The Reunion. Fiction.

David arrived and vaguely looked around him, not knowing where to go until spotting the board saying, in those white removable letters so much favoured by hotels everywhere, THE HOLMBY HILLS CLAN REUNION. An arrow pointed at a door to the right of the reception desk.
He pushed open the door and casually walked in, as if completely at his ease. He wasn’t, but that was his way. A gentleman of the old school should never show any emotion except when he wanted it to be seen. As was his habit, he reached into the inside pocket of his immaculately pressed and perfectly fitting white dinner jacket to pull out his gold case, open it and select a cigarette. Returning the case to its pocket, he produced a gold lighter, lit the cigarette and breathed in the smoke, thus settling his nerves.
‘David!’ said Humphrey, the Clan Founder, holding out his hand. ‘Welcome, my boy, welcome.’
Also already there was Ernest. He too offered his hand, and asked, ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Single Malt whiskey, double, no ice,’ replied David, adding, ‘tell me, what is this place? I had the devil’s own job to get here. I was given directions sending me the wrong way.’
‘Me too,’ said Humphrey. ‘I almost didn’t make it. But what the hell, we’re here now.’

‘Here’ was a large white room with no windows and no apparent light source. Which was a puzzle. The room was as bright as a sunny spring day, with a wonderful fresh clean atmosphere. Even the smoke and tobacco smells were quickly neutralized to nothing. Waiting to be used was a pool table with cues in a rack, several card tables and a well-stocked drinks and cigarette bar. A notice told customers to help themselves.
The three men could not have been more different in appearance and manner. Humphrey was a short almost skinny man with a grizzled lived-in face. He was direct in manner, with a working class taste in clothes, and he chained smoked a rough, smelly brand of Mexican cigarettes. His harsh gravelly voice made his every statement sound like a challenge or an accusation, but his friends knew him to be a truly wonderful man.
Ernest was tall, wide of shoulder and swarthy of skin. Below his thick black hair, a pair of bright sparkling brown eyes was his dominant feature. Below the eyes, a bushy mustache hid a boyish grin. Ernest’s preferred smoke was a large cigar made in Tampa, Florida.
David too was tall. Tall and slim. Always immaculately dressed as though he was about to enter the Ritz Hotel, he sported a small mustache under his thin nose. He was extraordinarily handsome, finely chiselled, with just a suggestion of delicate sensitivity that drove some women crazy, but delicate he wasn’t. He was well known to be tough, well able to handle all that life could throw at him.

Within The Holmby Hills Clan, all three men enjoyed a high level of friendship and respect. They, in turn, respected every other member. You see, to be admitted as a member of this group, a person had to a proven rebel, or a scallywag, or a roué – or all three. In addition, every member must have gained a reputation for living a full life according to their own rules and their own individual code of honour. To paraphrase the words of a well-known song, they did things their way.
‘Been waiting long?’ asked David.
‘I got here early to find this side room reserved especially for us,’ replied Humphrey. ‘I didn’t book it. My guess is that our reputation has preceded us and the management wants to separate us from the other guests.’
‘That’s best,’ observed David. ‘Wherever we go, trouble is usually close behind.’
Ernest chipped in. ‘David, I know that you are a stickler for punctuality, but this time you’ve got to make allowances. I have it on good authority that every new arrival will be late.’
David silently nodded, puzzled as to why Ernest was chuckling at his own joke.
The three men drank and smoked. Suddenly the door opened and in bustled Samuel. Small and thin, he glared out of his one good eye. With a huge smile, he shook hands with the other three.
‘Gee, it’s good to see you again,’ he said, full of his usual fun and vitality. ‘I had a terrible time. Thought I would never get here. Three times I set out, only to be called back. The fourth time, I rushed off before anyone could stop me, and here I am, full of life and ready to go.’

Pretty soon they were all there. Tall suave and sophisticated Peter arrived, quickly followed by the Admiral, and lastly, in walked the General. For this meeting, the group was complete. After handshakes, drinks and cigarettes, a door that nobody had noticed, silently opened.
‘Time to go,’ said Humphrey, putting out his cigarette and swallowing the last of his drink. ‘Come on guys. Its curtain-up and we are on.’
From somewhere a voice boomed, ‘It is my pleasure to introduce the members of The Holmby Hills Clan.’ A short pause followed whilst the members assembled. The voice boomed again.
‘Humphrey Bogart. Founder of the Clan.’
‘Ernie Kovacs.’
‘David Niven.’
‘Sammy Davis Junior.’
‘Peter Lawford.’
‘Dean Martin, also known as the Admiral.’
‘And lastly, Frank Sinatra, known as the General.’
A new voice, so soft and gentle it could have belonged to a man or a woman, directed itself to the new arrivals. ‘All of you were destined for the other place until I intervened. You could say I pulled rank. You can now brag that you have influence that goes right to the top. Have a great time guys. You are sorely missed on earth, making you deserving cases for eternal happiness in Heaven. Enjoy yourselves, you’ll be a long time dead!’
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