“What’s yer hurry?” DuBose said, but he had turned his attentions once more to Landry. “What d’yuh say?”
To my surprise Landry looked up at me. His wide-open eyes were eloquent. “Why not?” he said.
I felt a sudden twinge of alarm, the first sign of a creeping panic caused by an inchoate fear that the danger was not yet past — that we had, in fact, only skirted its perimeters.
In the end we went. Landry was keen on visiting DuBose’s “spread,” and the Texan had promised to show us over the grounds. I can explain my grudging acquiescence to the idea of going only by saying that, since I realized DuBose was one of the filthy rich oil millionaires of storied legend, and thus wielded such power, it would be foolish to resist. Plainly, his influence was pervasive throughout the county, and probably throughout the state, so anything I feared from him could come about just as easily here in the restaurant as on his estate.
We left the restaurant and headed towards the parking lot. The only car there was a Cadillac, a garish red in color. A stony-faced uniformed chauffeur sat behind the wheel. J.J. DuBose opened the door for us, and Landry got in first, then DuBose, so he was sitting between us. As I was getting in I noticed an enormous ornament on the hood, a praying angel that looked to have been forged from solid gold. I meant to ask DuBose about it, but never got the chance: I was struck speechless the moment I entered the car. It had a portable bar, a stereo, intercom, and telephone, and, my God, it was the biggest car I’d ever seen in my life.
DuBose never stopped talking once during our drive, which lasted over an hour. He moved from one subject to another with incomparable ease, from his cancer to his wildly successful career as an oil baron to his trips to Europe to his love of airplanes (particularly those of pre-World War II vintage) to his love for his departed wife and his estrangement from his ne’er-do-well son.
By the time the Cadillac turned into a gleaming metal gate with the single metallic letter D set into the intricate grillwork design high above, a roadway that might have led all the way to California stretched out before us, and I was more nervous than ever.
The driveway was exactly like the ideal of Landry’s dreams: a seemingly endless expanse of crushed stone and granite that eventually gave onto macadamized roadway. By then we were within sight of the estate itself, although “estate” does not begin to suggest the size and palatial splendor of it; nor does “palace,” with its vaguely European connotations of elegance and design. This mansion was thoroughly American in flavor and architecture; with its gabled front and tall stone columns, it suggested nothing so much as a monument, rather like the Lincoln Memorial. The only difference was this memorial was dedicated to a living man. I was reminded of Coleridge’s lines:
The Cadillac braked to a halt, and immediately there was a uniformed man opening the door on Landry’s side to let us out. DuBose continued his running description of the house and grounds without faltering or stopping for breath one single time.
“This here cost me six million to build in 19 an 56. That was a time when six million went considerable further than it does today, m’friend. Ah’ve had offers t’sell over the years, mostly from Texas oilmen like m’self, an ah’ve never considered em for more’n a second. No, thank y’all very much, I say, cause there’s s’much of my life wrapped up here. Where would I go if I was t’leave? Move into an apartment in Dallas? No, thank y’suh, I always say...”
He led us into the house, the uniformed servant slamming shut the door of the Cadillac after us. A second later, the chauffeur shot off down the road, presumably in the direction of the garage, which, for all I knew, might have been located in a neighboring state.
Once we were inside the house the contrast was startling. DuBose stopped speaking at once. His voice, along with the plaintive warbling of a mockingbird somewhere in the dying afternoon sun, had provided a cacaphony of sounds peculiarly Texan. Now all was silence, and it seemed to dwarf everything else, even J.J. DuBose himself.
Our footsteps echoed throughout the cavernous interior of what I assumed was the foyer as we paced across the marble floor just behind the rangy Texan. DuBose approached one particular door from among a half dozen, and swung it wide for us to enter after him.
We were in what looked like a library. Every wall but one seemed to be packed solid with books. In the center of the one bare wall was a long, polished mantel. Hung with great care on the dark oak wainscoting above the mantel were framed portraits under glass showing a younger but still recognizable J.J. DuBose, here with his arm around a smiling Ernest Hemingway in safari garb, here shaking hands with Joe Louis, both the boxer and the oil millionaire offering toothy smiles to the cameraman, and here kneeling beside Robert Ruark, in the twilight of his life, in the middle of what looked like an African veldt.
It is always a shock to see someone of your acquaintance in the company of the powerful or famous; in a sense it legitimatizes them, and so it was with J.J. DuBose, though I still had my doubts. Perhaps it was to assuage them that DuBose had brought us here.
“This yer’s m’den,” he said, indicating the room with a sweep of his enormous arm. I took in certain of the details: a gigantic writing desk, made of mahogany, complete with Rolodex, blotter, telephone, in/out tray, and an overstuffed, oversized easy chair. Everything is bigger in Texas.
“You boys hungry yet?” DuBose asked. “I’m starvin, m’self. You go on ahaid. Ah gotta make a phone call.”
We made our way out of the den with little difficulty, only to find ourselves in a corridor.
It was the first time I’d been alone with Landry Since meeting the Texan. I took hold of his arm. He turned around to face me. “We’re in a very dangerous situation,” I said.
Landry stared at me in disbelief. “Dangerous? What the hell are you talking about? I have a check for ten thousand dollars in my pocket, and we’re having dinner with probably the wealthiest man in this whole state. Dangerous... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He turned to go. I tightened my grip on his arm. “Steve,” I said. “We’re dealing with a crazy man. There’s no telling what he has in mind. Let’s get out of here.”
Landry stared hard at me. His eyes held a gleam I had never seen there before. “Let go of my arm,” he said coldly.
At that moment a small, dark-skinned man in a spotless white uniform appeared from a door at the end of the corridor and spoke to us in what was apparently English underneath an indecipherable accent. Then he waved his arm, indicating we should follow.
I let go of Landry’s arm. He turned his back on me and headed toward the door. After he disappeared inside the little man remained, waiting. Reluctantly, I followed.
J.J. DuBose joined us at the dinner table. After 15 minutes of small talk, to which I made only a minimal contribution (but in which Landry engaged readily, asking DuBose question after question regarding his wealth, holdings, and property), the Filipino cook returned, bearing a dinner tray, and began to lay out the courses one by one.
It must have been about then that I happened to look down at the places set for us, and gasped.
I had not noticed them before, but the eating utensils — fork, knife, spoon, and soup spoon — were fashioned of solid gold.
“They say y’can’t eat money, but dint say nothin bout eatin with it,” DuBose said. I looked up, startled at having heard my thoughts spoken aloud, and found the Texan seated across the table from me, doing his best to enact the role of the kindly benefactor, who, for all his wealth, was still just a touch provincial.