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“Mr. Howell, I have to tell you, if you’re thinking of Clete and SAA, so was Juan Trippe. He got to his senator, and all Constellations are embargoed from sale outside the U.S.”

“That sonofabitch strikes again. But not a problem. How soon can you paint ‘Howell Petroleum’ on it and deliver it to Washington? No. New Orleans. I’m getting out of this goddamn town this afternoon.”

“Three days, tops. I’ll bring it myself. But I’ll want the crew I bring with it back as soon as you can get your own.”

“I don’t care what all those people are saying about you, Howard, I really don’t think you’re an unmitigated bastard.”

Hughes laughed and hung up.

Cletus Marcus Howell reached for a humidor, selected a long, thin brown cigar, and went carefully through a ritual of rolling it between his fingers, cutting the end of it, and lighting it with a wooden match.

Then he went to a cabinet, opened it, and took out a bottle of Collier and McKeel Tennessee sour mash whiskey. He poured an inch and a half of it into a squat glass.

Chimes announced that someone was at his door.

When he opened it, three men were standing there. Two were tall, muscular, and young. The third, who stood in front, was shorter, trim, and in his fifties.

“I understand you don’t talk to Democrats,” the older man said, “but I was hoping you’d make an exception for me.”

“Please come in, Mr. President,” Howell said.

“You fellows wait out here, please,” Harry S Truman said. “I know Mr. Howell doesn’t like me, but I don’t think he’ll try to kill me.”

The President walked into the suite and closed the hall door behind him.

The two men looked at each other without speaking. Finally, Howell raised his glass.

“May I offer you—”

“If that came out of that Collier and McKeel bottle, you certainly may,” Truman said.

“How do you take it?”

“The same way you do, straight.”

Howell poured the whiskey and handed Truman the glass.

Truman raised it, touched it to Howell’s, and said, “The United States of America.”

“The United States of America,” Howell parroted.

The two sipped the whiskey.

“You ever hear, Mr. President,” Howell then asked, “that patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel?”

“In this case, it’s my last refuge to . . . how do I say this? . . . turn you off.”

“Is that so?”

“I just spoke with our mutual friend Colonel Graham,” the President said.

“He told me.”

“I mean he called me after you talked to him,” Truman said. “He said he thought he should tell me you were entirely capable of buying that flying brothel Howard Hughes built and flying down to Buenos Aires in it.”

“I’m a little old for brothels, flying or otherwise, but yes, I just spoke to Howard. I told him to paint Howell Petroleum on that airplane and deliver it to me in New Orleans.”

“And then you’re going to fly to Buenos Aires in it? You do move fast, don’t you?”