“Why don’t we sit down?” Graham asked, and sat down.
Clete set his glass on the table and sat down across from him.
Another very black barman in a very white jacket appeared almost immediately.
“I’ll have whatever Mr. Frade is drinking,” Graham said. He turned and smiled at Frade. “Very nice place,” he said.
“You have any trouble finding it?”
“No. I called your aunt from the airport—I’m on my way to California again, and the pilot said he could refuel here just as well as someplace else. So I told him to stop here.”
“What are you in?” Clete interrupted, in a pilot-Pavlovian reflex.
“A TBF”—a torpedo bomber—“on its way to San Diego,” Graham said. “Anyway, your aunt Martha said you would either be at her house or here; and she gave me the number. So I called the house and a very nice lady told me I’d just missed you and that you were coming here.”
“Juanita,” Frade said.
“We had a nice little chat about you,” Graham said. “You apparently learned your Spanish from her?”
Frade nodded. “She was my aunt Martha’s nurse when she was a child in East Texas. And then she came out here when my aunt was married and started all over again with me.”
The waiter delivered Graham’s drink.
Graham took an appreciative sip, waited until the waiter was out of earshot, then asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right, thank you.”
“No signs of malaria? Sometimes it shows up…”
Clete shook his head. “I feel fine. I can’t eat as much as I thought I would when I got home….”
“The stomach actually shrinks on a diet like you had on Guadalcanal,” Graham said.
“And I don’t seem to be able to handle as much of this as I used to be able to,” Clete said, holding up his glass.
“The ideal OSS agent would be a tea-total,” Graham said, smiling. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“I wondered when you were going to get around to that,” Clete said, returning the smile.
“A number of things have happened,” Graham said. “Is there any reason you couldn’t be in New Orleans on the first of November? That’s ten days, and the first is a Sunday.”
“No, Sir. No problem. Where do I go in New Orleans?”
“I know from experience that the chow and the bunks at 3470 St. Charles Avenue are a little better than average,” Graham replied. “Anything against you staying there?”
It was the address of Cletus Marcus Howell’s mansion.
“I didn’t know you were familiar with those accommodations, Sir.”
“Your grandfather was more than hospitable when I went to see him.”
“I didn’t know you’d been to see him.”
“And more than cooperative. He’s quite a fellow.”
Now that he had a moment to think about it, Clete was not surprised that Colonel Graham had gotten along well with the old man. Strong men like other strong men. And if he liked you, the old man could be the personification of Southern charm and hospitality.
But that raised the question of why Graham had gone to see the old man.