Read Online Word of Honor by Nelson DeMille - Free Book Online
Authors: Nelson DeMille
Tags: Fiction, General, LEGAL, Suspense, Mystery Fiction, War stories, Vietnam War; 1961-1975, Vietnamese Conflict; 1961-1975
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Side, whose population leaned as far to port as Garden City's citizens leaned starboard. And Marcy, he knew, wanted to move back to her old stomping grounds. As if she'd read his thoughts, she said, "You can't live here anymore, you know. "
"I can live wherever the hell I please."
"But you can't." Marcy retreated into a moody silence. Just when Tyson thought he was on the verge of a marital dispute, she laughed unexpectedly. He glanced at her. She said, "Do you realize we always pick a fight when we don't want to go someplace?"
"Yes, I realize that. This car has made more U-turns than a boomerang.
" He stopped the car under the hotel marquee. "But this time we've arrived at our planned destination. "
A green-liveried footman with top hat opened Marcy's door. An attendant held open Tyson's door, and Tyson exchanged the Volvo for a parking chit.
A doorman saluted as they passed inside to the pink marbled lobby. A handpainted sign announced:
THE NASSAU HOSPITAL AUXILIARY
ANNUAL CHARITY BALL
GRAND BALLROOM
The arrow pointed left.
Marcy said, "Let me buy you a drink first."
The tables in the dimly lit Hunt Room were full, but Tyson found an empty barstool and Marcy sat. Tyson stood beside her. He ordered a Scotch, and she ordered a glass of white wine. They both glanced around the room as their eyes adjusted to the low light, and nodded to a few people.
The drinks came, and Tyson stirred his Scotch. He said, "Am I crazy to come here? Or just brazen?"
Marcy picked up her wine. "At some point you'll know the answer to that.
Up to now, no one knows how to deal with you."
WORD OF HONOR e 55
Tyson leaned his back against the bar and again surveyed the room. English hunting prints on the paneled walls were a feeble reminder that the original Hunt Room had actually been a place where ladies and gentlemen of the Meadow Brook Hunt Club gathered after riding to hounds. Tyson mused, "I liked the old place better."
Marcy's eyes rolled. "Oh, Jesus, if I hear that one more time Jrom one of you original settlers, I'll puke."
"Well, it was a hell of a place." He added maliciously, "The Nassau County Republican Club had its headquarters in the old hotel. I used to do volunteer work for them. We had a Goldwater fund-raiser here in sixty-four."
"I'm getting sick."
He smiled, then sipped his Scotch and drew on his cigarette. "History," he said aloud. "Teddy Roosevelt stayed here often. Charles Lindbergh spent the week before his solo flight at the old hotel. Once, when I was on leave, I took the Lindbergh suite. Did I ever tell you that? I slept in the bed Lindbergh slept in. "
Marcy contrived a yawn and replied, "Based on what I've heard from people who don't romanticize the old fleabag, you probably slept in the same sheets, too. "
Tyson stared into the dark recesses of the lounge. The clientele in the pre-World War I era included Astors, Morgans, Vanderbilts, Hewitts, Jays, Belmonts, Harrimans, even Lillian Russell. But history was a continuum.
Someday, someone sitting where he was now sitting would say that Benjamin Tyson had frequented the new Hunt Room.
Benjamin who?
The guy who was court-martialedfor murder. Remember? It was in all the papers. The hospital massacre in Vietnam.
Oh, right. He used to drink here? No kidding?
But that was future history. In the old Hunt Room, when he was drunk, he'd conjure up images of the past, especially the aviation greats who had drunk there between the world wars: Glenn Curtiss, Jimmy Doolittle, Billy Mitchell, Lawrence Sperry, Amelia Earhart, Leroy Grumman. . . . Tyson recalled his boyhood dream to be a fighter pilot, as his father had been; he thought of his plastic model of the Grumman Hellcat and wondered what had become of it. The world
56 0 NELSON DEMILLE
spun too fast now, and Tyson knew he would never fly a Grumman Hellcat, but what was worse, the desire to do so was dead.
Marcy broke into his thoughts. "Another?"
He turned his head toward her. "One more."
She
"I can live wherever the hell I please."
"But you can't." Marcy retreated into a moody silence. Just when Tyson thought he was on the verge of a marital dispute, she laughed unexpectedly. He glanced at her. She said, "Do you realize we always pick a fight when we don't want to go someplace?"
"Yes, I realize that. This car has made more U-turns than a boomerang.
" He stopped the car under the hotel marquee. "But this time we've arrived at our planned destination. "
A green-liveried footman with top hat opened Marcy's door. An attendant held open Tyson's door, and Tyson exchanged the Volvo for a parking chit.
A doorman saluted as they passed inside to the pink marbled lobby. A handpainted sign announced:
THE NASSAU HOSPITAL AUXILIARY
ANNUAL CHARITY BALL
GRAND BALLROOM
The arrow pointed left.
Marcy said, "Let me buy you a drink first."
The tables in the dimly lit Hunt Room were full, but Tyson found an empty barstool and Marcy sat. Tyson stood beside her. He ordered a Scotch, and she ordered a glass of white wine. They both glanced around the room as their eyes adjusted to the low light, and nodded to a few people.
The drinks came, and Tyson stirred his Scotch. He said, "Am I crazy to come here? Or just brazen?"
Marcy picked up her wine. "At some point you'll know the answer to that.
Up to now, no one knows how to deal with you."
WORD OF HONOR e 55
Tyson leaned his back against the bar and again surveyed the room. English hunting prints on the paneled walls were a feeble reminder that the original Hunt Room had actually been a place where ladies and gentlemen of the Meadow Brook Hunt Club gathered after riding to hounds. Tyson mused, "I liked the old place better."
Marcy's eyes rolled. "Oh, Jesus, if I hear that one more time Jrom one of you original settlers, I'll puke."
"Well, it was a hell of a place." He added maliciously, "The Nassau County Republican Club had its headquarters in the old hotel. I used to do volunteer work for them. We had a Goldwater fund-raiser here in sixty-four."
"I'm getting sick."
He smiled, then sipped his Scotch and drew on his cigarette. "History," he said aloud. "Teddy Roosevelt stayed here often. Charles Lindbergh spent the week before his solo flight at the old hotel. Once, when I was on leave, I took the Lindbergh suite. Did I ever tell you that? I slept in the bed Lindbergh slept in. "
Marcy contrived a yawn and replied, "Based on what I've heard from people who don't romanticize the old fleabag, you probably slept in the same sheets, too. "
Tyson stared into the dark recesses of the lounge. The clientele in the pre-World War I era included Astors, Morgans, Vanderbilts, Hewitts, Jays, Belmonts, Harrimans, even Lillian Russell. But history was a continuum.
Someday, someone sitting where he was now sitting would say that Benjamin Tyson had frequented the new Hunt Room.
Benjamin who?
The guy who was court-martialedfor murder. Remember? It was in all the papers. The hospital massacre in Vietnam.
Oh, right. He used to drink here? No kidding?
But that was future history. In the old Hunt Room, when he was drunk, he'd conjure up images of the past, especially the aviation greats who had drunk there between the world wars: Glenn Curtiss, Jimmy Doolittle, Billy Mitchell, Lawrence Sperry, Amelia Earhart, Leroy Grumman. . . . Tyson recalled his boyhood dream to be a fighter pilot, as his father had been; he thought of his plastic model of the Grumman Hellcat and wondered what had become of it. The world
56 0 NELSON DEMILLE
spun too fast now, and Tyson knew he would never fly a Grumman Hellcat, but what was worse, the desire to do so was dead.
Marcy broke into his thoughts. "Another?"
He turned his head toward her. "One more."
She
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