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“Mrs. Howell?”
“Mrs. Martha Howell, your adoptive mother, of the Midland address, is listed as your next of kin. Isn’t that correct?”
I have a wife and two children, but I don’t think this is the time to get into that.
“That’s correct. Tell me, Commander, how far is it, timewise, from here to New Orleans?”
“You have a family member in New Orleans, Colonel?”
“My grandfather.”
And who is the last person in the world I need to see right now.
If the Old Man hears what’s going on with me—and I would have to tell him—ten minutes after that two senators and his pal Colonel McCormack of the Chicago Tribune will be coming to my rescue.
“I’ll need his name and address, Colonel. And his telephone number.”
What the hell, I’ll call the house and see if the Old Man is there.
If he is, I’ll hang up. If he’s not . . .
“The address is 3470 Saint Charles Avenue, New Orleans. My grandfather’s name is Cletus Marcus Howell. I don’t know the phone, but I’m sure it’s in the book.”
“And your grandfather is sure to be there?”
“Absolutely. At his age, getting around is very difficult.”
Please God, let the Old Man be in Washington, Venezuela, Dallas, San Francisco—anywhere but on Saint Charles Avenue.
“You understand, Colonel, that I am taking your word as a Marine officer and gentleman about your grandfather and that address?”
“I understand, Commander.”
“Well, then, I happen to know there is a three-forty train to New Orleans. You’ll just have time to make it.”
[FOUR]
3470 Saint Charles Avenue New Orleans, Louisiana 1955 25 June 1945
“The Howell Residence,” Jean-Jacques Jouvier said when he picked up the telephone. He was an elderly, erect, very light-skinned black man with silver hair. He wore a gray linen jacket. He had been Cletus Marcus Howell’s butler for forty-two years.
“No, Mister Cletus, he’s in Venezuela.”
He took the telephone from his ear and held it in his hand and looked at it.
Then he looked at the pale-skinned blond woman standing at the door to the library.
“That was Mister Cletus, Miss Dorotea,” he said.
“Where is he? What happened? Why did you hang up?”
“I didn’t hang up, Miss Dorotea. Mister Cletus did. When I told him that Mister Howell was in Venezuela, he said, ‘Get out the Peychaux’s Bitters, the rye, and crack some ice. I’ll be right there.’ And then he hung up.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jean-Jacques,” Dorotea said.
“Mister Cletus—and Mister Howell—really like a Sazerac or two before dinner, Miss Dorotea. It’s a cocktail. Rye whiskey . . .”
“And something bitter and cracked ice,” Dorotea said. “While you crack the ice, Jean-Jacques, I’ll change into something suitable to welcome our boy home.”
