"I wanted them," Clete explained reasonably. "You can't just walk into the optical department of Maison Blanche and buy them anymore. The Navy takes all that Bausch and Lomb can make."
"The morality of the question never entered your mind?" Martha asked, with a tolerant smile.
"Oh, but it did. Since they had already been stolen, I decided the higher morality was to make sure they were put to use by a bona fide commissioned officer of the Naval Service, such as myself, rather than, for example, by some tout watching the ponies run at the racetrack."
"You have a screw loose, you know that? Your deck of cards is at least four or five short of the necessary fifty-two. A genetic flaw from your father's side," the Old Man said, and then had what he thought was a sudden insight. "You're pulling our leg, right? Taking advantage of an old man and woman who trust you?"
"Pulling your leg about what?"
The Old Man looked at him suspiciously, then changed the subject.
"Tell me about the Navy Cross," he demanded. "The Senator said the citation was very vague."
"You really want to know?"
"No. Not really. Why should I care how my only grandson earned the nation's second-highest award for gallantry?"
"I'd like to know too," Martha said.
"Well, there I was, cruising along at ten thousand feet, with nothing between me and the earth but a thin blonde . . ."
"Oh, God!" Martha said.
"Spare us your vulgar sense of humor, if you please," the Old Man said sternly, but unable to keep a smile from his lips. "You will have to excuse my grandson, Mr. Needham. He frequently forgets we tried to raise him to be a gentleman."
"I'd venture to say, Mr. Howell, that the Major is simply being modest," Mr. Needham said.
"I suppose that's possible," the Old Man said, visibly pleased. "Unlikely, but possible." He changed the subject: "Well, at least we've had the chance to make sure the portrait is technically accurate, haven't we? There was a problem of time. My grandson returns to duty tomorrow."
"Oh, is that so?" Needham replied. "Where are you going, Major? Or isn't a civilian supposed to ask? 'Loose Lips Sink Ships'?"
"Actually, I'm going to Buenos Aires," Clete said. "And, so far as I know, that's not a military secret."
"Buenos Aires?" Needham asked.
"It's in Argentina," the Old Man offered helpfully.
"About as far from the war as you can get," Clete said.
"Thank God for that," Martha said.
"Cletus has been appointed Assistant Naval Attach? at our embassy there," the Old Man said.
"That sounds very interesting," Needham said. "I don't know anything about Argentina, except, you know, what is it they call their cowboys?"
"Gauchos," Clete said.
"And lovely dark-eyed Se?oritas . . ."
"And some lovely blue-eyed Se?oritas," Clete said, thinking of one of the latter in particular.
"Oh, really?" Martha said, picking up on that. "Has your blue-eyed Se?orita got a name?"
"You sound like you've been there before," Needham said, sparing Clete from having to respond to Martha.
"Yes, I have."
"Unfortunately, he was born there," the Old Man said.
"Really?"
Clete gave the Old Man a warning look. The Old Man met his eyes defiantly, but after a moment, backed off.
"I hope you haven't made plans for dinner, Cletus," the Old Man said. "For reasons I can't imagine, Martha just told me she wants to go to Arnaud's."
"No, Sir," Clete said. "I was planning to have dinner here, with you."
"Another indication that you're not playing with a full deck," the Old Man said. "Why in the world would you prefer to have dinner with me, as opposed to having dinner with a young woman very likely to be dazzled by your uniform and medals?"
"Because you are my grandfather, and despite some monumental flaws of your own, I would rather spend time with you than anyone else I can think of except Martha."
The Old Man looked at him. Tears formed in his eyes. He turned and went to the wall and pulled the call bell.
Jean-Jacques Jouvier appeared almost immediately.
"Call Arnaud's," the Old Man ordered, his voice sounding strange. "Tell them I require a private dining room for three at eight. Tell themunderstanding this dinner is important to methey may prepare whatever they wish. Arrange for the car at 7:45. And when you've done that, bring us another round of Sazeracs."
Jean-Jacques nodded and left the room.
The Old Man looked at Clete, then pointed at the uniform tunic on the red leather couch.
"Since it's already off its hanger, would it be inconvenient for you to wear
that?"
"Not at all," Clete said. "Is Arnaud's offering a discount for servicemen?"
"I don't know," the Old Man said. "But now that you've mentioned it, I'll be sure to ask."
[THREE]
Arnaud's Restaurant
The Vieux Carre
New Orleans, Louisiana
2030 5 April 1943
When the 1938 Durham-bodied Cadillac pulled up to the over-the-sidewalk canopy of the French Quarter Landmarkit was said that the Marquis de Lafayette wanted to dine at Arnaud's but couldn't get a tableone of the proprietors, who was functioning as the maitre d'hotel, 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.