It would be easier, Frank sometimes thought, if his father was dumber or meaner or a hypocrite or something. What in a lot of hippies—and Frank had met more of the breed than most guys his age—was a lot of New Age hypocritical crap was, in his dad, the genuine article. Tom Stone was reasonable, gentle and good, most of the time, and when he wasn’t, he was trying to be. And, unfortunately, he had a fine mind when he felt like using it. He was not impossible to fool, but it wasn’t easy.
In short, as a father for sprightly teenage lads, a first-class pain in the ass.
“Sure, Dad. She said you were, uh, with Mister Stearns here. Uh, Mister President, I mean.”
Mister President grinned. “You figured the Gardens was safe, then?”
“Um . . .” Frank didn’t feel much like talking. Technically he was an adult, now that he was nineteen, but the presence of so many authority figures affected him like so many alarms replete with red lights and sirens. He was not only tongue-tied, he found he was wanting to look down to check he was wearing trousers, and that his zipper was up. He definitely didn’t like the way Mister Piazza was grinning. If there was a bright side, he supposed, it was that Miz Mailey—air-raid sirens and maroon flares, here—was in another country. And locked in jail, besides. The Tower of London, no less.
Frank Jackson broke the silence. “Siddown, son. Your dad was saying earlier as how this might concern you, and if you followed proper reporting procedure you’ve every right to be here. You bring friends?”
“Ah, yes, Mister, I mean General—I, that is, my friend Aidan was celebrating graduating and we figured dinner and a few beers—”
“Excellent, good thinking,” beamed Doctor Nichols. “Had the same idea myself every time I passed something, when I took to getting edumacated. Join us, do—is this Aidan friend of yours at the bar?”
“Don’t tease the young man, now.” That was Father Mazzare, who had always seemed a slightly odd and exotic figure to Frank. “Do, please, join us. As the general says, your father thought it might be good for you and your brothers to come along.”
Frank looked around, saw Aidan carefully working his way between tight-packed tables under the weight of four steins of beer. Sigh; leave it to Aidan. Frank caught Aidan’s eye to be certain Aidan knew where to head for and sat down. He took a deep breath. “Come along where, Father Mazzare? Dad?” Frank looked from one to the other, trying for an effect of slightly intrigued rather than baffled and terrified.
“Venice,” said Mister President.
“Venice? Cool—but why me? Uh, I mean us? And what about the pharmaceutical work?”
“Mike asked me to go along as the scientific and medical attaché and I agreed,” his dad explained. “I could really use your help down there—same with Ron and Gerry—getting a pharmaceutical industry off the ground in Italy. The truth is, that work’s gotten pretty routine here. You’ve already trained enough people to replace you and your brothers.”
Nasi nodded. “And a grand tour is a vital part of every young man’s education, Señor Stone. I spent some months in Venice myself, at your age. I have a cousin there who is a factor for Messer Mocenigo.”
“I wasn’t quite so lucky,” Doctor Nichols chuckled. “When I was your age, Frank, the educational choice I was given was either a hitch in the Marines or considerable time—never mind how much—in one of those downstate establishments that really don’t look too good on a job resumé.” The doctor raised his beer stein in ironic toast to Don Francisco’s cultured upbringing.
Aidan picked that moment to arrive and set down the beers. “Mister Stone, Doctor Nichols, good e’en to ye. Father Mazzare, good evening.” Aidan looked at Frank for introductions.
Ah, thought Frank. Aidan’s exhausted everyone he knows by sight. Now for the fun part. “Aidan,” he said, taking a beer from in front of his friend. Then he thought a moment, and moved a second one over. This could get—explosive. “I don’t believe you know Doctor Abrabanel, Don Nasi, Mister Piazza, General Jackson and—” Frank completed the round of beer-stein gestures “—Mister President Stearns of the United States.”