also the only man who’s absolutely innocent in all of this—the man who has been
Castillo let that sink in a moment.
“Or . . . you can keep this secret a secret.”
After looking at Castillo for a full ten seconds, Randolph J. Richardson IV’s face contorted. He blurted, “I have to piss.”
Castillo pointed toward the bathroom door, and the boy ran to it.
They heard the door close, then the unmistakable sound of him being nauseated.
Castillo looked at Svet.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he said softly.
“How much of what you said to him was true?” she replied as softly.
“I don’t know, baby. I don’t even know what I said, or where it came from; my mouth was on autopilot.”
She ran the balls of her fingers down his cheek.
They heard the sound of water running for a long time, and when Randy came out, his new T-shirt was almost soaking wet.
“Want to borrow a shirt?” Castillo asked.
“If I did that, my father would ask what happened to this one,” the boy replied logically. “If I keep it on, it will dry pretty quick.”
“Makes sense. Your call.”
The boy met his eyes.
“If you’re really such an all-around sonof—
“I guess that’s your call, too, Randy,” Castillo said evenly.
Randy considered that, then nodded once.
“I guess, even after everything, I don’t think you’re a liar.”
“Well, counting Abuela, Max, and Svetlana, that’s three of you against the rest of the world.”
“Is that your real name? Svetlana?”
“Yes, it is.”
He looked back at Castillo. “You going to tell me what’s going on around here?”
“No.”
“I should have known that the story of you getting kicked out of the Army was bullshit.”
“Why?”
“Grandfather Wilson, when you started showing up at Abuela’s house when I was there, said I should never ask you what you do in the Army. He said you couldn’t talk about it, that you were an intelligence officer. He said that General McNab told him you were the best one he’d ever known.”
It took Castillo a good fifteen seconds to find his voice.
Finally, he said, “Well, Randy, your grandfather and General McNab, between you and me, are a little too fond of the bottle. When they’ve been at it, you just can’t believe anything they say.”
The boy smiled at him.
Castillo turned to Svetlana.
“Randy and I are about to have our breakfast. Following which, I will locate the ogre in his den and introduce Randy to him. Would you care to join us for either or both?”
“Ogre? Is that what you call General McNab?” Randy asked.
“Only behind his back,” Castillo said.
“Do they have those flat little round cakes with that sauce they bleed from the tree?” Svetlana asked.
Randy looked at her in confusion a moment, then understood. “If you’re talking about buckwheat pancakes with genuine Vermont maple syrup, yes, ma’am, they do.”
“Can you handle calling room service, Randy?” Castillo asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And while he’s doing that, my Carlos, you can put on your pants.”
[THREE]
It was not necessary to locate the ogre in his den.
As they were finishing their breakfast, there came a knock at the door. Castillo opened it, and through it marched Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, now in camouflage BDUs, trailed by Lieutenant Colonel Peter Woods and Major Homer Foster, similarly attired.
“I see I’m wrong,” McNab greeted them. “That does happen from time to time, despite what you’ve probably heard.”
“Sir?”
“You’re out of bed. I gave Foster ten-to-one we’d have to throw you out of bed and then watch you eat.”
McNab walked into the living room.
“You look like you’re about to attack Baghdad,” Svetlana said.
“Good morning,” McNab said to her. “And I’ve already done that twice.” He turned to Woods. “Get the others up here.”
“Yes, sir,” Woods said, and headed for the telephone.
McNab spotted Randy.
“I thought it was the young females of the species who wore wet T-shirts,” he said.
“General,” Castillo said, “this is Randolph Richardson the Fourth.”
“Really?” McNab said. He looked at Castillo. “I know your father.”
McNab redirected his attention to the boy. “And, of course, your grandfather. If you will give me your word to give General Wilson my best regards, I will give you my word that I will keep that cross-dresser’s wet T-shirt
