"Where did you hear that?"
"From Colonel Graham," the Old Man said. "The Germans have damned little of their own petroleum reserves. Most of the crude they're using, they're getting from Romania. Did you know that?"
Clete, more than a little chagrined, shook his head, "no."
"You probably also thought that Royal Dutch-Shell-was getting its crude from windmill-powered pumps set up in tulip beds next to the dikes in Holland, right?"
"Either there or from the Permian Basin," Clete said. "We-Uncle Jim and Martha-put down... Christ, I don't know, thirty, forty exploratory holes for Shell outside Midland."
"You got that right, at least," the Old Man said.
"Sir?"
"You said 'we put down holes.' Right. Howell Petroleum put down ex-ploratory holes on a participatory basis with Royal Dutch. Some of them even came in. Yes, we did, since the last I heard, Howell Petroleum is owned by the Howell family."
"I know that," Clete said, holding up both hands, palm outward, to shut him off.
Two waiters and a busboy appeared. Their appearance did not shut up the Old Man either.
"And when the Good Lord sees fit to take me, with the Howell stock your mother-may she rest in peace-left you, and with what Jim-may he rest in peace-left you, and with what you're going to get from me, you're going to be the majority stockholder, so we're not talking in the abstract, here, Cletus, we're talking about real money!"
"Yes, Sir."
One of the waiters ritualistically poured a half inch of a red wine in a glass for the Old Man's approval. He picked it up and sipped it.
"Well, this is better than the vinegar you tried to foist off on me the last time I came in here," he said.
"My day is now complete," the waiter said.
"And that," the Old Man said, pointing to a sauce-covered pork tenderloin the other waiter was slicing, "is presumably the French fried cat?"
"Indeed it is, Sir," the waiter slicing it replied. "When Old Tom got himself run over, we carefully preserved his carcass for a special occasion like this."
Clete, smiling, picked up his wineglass and took a sip.
"I'm going to miss you," he said.
"When I'm gone, you mean? And well you should. I'm going to leave you a very rich young man."
"I meant now, when I go to Argentina."
"Oddly enough, I will miss you, too," the Old Man said. "We were talking about oil, or money, which is really the same thing."
"We weren't talking. You were delivering a lecture."
"Royal Dutch has production all over the Far East." the Old Man resumed his lecture. "There is no oil in the Japanese islands. The Japanese need oil, the Dutch have oil that can be stolen. Ergo, another war."
Christ, he's probably right. I don't know. When he starts off on one of these lectures to the ignorant, he makes me feel as if I'm thirteen years old and have just flunked World Politics I.
"If the Germans can hang on to the Russian oil reserves, which means they can simply steal the Russians' oil, fine for them. They don't need Argentina. But if they can't hang on to free oil, they're going to have to get it somewhere. They are in a fine position to barter with Argentina. Germany, like the United States, is industrialized. Argentina isn't. The German factories turn out things Ar-gentina needs-automobiles, trucks, electricity-generating systems, locomo-tives, that sort of thing-and Argentina pays for them with crude oil. You getting the picture?"
"But Argentina is not producing enough oil for its own needs," Clete said. "Isn't that why Howell is shipping them both crude and products?"
"I'm not talking about now, Cletus, I'm talking ten, twenty years down the pike, long after I have gone to my reward. You've got to start thinking about that now. With Jim gone to his reward, you're going to have to take over Howell for me when I go."
"No," Clete said. "Not necessarily. Odds are that Marjorie or Beth will latch on to some oil type. Or both of them will. Houston's full of them."
"No, Clete," Martha said. "He's right, for once."