Early Warning

Frank pretended this was not interesting. The Oak Bar had a self-conscious quality, Frank thought, as if it knew it was in a hotel and really wanted to be off on its own, not so accessible to out-of-towners. Jim ordered drinks for all of them — a martini for himself, a whiskey and soda for Dave Courtland, and a beer for Frank. If Frank was thirty-nine now, then Jim Upjohn was forty-four or — five, on a kind of plateau of self-assurance that came not only from wealth and not only from his war experiences, but also from considering himself a free thinker and a charitable man (who still sent money to the Daily Worker—try and stop him). Oh, and there was the fact that his fortunes, always prosperous, had risen on the postwar economy like a cork on a flood. He frequently made “wealthiest in America” lists, and only Frances Upjohn knew what the exact amount was. Probably because of Jim, Frank had had a very good year, promoted to VP in charge of development at Grumman, making a nice sum, and, thanks to Jim’s tips, though he and Andy were not on any “ten most” lists, Uncle Jens was spinning in his grave. Every time Andy opened a brokerage statement, she said, “Do you think this is real money?”

Jim said, “Dave and I were just talking. I serve on the board of Dave’s company, that’s Fremont Oil — you know them, Frank — and I told him he needs to talk to you. He needs to talk to someone entirely outside of that world.”

“So you say,” said Dave.

Jim said, “This is what makes Dave such a great oilman. He is stubborn as a doorpost. It’s a medical condition brought on by petroleum fumes.”

Frank said, “I know you recently discovered a big field in Venezuela.”

“How’d you know that?” Dave looked as though he might punch him.

Jim said, “I told you, Frank Langdon is a scout. He’s got his eyes open twenty-four hours a day. Even when he’s asleep. He was an army sniper in Italy during the war.”

“I thought the marines in the Pacific did that.”

“There were a few of us in Europe.”

“How many kills you get?”

“Twenty-six,” said Frank, “but one was a Jerry who asked me to do it.”

Now Dave actually looked at him, and Jim did, too — Frank had never told him this story. He said, “It was in Sicily. A German officer was being driven up the mountain, and they went over the edge. The driver was impaled on the steering wheel. The officer got himself out, and when we came up to him, he was just lying there. He tried to shoot himself and failed. When he saw us, he asked us to do it for him. He was the only one I ever saw up close. Seemed more like a murder in a way.” Frank spoke coolly.

“Missed both wars,” said Dave Courtland. “Too young for the first one and too old for the second one.” That would make him fifty or so, but he looked twenty years older than that. Frank said, “You start out in Texas?”

“Nah, Oklahoma first, then Texas. But the war effort drained those fields. Mexico looked good for about a minute, but I knew that Red, Cárdenas, was trouble before the big boys did. I had a feeling about Venezuela from the beginning. No roads, no nothing. We used to explore on foot, donkey if we were lucky. When that fellow who worked for Jersey was killed by an arrow while eating his eggs and bacon one morning, I just thought it was exciting.”

Frank nodded, then said, “And these days?”

“ ’Bout ten percent more civilized, but better than butting up against the Russkies.”

“That seems to be the problem,” said Jim Upjohn. “Dave’s sons want to make a big investment in Saudi. Dave says better the devil you know.”

“Your sons are Hal Courtland and Friskie Courtland?”

“Friskie, yeah. Christened William Flinders.” Dave made a low, rough, loud sound in his throat that Frank decided was a cough, then said, “You know anything about the oil business?”

“Only what I read in the papers,” said Frank.

“See,” said Jim, “this is where you’re making your mistake, Dave. You think that the oil business is different from any other business, and it’s not. Real estate, airplanes, bombs, cookies, rutabagas — all the same. You identify the customers, you identify the product, and you bring the two together.”

Dave looked Frank up and down, then said, “The thing I’m not good at is getting along with people. I just seem to blow my top. You good at getting along with people?”

Jim said, “Frank gets along with everyone.”

Frank thought, Or with no one. And that was a pleasant thought.