Griffin W.E.B.: Honor Bound 02 - Blood and Honor

"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 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 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.

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 pore 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 appetit!" 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. (Tabasco is manufactured on Avery Island, Louisiana, by the McIlhenny family. The McIlhenny who served with the First Marine Division on Guadalcanal ultimately became president of the company, and retired from the Marine Corps Reserve as a Brigadier General. On his death in 1994, he left a substantial portion of his fortune to the Marine Academy, a Marine Corps-connected boarding school for boys.)

"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 Samboromb?n—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 know better."