— CHAPTER 12 —

SPARKY

Afternoon - Monday, May 6, 1963

When Lee finally came for me, he said we would have to put off horseback riding because we had been invited to meet an important out-of-town guest at Dave’s. I was wearing riding slacks, but Lee said I was dressed well enough and didn’t need to change. We went to the Fairgrounds instead, arriving before the gates closed. After we watched the horses exercise on the track we were allowed into the stables, which surprised me.

“Sure we can come in here,” Lee said. “I just say the magic words. You can guess who runs these racetracks,” inferring that this was yet another Marcello operation.

Lee said that as a kid, sometimes when he was skipping school, he used to visit these stables to pet the horses. Lee had picked up a handful of sugar cubes in the lounge area, which we fed to the horses. Lee showed me the grave of a legendary horse known as Black Gold.¹ He was the most famous horse from New Orleans, and his heroic story put a lump in my throat. After winning the Kentucky Derby in 1924, Black Gold was retired to stud, but proved infertile. After several years he returned to the racetrack, never to win again. In his final race he broke a leg in the homestretch, and hobbled across the finish line on three legs before collapsing. He was put to sleep right there on the track, and buried in the infield near the sixteenth post. As a horse-lover who’d read every horse story I could find since childhood, just to stand there was a privilege. Then we headed back to Dave’s, arriving around sunset.

“We practically live in this place,” I complained to Lee as we climbed the back stairs. “We should have stopped to eat something,” I added.

“Worry not,” Lee said. “Tonight we get to eat at a fancy restaurant.”

Lee said he didn’t know which one yet, but we were sure to like it, because the people who were paying the tab had expensive tastes.

As we entered Dave’s living room, we saw him sitting quietly in a chair. He was wearing priest’s vestments, and praying softly in Latin from a breviary -a black prayer book used by priests and monks. When he finished, he stood up and walked to the table to pick up a ring. It was then I noticed that it was the same ugly carved ring that he had shown me the other night. “I thought you didn’t wear that ring, Dave,” I said.

“Oh, I had to wear it yesterday,” Dave said regretfully. “But I took it off to say Mass. It’s sacrilegious to wear it during Mass, you know.” I raised my eyebrows at the thought of David saying Mass. “Yes, I said a Mass this afternoon,” he confirmed thoughtfully. “For my parents. They were so proud to offer a son up to God. The least I can do is pray for them.”

He walked slowly into the other room holding his prayer book against his chest, his religious robes flowing gently as he walked. “What a tragedy!” I thought. Never had I seen such a strange, sad, solitary figure. I did not know if his parents were alive or dead, but I could see how their memory weighed on Dave.

Dave changed clothes and returned confidently, wearing black pants and a dark shirt with his full wig firmly in place. He looked quite presentable and started straightening up the place for his guest. We told him of our experience at the fairgrounds and seeing Black Gold’s grave. Dave knew Black Gold’s history and agreed that he was a noble horse who deserved the respect that was given him. Then our conversation meandered to other animals we had known.2 I mentioned my dog Sparky, a fuzzy little lapdog with a perverse nature. Sparky had a bladder control problem and used to jump up on my bed late at night, begging me to let him out.

“If I didn’t get up in time, “I told them, “The consequences would be ‘Vary’ wet!”

When I was eight years old I was asked by the nuns to read my best short story to a school assembly, so I selected one appropriate for the event. But once there I saw how bored the parents and nuns looked, so I decided at the last minute to liven up the crowd. I read my Sparky story instead.

“When Sparky was angry at me,” I read to the assembly, “He just couldn’t control himself! And so, tonight in the dark, a nasty odor hit my nostrils. I could feel the hot wetness soaking into my blanket, and jumped up. Sparky had done it again!”

The nuns turned pale. The parents gasped. My mom and dad shrank into their seats. As the blood drained from my head and my temperature skyrocketed, I realized that I had misjudged my audience. I had embarrassed my parents and shocked everyone. But things definitely livened up!

Dave and Lee laughed, admitting they couldn’t top that one. Dave checked his watch, noting that his guest would arrive any minute. I went into Dave’s bathroom to freshen up. When I returned, I could see that Lee and Dave had conspired to play some kind of joke on me.

“We’ve decided to tell you more about one of our illustrious visitors,” Lee said.

“We have to! “ Dave broke in. “He’s got the same name as your dog, Sparky.”

“He’s another dog who can’t control himself,” Lee said. “And he knows how to train the ladies, too!” Dave and Lee started laughing. I had no idea what they were talking about, but I was glad Dave had shaken off his gloom and was his old jovial self again.

Dave continued his modest efforts to clean up his apartment. I was surprised to learn that he actually had a vacuum cleaner! He mentioned that Jack S. Martin had reappeared, demanding to know what was going on with David Lewis and accusing Dave of betraying him, after all they had gone through together.

“We didn’t go through anything together,” Dave said. “It’s all in his head. He needs to go back and get some more shock treatments.”

“He had shock treatments?” I asked.

“Doesn’t it show?” Dave asked, putting away the vacuum cleaner. “He hasn’t been through anything, but they do have ways to make you talk, without leaving a mark.”

“Cattle prods,” Lee said.

“Or they put a wet suit on you,” Dave said. “Tie you up, cover your eyes, ears and mouth with tape, and suspend you in a tub of warm water. The lights are off, you can’t see a thing. There’s no sound, no way to know if you’re up or down. Total sensory deprivation. Days seem to go by, even though it’s only about 24 hours. Suddenly, you’re lowered underwater. Water rushes in your nose. You’re drowning. They pull you out and give you artificial respiration, and then you’re cleaned up, dressed and returned to your prison cell. Not a mark on you. Then they threaten you with another day in the tub, and you always talk. If you finally contract pneumonia and die, it gets listed as death by natural causes.”

What horror! These men do this to each other? I felt weak just thinking about it.

Lee said, “The Russians interrogated me. That’s when I dropped out of sight. They made me stand for a couple of days. If I moved, they hit me.”

“Stop it!” I said, covering my ears. I fell to the couch and started to cry. “What’s the matter with people?” I stammered through my tears. “Why did they do that to you?”

“Honey, I’m sorry,” Lee said, sitting down beside me and stroking my hair. “You’re so innocent,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, J,” Dave said, bringing me a cup of water. “I didn’t mean to be so graphic. It’s just that people don’t know what happens to political prisoners. People are no more humane today than in past centuries. They just hide it better.”

“If it’s any consolation, my personal discomfort didn’t last too long,” Lee said, wiping my eyes with his handkerchief. “I pretended not to know a single word of Russian. I acted so entirely stupid that the Russians finally gave up. They concluded that I was an idiot. I was very young, after all, and because of all the Communist quotes I gave them, they decided I really was just a harmless kid steeped in Marxism. They even apologized for hurting me. After I promised not say anything about it I got a nice apartment. They knew they could trust me,” Lee said.

“How did they know that?” I asked.

“They told me that if I mentioned being interrogated, I could be treated very badly upon my return to the United States,” Lee said, “They would want to know if I had caved in, and had become a turncoat. Of course I didn’t tell. And I urge you never to speak of it.”

“Well, I won’t,” I agreed.

Dave brought in a little dish of cheese and crackers and put it on the coffee table, along with some beer nuts and candy, but neither Lee nor I were in the mood to eat after these sobering revelations. I leaned against Lee and closed my eyes. I could feel his heart beating in his chest.

As we talked more about his Russian experience, Lee said he had learned first-hand that people are the same everywhere. It’s the power structures under which people exist that make them adversaries. He felt there was hope for America, however. Before coming to New Orleans he had stood in Dallas with a sign around his neck proclaiming “VIVA CASTRO.” He got away with it. True, a Red Squad could have beaten him up or killed him or he might have been arrested. But it didn’t happen.

“In Russia, had I worn a “VIVA KENNEDY” sign around my neck, I would have gone to prison,” Lee assured me. “But of course,” he went on, “the sign was just a ploy.”

“Just as you’re going to do again,” I commented. “Here in New Orleans.”

“Have you ever read The Scarlet Pimpernel?” Lee asked suddenly.

“Baroness Orczy’s books?” I asked.

“Then you have!” he said, quite pleased. “Good.”

“Sir Percival Blakeney. He fooled the French spies so brilliantly... I love Percy,” I said, looking up at Lee. “An incredible man.”

“I was the Scarlet Pimpernel!” Lee said proudly. “And I still play ‘the demmed fool.’ Just as Percy did.”

“You’ve been playing Sir Percy?”

“Yes. I present myself as a worthless fool. If necessary, even stupid. He is my model.”

“So this goes beyond job interviews? You let people think you’re stupid?”

I saw Lee flush. A hard knot of pride tightened in his jaw.

“When I must,” he finally said, avoiding my eyes. “I pretended I couldn’t shoot, and then I ‘accidentally’ shot myself in the arm.”

Lee rolled up his sleeve revealing a thin scar, along with a depression, in the bony part of his left elbow. I hadn’t noticed it before because it was hard to see with his arm straight.

“As you know, I’m actually a good shot,” Lee boasted.

“Shooting cardboard ducks at Pontchartrain Beach doesn’t count,” I countered.

“I can get us some revolvers,” Lee said, “We’ll go shoot at real birds, if you’d like.”

“I’d love to!”

“You would?” Lee looked surprised.

“Sure,” I told him, “just as long as we don’t kill anything.”

Lee groaned. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“If you’re starving, go ahead and kill them,” I said. “Otherwise, why take them out of somebody else’s mouth?”

Those were the right words to say to a man from Louisiana, where poor country folks hunted deer, ducks and alligators for their meat. Otherwise, there would only be cornbread and greens. Lee was raised in a state where squirrel and possum were often in the slow-cooked stew on the back burner.

Dave came over asking if we wanted something to drink, but we declined. I noticed that Dave was practicing some shadow-boxing moves, letting off tension, as we waited for his important guests to arrive.

“Do you know martial arts?” I asked. Dave and Lee smiled at each other.

“We both do,” Lee said.

“So do I!” I announced.

“Oh, really?” Dave said. “Come here—”

I jumped up and stood before him, using one of the stances I’d been taught by one of my UF boyfriends. Though I knew enough karate for self-protection on the streets, Dave had no trouble flipping me to the floor after only one or two fakes.

“I know more than you do,” Dave said, softly and menacingly.

“You sure do,” I agreed. “No need to convince me further!” I returned to the couch with my pride hurt and rubbing my derriere. I focused again on Lee. Here was a man who acted out the role of the Scarlet Pimpernel in deadly earnest, and I was sitting next to him. I thought of that little poem he recites in his foppish public pose:

They seek him here, they seek him there.

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.

Is he in Heaven, or is he in Hell?

That Demmed, elusive Pimpernel!

“Did you ever rescue anybody?” I asked.

“I believe so,” Lee replied.

“Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet,” I mused. “He pretended he knew no French, when he was a master of the language. He concealed his powers. Nobody guessed.”

“I pretended to know almost no Russian when I arrived in Moscow,” Lee said. “Which was also, as you know, not quite the case.” Lee made a rather bitter laugh. “I was determined to rescue my own aristocrats from Madame Guillotine. But so far, I haven’t found many to rescue.”

“Is there a book you haven’t read, Lee?” I asked him.

“Of course. But just give me time.”

I asked Lee to help me with some Russian phrases, and as we were working together Dave, who had been bouncing out to the porch every few minutes, suddenly announced, “Hot damn! Here they come! That’s Carlos Marcello’s car!”

Dave was so excited that I expected to see a black stretch-limo pulling up. Instead, I got a glimpse of an ordinary two-tone Chevy sedan as it entered Dave’s driveway on the side of the house, and disappeared behind the building.

“That is the Godfather’s car?” I said in disbelief.

“Little Man is a wise man,” Dave said. “Remember, to the Feds, he’s just a poor tomato company guy. But he comes up with the goods when he needs to show off.” Dave fluffed up a flattened cushion on a chair. “He knows how to go all out. Chauffeur, bitches to serve drinks in the limo, the whole fucking crock of shit.”

“Clean up the English, Dave,” Lee said, putting his arm around me.

“Oops,” said the man who, an hour earlier, had impressed me with his show of piety.

Dave and Lee then hurried down the back stairs. When they returned, there was only one man with them. He was the same height as Lee and Dave.

“J,” Dave said, “I would like you to meet Mr. Sparky Rubenstein, a man who definitely reminds us of your dog.”

“He’s asking for a brass-knuckle sandwich,” Sparky said, smiling. “Happy to make your acquaintance,” he said with charm.

Standing before me was a well-built, well-dressed man whose face beamed with friendliness and self-confidence. He kissed my hand. “So, how do you like New Orleans?” he asked in a mid-western accent that was unique to the Chicago area. I gave him a polite answer, asked him if he was from Chicago, and how did he like life in Louisiana?

“It’s been a while since I lived in Chicago,” he answered, taking off his hat. “You guessed that part right. But I’m from Texas now. Excuse me for a moment,” Sparky said. “I have to get something from the car. Almost forgot.” With that Sparky set his hat on the table and went back outside, followed by Dave. Lee stayed with me.

“He’s going bald,” I commented.

“So am I,” Lee said. “It’s hereditary.”

“I’ve read that the more testosterone a man has, the more chance he’ll go bald,” I said soothingly. “I guess you must be oozing with testosterone.”

“Naturally.”

“Is this guy allowed to know about the lab?” I queried.

“He brings money to help finance it,” Lee said.

“What happened to everybody else who was supposed to come?”

Sparky returned, carrying a steel barbell with blue weights attached. I saw how strong he was. Behind him came Dave, puffing along with more. Sparky was carrying twice the weight, but wasn’t out of breath.

“1 can’t use these things up here, Sparky,” Dave protested. “It’ll crack the ceiling under us if drop it,” Dave added, coughing from his exertion.

“Let’s put them out on the porch, then,” Sparky said.

Dave continued to cough.

“You got to stop the smoking, Dave,” Sparky counseled. “You got to pass your physical every year. How you gonna’ do that, smoking like you do and eating the junk you eat?”

Dave scowled. “I take vitamins,” he said lamely.

“Are you using the blender I gave you to make carrot juice?”

“He’s using it to liquefy cancerous tumors,” I piped up helpfully.

“The stuff in the refrigerator that sort of looks like carrot juice and cherries is actually chopped up tumors. Just a warning.”

Sparky’s eyes traversed my body quickly, as he smiled.

“You look pretty strong yourself,” he commented. “Nicely developed arms and legs, and other stuff,” he added.

“I was in an acrobatic act with my sister,” I replied. “Back flips, cartwheels, hand-stands, all that stuff,” I offered.

Sparky Rubenstein’s Early Life

Jacob “Sparky” Rubenstein was born in Chicago in 1911 into a large family that had recently emigrated from Poland. Jacob caused trouble at school and earned the nickname “Sparky” for his quick temper. At age eleven Sparky was sent for psychiatric treatment and assigned to a foster home. His mother was eventually admitted to a mental hospital, and his father was arrested for assault.

After leaving school in 1927 Jacob did various odd jobs and is said to have worked for mobster Al Capone, the boss of the Chicago underworld at the time. He also spent time in Los Angeles and San Francisco, eventually returning to Chicago where he worked for the Scrap Iron and Junk Handlers Union.

From 1943 to 1946, Rubenstein served in the United States Army Air Forces, got into fights over comments about his being Jewish, and rose to the rank of private first class.

In 1947, after moving to Dallas to manage a night-club for his sister, he was arrested by the Bureau of Narcotics, though he was eventually released without being charged. The sheriff claimed that he had been sent to Dallas by criminals in Chicago to manage illegal gambling activities. This is also the time that FBI documents indicate he was doing work for Richard Nixon. Jacob changed his name at that time to Jack Ruby and remained in Dallas where he owned several nightclubs, some of which failed.

In 1959 Ruby visited Cuba at the invitation of Dallas nightclub owner, Lewis McWillie, supervisor of gambling activities at the Tropicana Hotel in Havana. Back in the U.S., Ruby was in regular contact with associates of Carlos Marcello and Santos Trafficante in 1963.

“Can you show me something?” Sparky replied.

I was still wearing slacks so I stood on my hands and then completed the flip, landing on my feet.

“That’s pretty good,” Sparky said. “You’re in good shape.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It looks like you’re in good shape, yourself.”

“I am!” Sparky said proudly. “I can do handstands, too. I’ll show you.”

Sparky took off his suit jacket and tossed it on the couch. Then he stood on his hands, raising his legs high into the air with his tie hanging down. He then began walking around the room on his hands with his feet curved over his head. There was no doubt that he was in splendid condition.

Then he balanced himself on just one hand: “Dave, bet you can’t do this.”

As he did, the contents of his pockets cascaded out of his pants. Coins, keys, brass knuckles, business cards, an address book, and a large roll of money secured by a rubber band fell to the floor.

Sparky’s face grew red as he came down hard. Lee said, “By the way, remember that place you recommended for girls new in town?”

“What place?” Sparky asked as he reloaded his pockets.

“Over on St. Charles, near Carrollton. The place where you said young girls and couples were always welcome.”

“O God! That was a joke, Lee! You didn’t take me seriously?”

“Yes, I did,” Lee said, folding his arms. “And J, here, was kicked out of the place when they raided it on Friday night.”

“You’re kidding!” Sparky laughed. Then he sat down on the couch next to Lee and me. “They raided it?”

“They all went downtown, except J,” Lee said. “But she lost her thirty dollars for the room. Landlady refused to give it back. Same for her food.”

“I’ll speak to her,” Sparky said, with an edge of menace to his voice that raised goose bumps on my arms. He pulled out the roll of bills from his hip pocket, peeled off a fifty and handed it to me. “Here, baby,” he said. “That’ll take care of the thirty dollars. I’m really sorry.”

I’d lived so many days on the edge of being completely broke that the fifty dollar bill seemed like a reprieve from Hell.

“Now I can pay Susie,” I said.

“No, don’t do that,” Lee cautioned. “How would you explain that to Robert? You’ll have to wait for a Reily paycheck, or move over to Brent House. Talk to Dr. O first.”

“I thought you understood my jokes by now, Lee,” Sparky mused. “You’ve known me long enough.” Turning to me Sparky said, “I’ve known Lee ever since he was a little boy.”

Sparky explained that, when he was first getting set up as Marcello’s “helper” in Dallas, he went to some family parties in New Orleans hosted by Marcello that were attended by Lee’s mother, aunt and uncle. He remembered Lee playing with other children at a couple of these get-togethers, and over a period of years talked to Lee’s uncle often, especially about boxing. When Lee and his mother moved to Fort Worth, Lee’s uncle asked Sparky to keep an eye on the boy, who had worked for Marcello from time to time as a gopher. “Watch over my boy Lee,” Dutz Murret had told him.

“Those jobs for Marcello were employment records I didn’t keep,” Lee said, opening my purse and putting the fifty dollar bill inside. “Couldn’t use any of those for job references.”

Sparky said he had tried to interest Lee in working for Marcello at a time when he needed more men in the Dallas organization, but Lee had already made up his mind to be a military man, following in his brothers’ footsteps.

Dave joined the conversation and added that he kept his promise to Lee and recommended him for intelligence training. “I did it because he knows how to keep his mouth shut,” Dave said.

I was concerned that Dave revealed this freely, right in front of Sparky, and shot a frown in Dave’s direction.

“It’s okay, J,” Dave said. “Sparky cares about Lee like a son. And he’s a patriot, like Ochsner. The arms of the government have been wrapped around Lady Cosa Nostra in this dance for a long time now.”

“My goal was always the Marines,” Lee said. “Either the world can be an influence on you, or you can be an influence on the world,” he recited once again. “I chose to serve my country.”

“Are you still so naïve?” Dave asked.

Lee said stubbornly, “I’m under no delusions. I choose to serve, anyway.”

“Leave him alone!” Sparky snapped at Dave. Then he turned to Lee and said gratefully, “I’m glad somebody still cares about this damned country.”

Dave apologized, to soothe Sparky, then asked him, “How did you get that car?”

“Well, I flew in for a change,” Sparky said. “Sammy met me at the airport. I can keep it for the night.”

“Where is everybody else?” Lee asked.

“They should be here any minute,” Sparky answered.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, a cab dropped off three men in front of Dave’s house. Sparky and Dave went down to greet them, while Lee and I watched from the porch.

“That’s Mr. Gaudet, who writes propaganda for the CIA,” Lee said, pointing him out. “Ochsner pays him to write an anti-Communist magazine that’s sent out all over Latin America. That one’s Sergio Smith. He’s from Houston. He flies in every once in awhile, so you’ll see him again. Used to be a big shot before he got kicked out of the overt anti-Castro movement here along with Dave, a couple of years ago. But that makes both of them useful in the anti-Castro underground.” The third man was a heavyset Latino whom Lee did not know.

Sergio Arcacha-Smith

Sergio Arcacha-Smith was a Cuban exile who was active in several anti-Castro groups in New Orleans, Miami, Tampa and Houston in the early 1960s. He was associated with David Ferrie and Guy Banister and introduced Ferrie to Carlos Bringuier, Carlos Quiroga and Jack Martin. According to an FBI report Carlos Marcello offered Arcacha-Smith money around the time of the Bay of Pigs invasion in return for gambling concessions in post-invasion Cuba. While living in New Orleans he served as the New Orleans delegate to Frente Revolucionario Democratico and established the Cuban Democratic Liberation Front with David Ferrie, but was later thrown out of that group for mismanagement of their money. He was suspected of being involved in several arms deals, though he was never arrested.

“Mr. Smith’s mustache reminds me of my father,” I commented, noting that Sergio was heavier than my father. “But he’s got to be a Cuban or something. Is his name really Mr. Smith?”

Born in Havana and educated at a Texas college, Arcacha-Smith served briefly as Cuba’s consul in Bombay, India during the Batista regime, and later became assistant manager of a hotel in Caracas, Venezuela (1954-57). After several years in New York City and Miami, he returned to Cuba briefly after Fidel Castro gained power and then went into exile in 1960, living primarily in New Orleans where he was active in anti-Castro groups and had an office at 544 Camp Street. He was granted political asylum in the U.S. in 1962.

In 1963 he moved to Texas and became friends with right-wingers like Edwin Walker and oilman H.L. Hunt.

In 1967 Jim Garrison considered Arcacha-Smith a person of interest in his JFK investigation and tried to have him extradited from Texas for questioning.

“It really is,” Lee replied. Dave came back in and announced that we were all going out to eat.

“Oh, wow!” I said, when we reached the car, “I get to sit in the Godfather’s car! I get to put my little rear end down on the same upholstery the Godfather does!”

“You little doodle-head,” Lee said affectionately, “I don’t think so.”

“Darn!” I complained. As the men filled the car, I realized that the only place left for me to sit was on Lee’s lap.

“Actually, I’m rather glad that your little rear end has nowhere else to go,” Lee said, making everybody in the car laugh.

“She’s an acrobat!” Sparky told everybody.

“She knows martial arts, too!” Dave said, and everybody laughed again, as we headed to the French Quarter. Then the men started talking. Lee had warned me to keep quiet and play dumb, which I did. Lee was silent, too, and contributed nothing to their conversation. The men discussed their business as if we were not even there. I again thought about what Lee had said about the Scarlet Pimpernel, and felt that I was playing my own minor part in his charade.

When we reached Antoine’s Restaurant on Rue St. Louis in the French Quarter, Marcello’s car was recognized immediately. When we got out, we were treated like royalty. Antoine’s was perhaps the finest old restaurant in New Orleans.

As we entered, I hung on to Lee’s arm. It was like we had plunged into Gone with the Wind. Here was a timeless sophistication rarely seen in modern-day America. Tuxedoed waiters hovered quietly around tables cloaked in white linen and stacked with beautiful crystal. The chandeliers blazed, as the ceiling fans turned majestically. Quiet music played gently in the background and mingled with the tender clinking of wine glasses. Civil conversation and exquisitely polite manners were everywhere. I hoped Dave Ferrie would conduct himself properly.

I soon discovered that my concerns about Dave’s behavior were unnecessary, as he was indeed capable of playing the role of the perfect gentleman when he needed to. As the only woman at the table, I was treated extremely politely by all. (I could get used to this!) When I ordered a “Roy Rogers” (coke with grenadine) instead of wine, several eyebrows went up at the table and lips smirked. Lee didn’t want me left out, so he ordered the same. The food was fabulous. It was, indeed, one of the finest meals I’ve ever eaten, perhaps the finest. We had:

Antoine’s Restaurant

Since Antoine’s served its first meal in 1840, it has been a bastion of French Creole cuisine and an island of grand tradition seated at the heart of old New Orleans society, with many of its 15 unique dining rooms named after the city’s oldest Mardi Gras krewes. It is located on Rue Saint Louis deep in the French Quarter.

Crab cakes, a small cup of seafood gumbo, and a hearts-of-palm salad as appetizers. Then they brought us Chair de crabes au gratin (Lump crabmeat in a cream sauce sprinkled with a light cheese and French bread-crumb mixture baked and browned in a casserole), followed by Filet Toronado (a petit filet mignon crowned with Bernaise sauce), and for dessert, a delicate portion of bread pudding, set atop a cinnamon custard pudding impregnated with raisins and crested with a buttery rum sauce, sprinkled with roasted pecans. Yummy!

When we finished, we got back into Marcello’s car, drove a few blocks and parked on Dauphine Street. The six of us walked along the dark narrow street, beneath fanciful wrought-iron balconies and past stucco walls punctuated by quaint articulated doorways that guarded lush private courtyards. Dave, Sparky, Sergio and the heavyset Cuban walked in front, with Lee and me trailing. I hung on to Lee’s arm, as we strolled through a prior century.

We were headed to Clay Shaw’s home at 1313 Dauphine. As we walked, Lee explained that Clay Shaw was a very important person in New Orleans. He was one of the directors of the International Trade Mart, and a close friend of Dr. Alton Ochsner’s. His renovations of neglected historic buildings in the French Quarter were an inspiration to the community. His own house and adjoining stable (ex-slave quarters) had been transformed into elegant modern residences cloaked in their original charm. I said that I was interested in meeting him, but Lee cautioned me.

“Maybe not tonight. These men have been drinking,” he warned. “Listen to how they’re talking before you decide to go in there.”

I had been too lost in my own enchanted world to notice what the men were saying. When I tuned in to the conversation, I realized that Lee was right. They had turned to telling crude homosexual jokes, and their intent in visiting Mr. Shaw seemed to be for more than business purposes.

“I see what you mean,” I said to Lee quietly.

When we reached 1313 Dauphine, they rang the bell. A servant came to the door and invited our group in. As he did, I got a glimpse of Shaw’s beautiful courtyard and elegantly lit European fountain. Lee tapped Dave on the shoulder and told him that, under the circumstances, he and I would prefer to meet Mr. Shaw some other time. Sparky overheard Lee’s comment and handed him the keys to Marcello’s car, saying “Have a good time. Just come back by midnight and wait for us in the car. Besides, she’ll finally get a chance to sit on the upholstery.”

We quickly said our goodbyes and strolled through the French Quarter, stopping at Preservation Hall to hear some traditional New Orleans jazz, and seeing the many sights. We continued our walk down Bourbon to Canal Street where we stopped at the Saenger movie theatre and saw a movie poster announcing that Dr. No (the first James Bond movie) was “Coming Soon.”3 Lee and I discussed the movie and realized we both enjoyed the James Bond novels, and were interested in seeing this new film. We wanted to see it together but that would be more difficult now, because Lee’s wife would soon arrive and he would have fewer evenings to spend with me. But we vowed that, one way or the other, we would see Dr. No together.

It was quite late, and Lee decided it was time to take me home. He stopped at a store-front to buy us two cokes with chocolate syrup (my favorite way to have a coke) and we began walking back to Dauphine Street where the car was parked. The streets were almost deserted. If Lee had not been with me, the dark corners and alleyways would have frightened me. We were content to stroll along in relative silence.

As we turned onto Dauphine Street, Lee said: “It’s time we got off the streets. Let’s go make your dream come true, and put your bottom down in the Godfather’s car.”

We had just passed 1313 Dauphine and were headed to the car parked at the end of the block. Suddenly, a man jumped out of the shadows. Holding a knife at Lee’s throat, he demanded, “Your wallet! Hand it over!”

We froze. Our assailant was a huge blonde fellow wearing a sailor’s suit. He was over six feet tall and weighed about two-hundred and fifty pounds, with big, throbbing veins in his neck. He had obviously hyped himself up to do this, and Lee wasn’t going to argue with him. Lee slowly reached into his back pocket.

“I want your purse, too, girlie!” the sailor said. “Hurry up!”

“You don’t want her purse,” Lee countered.

“Shut up!” the robber snapped, as Lee slowly offered his wallet at about the sailor’s belt level. As he did, a switchblade suddenly sprang out from underneath Lee’s wallet, its silver blade gleaming in the darkness.

Furious at the sight of the blade, the sailor snarled, “Throw that damned wallet on the ground, or I’ll cut your face!” as he moved his knife toward Lee’s head.

“You may cut my face,” Lee said, in slow, icy words, “but not before I get your balls.” With that, Lee made a vicious jab at the man’s crotch. The man jumped back and turned, cursing Lee as he ran.

Lee immediately grabbed me by the hand, and we sprinted to the car. We all but threw ourselves inside, and Lee locked the door behind us. We sat in the stillness, out of breath and hearts pounding from adrenalin. The silence of the car was conspicuous and comforting. I even forgot it was Marcello’s car. It could have been a popsicle truck. Then Lee stuck the key in the ignition and turned on the engine.

“We should get out of here in a hurry,” Lee said, “just in case the creep returns with a friend.”

“You saved us! “ I told Lee, throwing my arms around him in gratitude. I took his head in my hands and began kissing him, grateful for what he had done. He flushed with embarrassment. Then I noticed that he was trembling from head to foot.

“You’re shaking!” I said, grabbing his hands, which were cold. I held them in mine.

“It’s a reaction, because I was afraid,” Lee said. “It will pass.”

After a few minutes, he stopped shaking and relaxed.

“You’re not a coward if you feel afraid,” he said. “Everyone feels afraid when confronted with danger. You are a coward only if you don’t overcome your fear when necessary.”

And then Lee kissed me for real. Like a girl wants to be kissed. Eventually he drove me home and then returned Marcello’s car to Sparky.

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1.    Black Gold, the famous race horse of the 1920s, who won the Kentucky Derby in 1924, was elected to the U.S. Racing Hall of Fame in 1969.

2.   For example, Father Rose, who was our parish priest in Niles, Michigan, owned a big Irish setter whose stupidity was only matched by my parents’ Dalmatian.

3.   Dr. No, the movie, was released on May 8, 1963.