"Yeah, that's right. A cannon. It used that stuff..."
"Gunpowder?"
"Right. Gunpowder. But my brother-in-law who buys these up cheap, see, he enriched the gunpowder with plutonium. When he told me about it, I told him I thought he had something. I mean a surplus World War II Italian whatchamacallit..."
"Cannon."
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"Yeah, with regular gunpowder and some of that plumonium."
"Plutonium," the younger man said.
"Yeah. With some of that ground up in the gunpowder. Well, anyway, my brother-in-law called it the Advanced Artillery Unit Four-B. I told him it wouldn't sell, but he insisted. So I tried to sell it for a year, but they just wouldn't go for an Advanced Artillery Unit Four-B. I tried for a year, but they wouldn't move, so I put the plans away, and two weeks later I came back with them again, but this time I called it a Mobile Nu-cotronic Army Decimator. They bought it the same day. Twelve of them. Turned a cool twenty-four-million-dollar profit on those. I'm telling you, Winslow, if you want to be a success in this army business, you've got to learn how to sell. Forget the alphabet. Forget those numbers. Give things- names that sound good when they make anti-Israeli speeches. They love Mobile Nucotronic Army Decimators. They love satellite killer systems. Screw that A, B, and C shit. They don't sell anything." The general spun in his chair to smile warmly at Winslow and saw Remo in the doorway.
"Sorry," the general said. "I only see salesmen on Fridays."
"I'm not a salesman."
"Oh. Who do you represent?"
"The spirit of Napoleon."
"Spirit of Napoleon," General Bull repeated. "I don't know that company. Big Board or American Stock Exchange?"
"Neither," Remo said.
General Bull looked at his aide, Winslow, with confusion on his handsome features. Winslow leaned forward and said, "Napoleon, sir. I think it's a kind of cake. A pastry." -
Bull's face wrinkled more.
"Pastry?" he said. "Oh. One of those things with that tissue paper crust?"
"Yes, sir. With the creamy filling between the layers."
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"And that hard white icing on top," the general said. "With brown swirls in it."
"Yes, six," Winslow said proudly. "That's a Napoleon."
General Bull cleared his throat and looked sternly at Remo.
"Well, son, it's nice of you to stop by, but we already have a pastry chef. Hired him away from Lutèce's. He makes the best chocolate mousse you ever saw. Tomorrow is mousse day. You want to stay around, you can have some. I'll teÜ him to make some more for you."
"You feed your army chocolate mousse from Lutèce's?" Remo asked.
"No. Not the army. The officers. The army eats sheep or frogs or something. They like bread. I'm not sure. Something like that. So I don't need you for them, son, and I've got Emile from Lutèce's, and I don't much like Napoleons anyway. So I've got no real use for you here."
He leaned forward suddenly with heightened interest.
"You don't make a Charlotte Russe, do you?"
"No," Remo said.
"Too bad. That's what's" missing from our menu. A Charlotte Russe. God, I love that puffy whipped cream inside that cardboard tube. Winslow, take a note. Find us a Charlotte Russe chef."
"Yes, sir," Winslow said.
The general looked at Remo with an understanding smile. "Listen, you come up with a good Charlotte Russe, and maybe we've got something to talk about, okay?"
"No," said Remo.
"What do you mean, no?"
"I didn't come here to hear you talk about goddamn cake," Remo said.
General Jonathan Wentworth Bull rose to his feet. He wore a diamond-encrusted belt around his waist, and he hiked it up over his hips.
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"What do you want to talk about?"
"War," said Remo.
Bull seemed confused and looked to Winslow. "War?" he asked.
"Kind of like fighting, General. Between two armies."
"Oh, yeah. I know. Like Space Invaders with people. What about war, fella?"
"General, let's get to understand each other first," Remo said.
"Okay. I'm very understanding. Everybody says that."
"Oil is what keeps you alive. You know that, right?"
"I wouldn't exactly say ..."
"Yes, you would. All the Hamidi oil pays your salary. It helps them buy all that military junk that your brother-in-law sells. It's oil and oil money, right?"
"Not exactly. I wouldn't..." General Bull started.
Remo squeezed his earlobe.
"Right. Right. Oil. It's oil. Easy on the ear, fella. Want to be a colonel? Just let go of the ear."