Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 08 (12 page)

“Thank you, young man,” the old gentleman said. “I’ve…I’ve never seen
you
before.”

“I’m just passing through.”

“You’re from Chicago.”

“How did you know?”

He straightened his glasses, smiled; his poise had returned. “I have a good ear for accents. You have a distinctly flat, nasal twang.”

“I know. I’m taking something for it.”

He frowned in thought. “You’re no Cossack. Are you
really
a detective?”

“Yes.”

“Investigating these murder threats?”

I frowned in thought. “Are you a reporter?”

“Used to be. Work for the administration, now.”

“What administration?”

“Why, FDR’s, of course. Publicity director for the Federal Education Program. Huey wants to pass a law so he can put people like me in jail.”

“You do strike me as a dangerous type.”

His smile might have been a pixie’s. “If you like…I can direct you to the police department….”

“Why, do you
want
to go to jail?”

“If you don’t take me there, he’ll fire you.”

Fuck the two-fifty a day. The list of things I will do for money is damn near endless; but it doesn’t include aiding and abetting the assault of elderly gentlemen.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m quitting tomorrow. You got an automobile here?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Can you drop me somewhere?”

“Yes, indeed!”

The ten-floor Heidelberg Hotel was on Lafayette Street. The Mississippi was damn near in its backyard; and next door was a Victorian residence with a clothesline, and cows and horses grazing in the yard. Baton Rouge was the goddamndest capital city I ever saw.

The hotel’s top-floor restaurant, the Hunt Room, was decorated with fox-and-hounds prints and mounted examples of the taxidermist’s art. Alice Jean and I chose to sit under the canopy in the open-air section of the restaurant. We could see the Mississippi and the quarter moon’s ivory reflection on its black surface; we could see cows belonging to the family in the Victorian home munching in a small pasture separated from the river by some trees. A paddle-wheeler’s mournful whistle echoed down the river.

I had just told Alice Jean—who looked lovely in a white organdy dress with red polka dots and a matching red beret—about the old ex-reporter getting slapped.

“If I hadn’t stepped in,” I said, “Messina would have beat him to a pulp, and Huey would have sent him to jail on trumped-up ‘disturbing the peace’ charges.”

She was sipping a Ramos Gin Fizz, a specialty of the house that Huey had imported from the Roosevelt Hotel in New Orleans. “‘Tom’ you said? That was probably Tom Harris…they’re old enemies, Huey and Tom.”

I set down my glass of rum. “It doesn’t bother you? Doesn’t it surprise you that—”

“Nothing Huey does, at this point, would surprise me.” She was smiling but her eyes were infinitely sad.

“Nothing?” I hadn’t told her yet. “What if I told you Huey knows we’re sleeping together?”

She almost choked on her latest sip of cocktail. I waited for her to regain her composure; she never quite did. Finally she said, “Can we discuss this in private?”

We sat in her room—the rooms at the Heidelberg were modest, at best, small, colorless studies in cheap wood veneer and cut-rate carpeting. The hotel was the tallest in the city but, remember—it had cows next door.

I was in a straight-back chair; she sat on the edge of the double bed, wrinkling the cream-color spread.

“Huey knows?”

I nodded. “In fact, I think he set us up.”

Her frown was bewildered; her eyes flying. “Set us up?”

“Huey and me hung around together in Chicago, remember. Back in ’32. He knows my style.”

She made a disgusted kiss of her cupie mouth. “Your…style?”

“Yeah…yeah, that I’m a randy son of a bitch, okay? We’ve been together less than a week, and I’ve already cheated on you.”

That was twice I surprised her.

Boy, those eyes could get big. “
Cheated
on me? Why, you son of a bitch!”

“Randy son of a bitch. I don’t remember anything about her, if that’s any consolation. She might’ve been a redhead. Murphy Roden and I apparently picked up some college girls in the French Quarter a few nights ago.”

“Apparently?”

I shrugged. “Too much tequila. Jesus Christ, Alice Jean, I’m no angel, and neither are you. Don’t you get it? The Kingfish was counting on that. He put us together so we’d maybe become an item, in which case I’d keep you outa his hair for a while. You’re bad for his image, remember? And it worked.”

“Why, that bastard…” But for some reason, she was smiling a little.

I smiled, too. “You gotta admire that kind of manipulation.”

She was nodding. “And I gotta admit, you and me are a good match, Heller.”

“Thanks.”

“And all the while, he was payin’ you, how much?”

“Two-fifty a day.”

She shook her head. “Only Huey. Only Huey.” She narrowed her eyes appraisingly. “Why’d you tell me this? When did you find out?”

“Just yesterday.” I stood. “Look. You’re a great gal, and more fun than a barrel of chorus girls, and I’m gonna miss the hell out of you…but, baby—I want
out
of this southern-fried insane asylum.”

Now both her eyes and her smile were sad. “Goin’ home, Heller?”

I nodded.

“Don’t like the way the Kingfish does business, huh?”

I came over and sat on the bed next to her. My voice was quiet, almost tender as I said, “I can handle the idea of a little honest graft. Hell, if it wasn’t for patronage, I’d never’ve made it onto the Chicago P.D. But this Gestapo stuff…shit. It’s for the fuckin’ birds.”

She was nodding. “So, then—I would imagine you’ll be donating all the money.”

“What money?”

She put on an innocent air. “Why, the money Huey paid you. You’ll be donating it all to charity, of course.”

I grinned wickedly at her. “You wanna know what I’m gonna do?”

“Sure. I wanna know what you’re gonna do.”

I put my hand on one of those round, high, firm breasts and exerted just enough pressure to make her lean back and she smiled slyly as I climbed on top of her.

“I’m gonna do the same thing to you,” I said, undoing my belt, “that Huey P. Long’s doing to Louisiana….”

The next morning—Sunday—just after nine o’clock, the House Ways and Means Committee assembled in an upstairs public hearing room at the capitol. Seated on a riser on a table that stretched horizontally along the wall, the fourteen committee members faced a small table where citizens could testify or speak their minds, and, behind that, a gallery of benches where citizens could observe the sacred lawmaking process.

Murphy Roden, Joe Messina, Squinch McGee, Big George McCracken and myself were stretched along the rear wall like a hoodlum honor guard.

The Kingfish—resplendent in tan linen, red-and-green tie, black-and-white shoes—was seated at the witness table, and his presence was no doubt responsible for the packed house. Abuzz with excitement at being in the same room as the great man, the God-fearing folk filling the gallery had either skipped church or gone to early services, men in straw fedoras and white shirts and black suspenders, women in Sunday bonnets and floral-print frocks. Farmers and other working-class salt of the earth, here to worship their rustic savior. A few representatives of the “lyin’ press” were scattered throughout the gallery, as well.

The morning outside the open windows was a little cloudy but windless and dry and hot; there was no sign that God had noticed August was over and September had supposedly arrived. Ceiling fans whirred and the gallery spectators used cardboard fans, some of which said “I’m a Long Fan”; flies droned and swooped and, when swatted, died.

First thing this morning, I had asked Huey to have somebody book me a plane or a train back to Chicago, for tomorrow; this would be my last day. He’d thanked me for my services. We were still pals.

I had one last day of Loozyana craziness to endure, at the not inconsiderable $250 daily rate. And while I was almost certain to be appalled on occasion, I was equally sure of being entertained.

Right now, for example, Huey was chairing the Ways and Means Committee meeting from the witness table.

“Of course you know,” Huey was saying, pouring himself a glass of ice water from a sweating glass pitcher, “I’m not here in any official capacity—I’m merely here to discuss these measures, a priv’lige accorded every Loozyana citizen. Now, shall we begin our discussion?”

All but one of the committee members nodded; a young, dark-haired fellow was glowering at the senator.

“That’s Jack Williamson,” Murphy whispered. “Lake Charles. He’s the only anti-Long man on the committee.”

“This first bill, Senator,” Williamson was saying, “rearranging the thirteenth and fifteenth districts…you of course realize it, in effect, gerrymanders Judge Pavy out of office.”

“Nonsense,” Huey said. “The Judge retains his office until January 1, 1937…. When it comes election time, he simply has to run in a new district, is all.”

Williamson arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Did the people of these districts request this change be made?”

Huey stared at the young representative for a long time; but Williamson did not wither. In fact, he repeated his question.

And Huey finally said, with a smile about as convincing as mail-order false teeth, “Yes, the people of Evangeline Parish are ever’ bit behind it, and the St. Landry Parish members of the House are all for it. Now, call the question.”

The bill passed committee, 13 to 1.

But at least Williamson got on the record his objections to the various bills Huey roller-coastered through, most of which were gerrymanders or assaults on Huey’s enemies in New Orleans; but the anti-FDR bill sparked the biggest discussion, one that woke up the press reps in the gallery.

“What exactly is the purpose of this bill, Senator?” Williamson asked.

Huey answered grandly: “Why, to enable us to carry out the great principles of the Constitution of the Yew-nited States.”

“I see. Then it’s not designed to prevent the expenditure of federal funds in Louisiana?”

For once Huey was thrown; his answer was a vague muttering: “It intends to prevent the violation of the Constitution of the United States.”

“What do you have in mind, Senator? What’s the purpose of this bill?”

Huey flared; his voice was a roar. “That certain sacred rights are reserved to the states and the people! That whoever violates the Constitution of the United States in the great state of Louisiana is subject to a misdemeanor punishable by a fine and a jail sentence!”

“You’re willing to make law of this vindictive, patently unconstitutional claptrap,” Williamson said, ruffling the pages of the bill in the air disgustedly, “even though its chief effect would be to keep vast sums of federal money
out
of your own state?”

Huey slammed a fist on the witness table; his water glass and pitcher sloshed and spilled some.

“Young man,” the Kingfish said indignantly, “I will preserve the Constitution of the Yew-nited States at
any
cost! We’re still Jeffersonian Democrats in Loozyana!”

Applause and cheers from the gallery rocked the room. Shouts of support echoed: “Hot dog!” “Give ’em hell, Huey!” and such like. It was the Oklahoma fairgrounds all over again.

This was a crowd that apparently relished the idea of being deprived of federal funds.

I shook my head.

“What’s wrong?” Murphy whispered.

“I gotta get back to Chicago,” I said, “where people understand the value of a dollar.”

By early afternoon, Huey had pushed thirty-one bills through the committee.

He bragged about it, over the lunch he had sent up from the basement cafeteria to that twenty-fourth-floor suite. “That’ll put a crimp in that crip’s plans! Sumbitch thinks he can run
my
state!”

He sat at a white-topped table in the kitchenette area of the suite, eating with the boys. I’ll spare you the brutal details, but watching Messina put away meat loaf and mashed potatoes was an appetite killer; suffice to say even
Huey
didn’t eat off Messina’s plate.

We bodyguards played cards again, all afternoon, while Huey entertained a stream of legislators and lobbyists and the like, on errands of patronage and politics; the only one of these I recognized from previous sessions was Reverend Smith, who dropped by with some Share the Wealth Club literature for Huey.

But the paramount topic seemed to be lining up January’s primary ticket, and in Louisiana, the Democratic primary was the only election that counted. One visitor in particular seemed even more concerned about this topic than Huey.

You had to look hard and close to see that they were brothers. The cleft chin was the only near give-away. Earl Long’s eyes were dark and hard and sharp, but everything else about his face was soft, and his smile was a nervous, unsure, sideways thing, while his voice was the gravel road his words were forced to travel.

“I know we done had our ups and downs,” Earl said. In a cream-color pinstripe suit, his red-and-black tie loose, the younger, slimmer Long stood before his brother, who was seated on a sofa in his shirtsleeves with an ankle resting on a knee, a foot wobbling a slipper.

“You mean, like when you swore an oath I took a ten-grand bribe,” Huey said pleasantly.

“I mended that fence,” Earl snapped. “I stumped this goddamn state from pea patch to picket fence for your good fren’ Fournet.”

Huey was nodding. “Yes, you did. Much ’ppreciated.”

“Anyway, I know you’re considerin’ candidates for governor…and I remember what you tol’ me back in ’32, when I asked you to gimme the lootenant guv’nr slot.”

“That’s right,” Huey said. “I said I couldn’t use ya, ’cause I didn’t want people talkin’ ‘Long dynasty.’ We got enough stupid damn dictator talk goin’ as it is.”

“So, then, I’m not bein’ considered.”

“Not at this time, no, Earl.”

Earl was lighting up a Camel. “Who is, then?”

“I’m leanin’ toward Dick Leche.”

“Leche? A goddamn state’s appeals judge?”

“He used to be O.K. Allen’s secretary. He knows how to take orders.”

“And I don’t.”

“No. You’re my brother, ain’t ya? Or is it true Mama found ya on the porch in a picnic basket?”

Earl shook his head sullenly, and paced and smoked; he held his cigarette tight between thumb and forefinger.

“You got somethin’ else on your mind, Earl?”

Earl stopped pacing and came over and sat by his brother. “I don’t think you oughta be gerrymandering Judge Pavy outa his district, ’long about now.”

“You don’t, huh?”

“No.” Earl shook his head. “Huey, things are just a little bit too hot and little bit too tense right now. I think it’s a bad idea to even have a special session at all, at this here time.”

Huey shrugged. “Horse is out of the barn, Earl. Too late to stop ’er now, even if I wanted to.”

Earl smiled; was there sarcasm in it? Or maybe envy? “You can do anything, Huey. You’re the Kingfish.”

Huey smiled back at his brother; patted him on the leg. “You go on up to Winnfield, if you cain’t stand it, and listen, here—nothin’s gonna happen. Things ain’t that hot or that tense.”

Earl studied Huey for what seemed like forever; then he sighed, nodded, crushed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray, stood, waved his brother farewell, and went out.

The next subject to gain admittance to the Kingfish’s court looked more like Huey’s brother than Earl. He had the same oval face, similar earnest features, even a cleft chin (if not as prominent as Huey’s); as with Huey, the visitor’s imposing figure gave an impression of bulk that disguised strength.

The Kingfish remained seated on the sofa casually, as the visitor—immaculate in a lightweight tan suit with a brown tie, holding his straw hat in hand, a supplicant with head bowed—paid his respects.

“What brings
you
by this afternoon, Dr. Vidrine?”

“I just wanted to thank you for seeing that Charity Hospital got its full appropriation, Senator.”

Huey beamed. “Well, you’re welcome. You been doin’ a fine job there, and, more importantly, I couldn’t be more tickled with the way things are workin’ out, out at LSU.”

Vidrine’s smile was shy. “There were a lot of skeptics who didn’t think either one of us knew what we were doing.”

“Them aristocratic snobs on the board at Tulane, what the hell do they know? They were overcrowded, and Louisiana needed goddamn doctors! Maybe Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it just took me sayin’ so, and, whiz, bang—we had a new medical school. And now what? Just four years later? What’s the enrollment this fall?”

Huey gestured with a hand for Vidrine to sit next to him, and he did.

“Nine hundred,” Vidrine said, humbly proud.

“Increased the enrollment times nine in only four years. Damn! Now, that’s an accomplishment.” He patted the doctor on the shoulder like a child who’d performed well. “When I appointed you super’ntendent of Noo Awlins Char’ty Hospital, I wanted to show the worl’ that a back-country doctor like you was ever’ bit as good as any big-city sawbones. Thanks for not makin’ a liar outa me, son.”

Vidrine nodded and smiled sheepishly; he was behaving like a new priest in the presence of the Pope.

“Got your pretty little wife along?” Huey said, and suddenly rose, and so did Vidrine, who sensed he was being dismissed.

“Yes, I do….”

Huey walked him toward the door. “You put tonight’s dinner at the Hunt Room at the Heidelberg on the ol’ Kingfish’s tab, y’hear?”

“That’s not necessary….”

“Don’t insult me, now, by rejectin’ my generosity.”

“Yes, sir,” Vidrine said, smiled, nodded and went out.

I was shuffling the cards. Quietly, I asked Murphy, “What’s
his
background? Seems like a kinda unassuming type to be holding such fancy administrative jobs.”

“Dr. Arthur Vidrine—former general practitioner from Ville Platte,” Murphy said, as if that answered my question.

“What’s Ville Platte?”

“Bump in the road, over Opelousas way.”

I began dealing, Black Mariah again. “How does that qualify him for anything?”

“Gimme a damn spade, would you? He captained the Long campaign in those parts.”

No further explanation was necessary for this Chicago boy.

A little later another unassuming character entered for an audience with the Kingfish. Heavyset, crowding six feet, he made himself seem smaller by hunching his shoulders and holding his straw fedora in front of him with two hands; under eyebrows that seemed perpetually raised, two squinty slits appeared, and a nervous smile curved beneath a nondescript beak. The overall impression he gave was of bemused embarrassment.

“You wanted to see me, Kingfish?”

“Yeah, come in and sit down!” The Kingfish was on the couch again.

“Who’s
this
guy?” I whispered to Murphy.

“Jim Smith—president of LSU,” he whispered back.

“Now what the goddamn hell is this about a
ridin’
academy out at the college?”

Smith shrugged, hat still in his hand; the little smile remained embarrassed. “Thelma likes to ride. I bought her a thoroughbred, and she likes wearing those cute outfits. She thought the coeds might enjoy…”

Huey was shaking his head. “When I hired you, on the advice of a stationery salesman I might add, the idea was to get rid of them goddamn highfalutin suckers over at the university, and put in some down-to-earth folks. Now your wife is havin’ fancy parties and puttin’ on airs and at her biddin’ you’re usin’ my funds to start a fuckin’
ridin’
academy?”

“Well…as I was saying, it’s a nice activity…”

“For the coeds. Right. Well, I see in the paper where two girls fell off them horses on their fannies, last week.”

The smile got more nervous. “Do I have to tell you about the lying press, Senator?”

“No, you don’t. I have three words for you: sell them plugs.”

“Senator?”

“Sell them plugs! Get rid of them horses! No more ridin’ academy. Besides which, my people tell me you may wanna talk to the missus about this handsome, strappin’ former Army man she hired to be her groomsman. Word to the wise.”

The smile disappeared; he hung his head. “Yes, Senator.”