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  He did not seem wholly satisfied, but he handed the card back, said, ‘‘I thought you had to wear your uniform,’’ and turned to make a Sazerac.

  Clete was about to put the card back in his wallet when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned and saw one of the Shore Patrolmen standing beside him, and the second SP standing behind the first.

  ‘‘Could I have a look at that, please?’’ the SP said politely, but it was a demand, not a request.

  Clete nodded and handed it to him. The SP went through the business of comparing the photograph on the card with Clete’s face, then held the card over his shoulder so the other SP could have a look.

  ‘‘It looks, Sir,’’ the SP said, ‘‘like you’re out of uniform. Could I have a look at your orders, please, Sir?’’

  Clete reached into the inside pocket of the seersucker jacket and came out with a single sheet of mimeograph paper, folded twice. He handed this to the SP, who unfolded it.

  ‘‘Paragraph seven authorizes me to wear civvies,’’ he said.

  The SP found Paragraph 7, read it, and then showed the orders to the SP standing behind him and stuck out his lower lip, registering surprise.

  ‘‘I never saw orders like that, Sir,’’ the SP said. ‘‘But I guess it’s all right. Sorry to have troubled you, Sir.’’

  Clete smiled and nodded, and put the orders back in his pocket. Then he turned back to the bar as his Sazerac was served.

  He laid a five-dollar bill on the bar, then picked up his Sazerac and took a sip. It was a lousy Sazerac, as he was afraid it would be. When he was a student at Tulane he’d had enough of them to become a judge. And had painfully learned that the second would taste better than the first, the third better than the second, and the fourth would strike one treacherously in the back of the head, causing one so stupid as to drink that many to lose not only inhibitions but often consciousness and all memory of what happened subsequently.

  Sazerac drinking had another facet, he thought, as he took a second sip. When fed to a well-bred young woman, taking care to administer the proper dosage—an overdose usually produced a number of unpleasant side effects, ranging from nausea to unconsciousness—quite often produced both a diminishment of inhibitions and a concomitant urge to couple.

  Get thee behind me, Satan! he thought, when he realized the direction his mental processes were taking him. That sort of thing is in your past. You are no longer free to nail any female you can entice into a horizontal position. Your watchword, like that of the goddamn U.S. Marine Crotch itself, is now Semper Fidelis, always faithful.

  He drained his glass, and felt the alcohol warm his veins. He picked up his change, shouldered his way back out of the Café Lafitte onto Bourbon Street, and headed toward Canal Street, where, he thought, with a little bit of luck he would find a taxi.

  [TWO] 3470 St. Charles Avenue New Orleans, Louisiana 1905 5 April 1943

  The taxi dropped Major Cletus Howell Frade off at the curb before a very large, very white, turn-of-the-century ornate, three-story frame mansion on St. Charles Avenue, the tree-lined main boundary of the section of New Orleans known as the Garden District.

  He crossed the sidewalk, opened a gate in the cast-iron fence that separated an immaculate lawn from the street, and walked up the brick path onto the porch, fishing for keys in his pocket. Before he could put them in the lock, the leaded-window door swung inward.

  A silver-haired, very light-skinned Negro butler wearing a gray linen jacket smiled at him.

  ‘‘What were you doing, Jean-Jacques? Peeking through the curtains, waiting for me?’’

  ‘‘I just happened to be looking out the window, Mr. Cletus, ’’ Jean-Jacques replied. ‘‘Miss Martha’s here, Mr. Cletus. ’’

  ‘‘Miss Martha,’’ the former Martha Reed Williamson, was Clete’s aunt and the widow of the late James Fitzhugh Howell. Her husband had died instantaneously of a cerebral hemorrhage en route from the bar to the men’s room of the Midland Petroleum Club shortly after Clete had flown his Wildcat off the escort carrier USS Long Island onto Guadalcanal ’s Henderson Field.

  ‘‘She is?’’ Clete asked, surprised. He had said goodbye to Martha in Midland three days before. ‘‘The girls?’’

  The girls were his cousins, Elizabeth (Beth), who was twenty-one and about to graduate from Rice, and Marjorie, who was nineteen and in her sophomore year at that institution. Miss Martha became pregnant with Beth shortly after she took into her bride’s home the two-year-old son of her husband’s sister, Eleanor Patricia Frade, deceased. She raised Clete as her own, and her daughters and her nephew always thought of themselves as brother and sisters.

  Jean-Jacques shook his head, ‘‘no.’’ Clete was disappointed. Marjorie and Beth seemed to be less a royal pain in the ass recently than earlier on.

  ‘‘Miss Martha drove up from Houston,’’ Jean-Jacques said. ‘‘Got here just after you went to town. Must have gotten up in the middle of the night to start out.’’

  He pointed at a Kraft paper bag in Clete’s hand. ‘‘You want me to put that in your room for you? They’re in the library, and I know he and Miss Martha have been peeking out the curtains looking for you.’’

  ‘‘He’’ was Cletus Marcus Howell, master of the house, Chairman of the Board of Howell Petroleum, and Clete’s grandfather.

  ‘‘No, thanks, I want another look at it.’’

  ‘‘Anything I can get for you?’’

  ‘‘No, thanks,’’ Clete replied, and then changed his mind. ‘‘Yeah, there is. I just had a god-awful Sazerac, and I’d like a good one.’’

  ‘‘My pleasure,’’ Jean-Jacques said. ‘‘One Jean-Jacques Jouvier world-famous Sazerac coming right up.’’

  Clete crossed the wide foyer and entered the library.

  A tall, pale, slender, sharp-featured, silver-haired man glowered at him. He was wearing a superbly tailored dark blue, faintly pin-striped three-piece suit, with a golden watch chain looped across his stomach.

  ‘‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘Ran out of rotgut in the Vieux Carre, did they?’’

  ‘‘Grandfather,’’ Clete said, and walked to his aunt Martha, a tanned, stocky, short-haired blond woman, and kissed her cheek.

  ‘‘He had no way of knowing I was coming,’’ she said, defending him.

  ‘‘What brings you here?’’ Clete asked.

  ‘‘What do you think? I wanted to see you before you left,’’ Martha said.

  ‘‘I’m flattered,’’ he said.

  ‘‘You know Mr. Needham, I believe, Cletus?’’ the Old Man said.

  ‘‘No, Sir, I don’t believe I do.’’

  Mr. Needham was a bald, nearly obese middle-aged man who had removed his jacket and rolled up his white shirtsleeves so that he could more easily practice his art.

  He was standing before an oil portrait of Cletus Howell Frade in a Marine Officer’s dress-blue uniform. He turned to look at Clete, smiled, wiped his hand on a rag, and extended it to Clete.

  ‘‘I’m honored to meet you, Sir,’’ he said. ‘‘A genuine privilege to meet one of our country’s heroes.’’

  Clete looked uncomfortable.

  ‘‘How do you do?’’ he said, then: ‘‘I didn’t know you could do that.’’

  ‘‘Do what?’’ his grandfather asked.

  ‘‘What’s the word? ‘Fix’? ‘Change’? Go back and change one of those once it was done.’’

  ‘‘Of course you can. That’s an oil portrait, not a photograph, ’’ the Old Man said.

  ‘‘I’m really glad you’re here, Major,’’ Mr. Needham said. ‘‘I want everything to be just right.’’

  He pointed to Clete’s dress-blue tunic, laid out, complete to Sam Browne belt and officer’s saber, against the back of a red leather couch.

  ‘‘I had Antoinette bring that down from your room,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘Mr. Needham had little difficulty changing your rank insignia to a major’s. Your decorations—includ
ing that Navy Cross you somehow forget to tell me about— posed more of a problem.’’

  ‘‘It looks fine to me,’’ Clete said after comparing the tunic with the nearly complete work on the portrait. ‘‘I’m really impressed with someone like you, Mr. Needham. I can’t draw a straight line.’’

  ‘‘How is it, Cletus,’’ the Old Man pursued, ‘‘that I had to learn of your Navy Cross from Senator Brewer?’’

  ‘‘What’s the name of that play? Much Ado About Nothing ?’’>

  ‘‘They don’t hand out the Navy Cross for nothing,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘You can tell us about it now.’’

  Jean-Jacques appeared with four Sazeracs in long-stemmed glasses on a silver tray.

  ‘‘Saved by the Sazeracs,’’ Clete said, taking one. ‘‘Thank you, Jean-Jacques.’’

  ‘‘I don’t recall asking for a Sazerac,’’ the Old Man said.

  ‘‘Not to worry, Jean-Jacques,’’ Martha said. ‘‘If he doesn’t want his, Mr. Needham, Cletus, and I will split it.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t say I didn’t want it, I said I didn’t remember asking for it,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘Thank you, Jean-Jacques. ’’

  Needham took his glass and raised it to Clete.

  ‘‘To your very good health, Sir,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘Hear, hear,’’ the Old Man said.

  Clete sipped his Sazerac, then set it down and opened the brown paper bag, taking from it a pair of binoculars.

  "What have you got there?" the old man asked.

  "A pair of Bausch and Lomb 8-by-57-mm binoculars,’’ Clete replied. ‘‘I just bought them. I’m sure they’re stolen.’’

  ‘‘What in the world are you talking about?’’

  ‘‘You asked what I have here, and I’m telling you.’’

  ‘‘If they’re stolen, where did you get them?’’ Martha asked.

  ‘‘In a pawnshop on Canal Street.’’

  He saw that the stolen binoculars now had the Old Man’s attention. With a little bit of luck, that would end the questioning about the Navy Cross.

  ‘‘Why do you think they’re stolen?’’ Martha pursued.

  The moment Clete saw the binoculars in the pawnshop he knew they were stolen. For one thing, there was a burnished area (freshly painted over) by the adjustment screw where the Navy customarily engraved USN and the serial number. For another, the price was right, and finally the pawnshop proprietor was exceedingly reluctant to provide a bill of sale. He reduced the price even further on the condition that Clete take possession without paperwork.

  Instead of a sense of outrage at the theft, Clete felt a certain admiration for the thief. It had been his experience as an officer of the Naval Service that the three most dif ficult things to steal from the Navy were pistols, binoculars, and aviator chronographs.

  When he was in Washington, where he had spent most of the last six weeks, he would not have been at all surprised if some dedicated, and outraged, Marine Corps supply officer had shown up at Eighth and Eye3—or for that matter, had burst into OSS Headquarters in the National Institutes of Health Building—and demanded either the returnof his Corps-issued Hamilton chronograph or payment therefore, since he was no longer in a flying billet.

  The first time he was shot down, he parachuted into the waters off Tulagi and was rescued by a PT boat. As they roared back to the ‘‘Canal,’’ her skipper suggested to him that if he put the Hamilton into his pocket, it might be considered ‘‘Lost In Combat.’’

  Since a small gift of a government-issued chronograph to a fellow officer of the Naval Service whose vessel had plucked him from shark-infested waters seemed appropriate, Lieutenant Frade took that Hamilton off his wrist and gave it to him, together with his saltwater-soaked .45 Colt automatic and its holster.

  He was, of course, issued another Hamilton chronograph and another .45, but only after a dedicated supply officer (literally during a Japanese strafing raid on Henderson Field) offered him the choice of either paying for both, or signing a two-page document swearing, under pain of perjury —the awesome punishments for which were spelled out in some detail on the form—that they had really and truly, Boy Scout’s Honor, cross my heart and hope to die, been lost in combat.

  He had paid. The Hamilton on his wrist now was still on some supply officer’s books somewhere.

  ‘‘Look here,’’ Clete said. ‘‘You can see where someone ground off ‘USN’ and the serial number.’’

  Martha looked, and then the Old Man looked.

  ‘‘If you believed them to be stolen, why did you buy them?’’ the Old Man asked, incredulously.

  ‘‘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 Attaché 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 señoritas . . .’’

  ‘‘And some lovely blue-eyed señoritas,’’ Clete said, thinking of one of the latter in particular.

  ‘‘Oh, really?’’ Martha said, picking up on that. ‘‘H
as your blue-eyed señorita 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 them—understanding this dinner is important to me—they 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