When the 1938 Durham-bodied Cadillac pulled up to the over-the-sidewalk canopy of the French Quarter Landmark —it was said that the Marquis de Lafayette wanted to dine at Arnaud’s but couldn’t get a table—one of the proprietors, who was functioning as the maître d’hôtel, and a waiter came out the door.
‘‘I was hoping you’d change your mind, again, Mr. Howell, ’’ the proprietor said as the Old Man, grunting, stepped out of the car.
‘‘I’d heard business was bad, but I wasn’t aware it was so bad you had to stand on the street shanghaiing customers, ’’ the Old Man said.
Clete laughed.
‘‘Stop that,’’ Martha said. ‘‘The last thing you want to do is encourage him.’’
‘‘You remember my daughter-in-law, of course, Edward? ’’ the Old Man asked.
‘‘Of course. Nice to see you again, too, Mrs. Howell.’’
‘‘And my grandson?’’
‘‘Of course. Miz Howell, Mr. Frade.’’
‘‘That’s Major Frade, Edward. What did you think he’s wearing? A doorman’s uniform?’’
‘‘It’s good to see you, too,’’ Clete said, shaking hands.
‘‘For reasons I cannot fathom, Mrs. Howell wished to have dinner here tonight, and my grandson went along with her. Personally, if this were to be my last meal in New Orleans for a while, I could think of half a dozen other places besides your greasy spoon,’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘Well, we’ll try to see that Major Frade doesn’t go away hungry.’’
‘‘That’ll be a pleasant change,’’ the Old Man said, and, following the waiter, walked into the restaurant. The proprietor, Martha, and Clete smiled at each other, shaking their heads. The proprietor bowed Martha into the restaurant ahead of him.
‘‘Would you like anything special?’’ the proprietor asked Clete. ‘‘All I heard was that the dinner was important to him. I didn’t know who.’’
‘‘How are the oysters?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘Compared to what?’’ the proprietor asked.
‘‘Hey, this is me, not my grandfather.’’ Clete chuckled.
‘‘How would you like them?’’
‘‘On the half-shell.’’
‘‘These are nice, you’ll like them,’’ the proprietor said. ‘‘I was going to suggest on the half-shell.’’
The little procession moved past the long line of people waiting for tables and on to the rear of the lower dining room. The Old Man, who had been taking half a dozen meals a week in Arnaud’s since he was twelve, was one of the rare exceptions to the rule that Arnaud’s did not accept reservations. A small room with a curtained door was waiting for them, the table set up elaborately, including a candelabra. Three wine coolers held napkin-wrapped bottles.
The proprietor took a bottle of champagne from one of them, skillfully popped the cork, and poured.
‘‘I don’t recall ordering champagne,’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘It’s for Mrs. Howell and Major Frade,’’ the proprietor said. ‘‘They, at least, appreciate a nice glass of wine.’’
‘‘Major Frade also expects a serviceman’s discount.’’
‘‘Tonight the serviceman’s discount, one hundred percent, applies to him and any of his lady guests. All others, of course, either pay or wash dishes.’’
‘‘If I have to pay, I will have a glass of water and some rolls and butter.’’
‘‘With the greatest of pleasure,’’ the proprietor said. ‘‘I will feed the porc Lafayette au beurre noir I had prepared for you to the cats in the alley.’’
‘‘If you prepared it, it’s probably chat Lafayette au beurre noir.’’
‘‘It wouldn’t matter if it was; you couldn’t tell the difference, ’’ the proprietor said. ‘‘I will leave you now, closing the curtain, so my paying customers will not see what I have hidden in the back room.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said, raising his glass.
‘‘Not at all,’’ the proprietor said. ‘‘My mother always taught me to be kind to the ill-bred, especially those on the edge of senility.’’
‘‘I told your father he was making a terrible mistake when he allowed you to wear shoes and told me he was going to try to teach you to read and write,’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘Bon appétit!’’ the proprietor said, and left them.
‘‘He’s not his father, of course,’’ the Old Man said, ‘‘but he does know food.’’
A waiter appeared with an enormous silver bucket full of iced oysters, put on a heavy canvas glove, and began to shuck them.
‘‘Is everyone having oysters?’’ he asked.
‘‘Of course,’’ the Old Man answered.
The Old Man waved them into chairs, sat down himself, and from an array of condiments began to concoct a sauce of ketchup, lemon juice, horseradish, and Tabasco.4
‘‘I saw him on the ’Canal, did I ever tell you?’’ Clete said.
‘‘You saw who on Guadalcanal?’’
‘‘Ed McIlhenny. He was a lieutenant. Platoon leader.’’
‘‘He’s back.’’
‘‘Is he all right?’’ Clete asked quickly, concern in his voice. The return of a Marine to the United States from Guadalcanal more often than not meant that he had suffered a wound too serious to be treated in the Pacific.
‘‘According to his father, as fit as a fiddle, and as proud as a peacock about being promoted to captain. His father asked about you, by the way.’’
‘‘I hope you told him they made me a major; that’ll take the wind out of Ed’s sails.’’
‘‘I did, in fact, mention it in passing,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘That took some of the wind out of his father’s sails, too.’’
He gave the cocktail sauce a final, satisfied stir with a spoon, then pushed the bowl to the center of the table. Clete dipped an oyster in it and ate it with satisfaction.
‘‘How do they eat their oysters in Argentina?’’ the Old Man asked.
‘‘They’re not big on seafood down there,’’ Clete said.
‘‘The reason I asked is that once I prepared a sauce like that for your father. He turned three shades of green, and I thought for a moment he was going to faint,’’ the Old Man said, obviously cherishing the memory.
‘‘They don’t spice their food very much,’’ Clete said, hoping that the Old Man’s comment was not the opening line in a conversation about his father.
‘‘I was wrong when I asked you, with Needham there, about your Navy Cross,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘I know what you did down there was classified, and I shouldn’t have asked.’’
Clete shrugged, signaling it didn’t matter.
‘‘You can tell us now,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘We’re alone.’’
Clete put another oyster in his mouth and shook his head resignedly.
‘‘The Senator told me,’’ the Old Man went on, ‘‘that the citation read, ‘for conspicuous gallantry, above and beyond the call of duty’—’’
‘‘They all say that,’’ Clete interrupted.
‘‘ ‘ . . . at great risk to his life.’ ’’
‘‘I didn’t hear that part, either, honey,’’ Martha said. ‘‘Can you tell us about it?’’
‘‘I’d rather not,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Please, Clete,’’ Martha said.
‘‘The Germans were supplying their submarines from a neutral vessel in the Bay of Samborombón—in the river Plate estuary,’’ Clete said, knowing there was no way he could get out of an explanation. ‘‘We took it out.’’
‘‘ ‘Took it out,’ meaning you sank it?’’ Martha asked.
Clete nodded.
‘‘How?’’
‘‘That’s classified.’’
‘‘The last time I looked, it was not this side of your family which could be fairly suspected of being Nazi sympathizers, ’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘That’s not true, Grandfather, and you should kno
w better. ’’
‘‘If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.’’
‘‘OK. And this is classified. I could get in a hell of a lot of trouble if they found out I’d told you about this.’’
‘‘Our lips are sealed.’’
‘‘We found the allegedly neutral supply vessel—it was flying a Portuguese flag. Tit for tat, the United States violated Argentine neutrality by sending a submarine into Samborombón Bay, Argentine waters, and the sub took out the supply ship.’’
‘‘There’s more to it than that. They didn’t give you the Navy Cross for finding a Portuguese freighter.’’
‘‘Yes, they did.’’
‘‘How did you find it?’’
‘‘With an airplane.’’
‘‘Where’d you get an airplane?’’
‘‘It was my father’s.’’
‘‘He’s changed sides, has he?’’ the Old Man asked, and then went on without giving Clete a chance to reply. ‘‘You said ‘was.’ Past tense. What happened to the airplane?’’
‘‘It went in the drink.’’
‘‘It crashed?’’ Martha asked.
Clete nodded.
‘‘It was shot down, is what you mean, right?’’ she pursued.
Clete nodded again.
‘‘You went out and found this German ship in an airplane, right? What kind of an airplane?’’
‘‘A Beech stagger-wing.’’
‘‘You went out in an unarmed civilian airplane, knowing full well you were going to get shot at, and probably shot down. Am I getting close?’’
‘‘You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.’’
‘‘Not ‘probably’ shot down. Almost certainly shot down. That’s why they gave you the Navy Cross. And promoted you to Major. You did what you saw as your duty, thinking you were going to get yourself killed. Modesty is a virtue, Cletus, but there is such a thing as carrying a virtue too far."
‘‘Have another oyster, Grandfather.’’
‘‘And what are you going to do down there now? The last time I spoke with Colonel Graham—’’
‘‘The last time you talked with Colonel Graham?’’
Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR, was a Deputy Director of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) and Clete’s immediate superior officer.
‘‘—he was pretty vague about what you’re going to be doing, in addition to being the Assistant Naval Attaché, I mean.’’
‘‘I’m surprised he talked to you at all,’’ Cletus said.
‘‘It turns out that not only does Howell Petroleum ship a lot of product on that railroad he used to run, but also that we have a number of mutual friends,’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘Senator Brewer, for example?’’
‘‘Him too, I suppose. His name never came up. And furthermore, as a favor to the OSS, I’m still carrying that Jew on the Howell books as an oil-depot expert. Of course, Graham talks to me. He knows where I stand in this war. Unlike some other kin of yours, I want our side to win.’’
‘‘I know how you feel about my father . . .’’
‘‘I should hope so.’’
‘‘. . . but I cannot sit here and by keeping my mouth shut tacitly agree to your characterization of him as a Nazi, an Axis sympathizer.’’
The Old Man snorted.
‘‘This is Clete’s last dinner,’’ Martha said entreatingly. ‘‘Do we have to get into it over Clete’s father?’’
‘‘Who’s fighting? I’m just calling a spade a spade.’’
‘‘And I don’t like your characterization of Ettinger as ‘that Jew.’ Christ, you had him to the house as your guest!’’
‘‘He’s an Israelite, isn’t he? What’s wrong with that?’’
‘‘I give up.’’
‘‘I have no idea what I’ve said that could possibly offend you,’’ the Old Man said.
A waiter appeared with small bowls filled with a reddish liquid.
‘‘Crawfish bisque, gentlemen,’’ he said.
‘‘Wonderful, he said, changing the subject,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Fine. You were telling me what you’re going to be doing for Colonel Graham in Argentina.’’
‘‘Whatever I’m told to do,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I expect to spend a lot of time on the canapé-and-idle-conversation circuit. ’’
‘‘In other words, you’re not going to tell me,’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘Right.’’
‘‘Why didn’t you just come right out and say it was none of my business?’’
‘‘It’s none of your business,’’ Clete said, laughing.
‘‘OK. That’s settled. What about Henry Mallín? Do you see much of him?’’
Enrico Mallín, an Anglo-Argentine called ‘‘Henry,’’ was Managing Director of the Sociedad Mercantil de Importaci ón de Productos Petrolíferos (SMIPP). Howell Petroleum, especially Howell Petroleum (Venezuela), was his primary source of crude petroleum and petroleum products.
‘‘From time to time,’’ Clete said, as a very clear picture of Señor Mallín’s daughter, Dorotéa, came into his mind’s eye.
‘‘It might pay you to cultivate him a little,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘I’ve seen some very interesting geological reports about—where is it the whales are?’’
‘‘Patagonia?’’
‘‘Patagonia. This war isn’t going to last forever, and I would be very interested in your opinion of Mallín. Is he, in other words, the man we should have down there to set up exploration for us?’’
‘‘You’re thinking of doing exploration down there? In Argentina?’’
‘‘I said ‘we’ and ‘us,’ ’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘You would actually invest your money in Argentina?’’
‘‘By the time this war is over, it will in all likelihood be your money . . .’’
Damn him! He didn’t say that to elicit my sympathy, but he is an old man, and he damned well might be dead before the war is over.
‘‘. . . and if that comes to pass, I want you to remember that I told you that oil is like money. It doesn’t matter where it comes from; it can be converted into cash.’’
‘‘I’ll try to remember that,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Don’t be smug from a position of ignorance, Cletus. Try to remember that, too. You really don’t know what this war is all about, do you?’’
‘‘In my ignorance, I’ve been under the impression we’re fighting this war because the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.’’
‘‘Why did they bomb Pearl Harbor?’’
‘‘That’s where our Pacific Fleet was.’’
‘‘Don’t you know, or are you being flip?’’
‘‘Tell me.’’
‘‘We’re fighting the Japanese—and for that matter, the Germans—over oil. Did you know that the Soviet Union has the largest oil reserves in the world?’’
‘‘No, I didn’t,’’ Clete said, genuinely surprised.
‘‘The Russians have oil, the Germans want it—need it desperately—so they went to war. Did you know that the German Army and Air Force are already using synthetic petroleum—they make it from coal—for twenty-five percent of their needs?’’
‘‘Where did you hear that?’’
‘‘From Colonel Graham,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘The Germans have damned little of their own petroleum reserves. Most of the crude they’re using, they’re getting from Romania. Did you know that?’’
Clete, more than a little chagrined, shook his head, ‘‘no.’’
‘‘You probably also thought that Royal Dutch—Shell— was getting its crude from windmill-powered pumps set up in tulip beds next to the dikes in Holland, right?’’
‘‘Either there or from the Permian Basin,’’ Clete said.
‘‘We—Uncle Jim and Martha—put down . . . Christ, I don’t know, thirty, forty exploratory holes for Shell outside Midland.’’
‘‘You got that right, at leas
t,’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘Sir?’’
‘‘You said ‘we put down holes.’ Right. Howell Petroleum put down exploratory holes on a participatory basis with Royal Dutch. Some of them even came in. Yes, we did, since the last I heard, Howell Petroleum is owned by the Howell family.’’
‘‘I know that,’’ Clete said, holding up both hands, palm outward, to shut him off.
Two waiters and a busboy appeared. Their appearance did not shut up the Old Man either.
‘‘And when the Good Lord sees fit to take me, with the Howell stock your mother—may she rest in peace—left you, and with what Jim—may he rest in peace—left you, and with what you’re going to get from me, you’re going to be the majority stockholder, so we’re not talking in the abstract, here, Cletus, we’re talking about real money!’’
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
One of the waiters ritualistically poured a half inch of a red wine in a glass for the Old Man’s approval. He picked it up and sipped it.
‘‘Well, this is better than the vinegar you tried to foist off on me the last time I came in here,’’ he said.
‘‘My day is now complete,’’ the waiter said.
‘‘And that,’’ the Old Man said, pointing to a sauce-covered pork tenderloin the other waiter was slicing, ‘‘is presumably the French fried cat?’’
‘‘Indeed it is, Sir,’’ the waiter slicing it replied. ‘‘When Old Tom got himself run over, we carefully preserved his carcass for a special occasion like this.’’
Clete, smiling, picked up his wineglass and took a sip.
‘‘I’m going to miss you,’’ he said.
‘‘When I’m gone, you mean? And well you should. I’m going to leave you a very rich young man.’’
‘‘I meant now, when I go to Argentina.’’
‘‘Oddly enough, I will miss you, too,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘We were talking about oil, or money, which is really the same thing.’’
‘‘We weren’t talking. You were delivering a lecture.’’
‘‘Royal Dutch has production all over the Far East,’’ the Old Man resumed his lecture. ‘‘There is no oil in the Japanese islands. The Japanese need oil, the Dutch have oil that can be stolen. Ergo, another war.’’
Christ, he’s probably right. I don’t know. When he starts off on one of these lectures to the ignorant, he makes me feel as if I’m thirteen years old and have just flunked World Politics I.
Blood and Honor Page 5
