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.”
“Now. This comin’ fall…those journalism students I expelled last year, they’ll be back on the Reveille, I suppose.”
“Yes sir. Except for those that graduated.”
“Well, tell those prima donnas that if they print any more unflatterin’ letters or editorials about me and my administration, they won’t be graduatin’.”
“I’ll make that clear, Senator. I’ve already told them I would fire the entire faculty and expel the complete student body before I’d offend you, sir.”
The Kingfish’s grin just about burst his face. “You’re my kinda educator, Jimmy. Now…you handpick the new editor, and tell him LSU is Huey Long’s university, and no bastard is gonna criticize Huey Long on Huey Long’s own goddamn money! Is that clear.”
“Crystal, Senator.”
“I enjoy our little talks, Jimmy. Go, now.”
He stood. “Yes, Senator.”
And he was up and out.
The Kingfish sat shaking his head. He said to nobody in particular, “Now that’s my brand of university president. Not a straight bone in his body, but he does what I tell ’im to.”
That evening, the Kingfish was in top form, bounding across Memorial Hall, down this corridor, down that one, outdistancing his half-dozen thuglike guards, with whom I blended in disturbingly well. Brushing by lobbyists, tourists, legislators, stopping to chat sometimes for a couple minutes, sometimes a couple seconds, he finally strutted into the House of Representatives like a rich uncle arriving late at the family reunion.
The human dynamo bounded up and down the aisles, showing off that shit-eating grin, pressing the flesh, laughing loud, an important man making his minions feel important, too. Now he was crouched beside this member’s seat, whispering, now he was jumping up like a jack-in-the-box at a question directed to him by another member, now he was leaning in at that member’s seat, bellowing with shared laughter, only to suddenly propel himself up to the dais, to consult the Speaker, before strutting back down an aisle, grimacing, shouting. And then the process began again.
The balcony was packed with spectators, whose eyes followed the bouncing ball of the Kingfish, who was after all the whole show here. The legislature rubber-stamping process was devoid of drama.
Finally Huey ambled back up to the dais and helped himself to the swivel armchair by the Speaker of the House. No one objected; certainly no one was surprised.
The down-home crudity of Huey’s style was at odds with this magnificent tan-and-brown marble chamber; a frieze of the state’s plants and animals hugged the ceiling, and various fixtures were also decorated with stylish flora and fauna. But the massive walnut voting panel, behind the Speaker’s chair, invoked an altar, and the place resembled nothing so much as a Protestant church with a very wealthy congregation.
Our hoodlum honor guard was again assembled at the rear, seated behind a rail, with the exception of Big George; maybe he and his brown-bagged tommy gun weren’t welcome in the House. Huey had told us that if any pro-Long legislator got confused and pushed the “no” button on any of his bills, one of us was to guide that lawmaker’s hand to “yes.”
I was no judge, but the going-through-the-motions session seemed to be moving right along. Absentmindedly, I checked my watch-it was nine on the nose. When I glanced up, Huey-still seated up on the dais-was waving at somebody in the back of the room. Trying to get their attention.
It took me a while, but I finally got it.
Me? I mouthed to him.
And his head bobbed up and down, yes.
I wandered up to the dais, thinking that the floor of the Louisiana House of Representatives was one place I never expected to be, and looked up at Huey behind the dais like he was the teacher and I was about seven years old.
“See that feller over there?” the Kingfish asked.
I glanced over where he was pointing, and between the railing and the wall, a handful of people were talking. Possibly legislators, although there were reporters and various political hangers-on lurking about, as well. The only one I recognized was my old friend, lobbyist Louis LeSage.
“You mean LeSage?” I asked.
“No! The one smokin’ that big old ceegar.”
A dark-haired guy about forty was indeed enjoying a “big old ceegar.” I recognized him as one of the many political appointees who’d stopped by the suite on the twenty-fourth floor to chat with the Kingfish this afternoon.
“I’m about to give ya your last official assignment on my staff,” the Kingfish said.
“What is it?”
He raised his eyebrows and grinned like the greedy kid he was. “I want you to get me half a dozen of them Corona Belvedere cigars.”
“I thought you quit smoking.”
He frowned. “It would be my luck to hire the only man in Chicaga with a goddamn conscience. I’m in the mood to celebrate, son! Get me them cigars!”
I shrugged. “Sure. Where?”
“Downstairs in the cafeteria. They got a box of ’em down there, at the tobacca stand. Now go on, git outa here-make yourself useful! Earn that two-fifty a day….”
So I went down the stairs to the cafeteria. The white-tile-and-gleaming-chrome restaurant was deserted except for the help, two girls behind the food line and a few colored guys back in the kitchen. I got myself a cup of coffee, decided against the apple pie with cheese, and took my time buying Huey his cigars, so I could flirt with the pretty blonde behind the tobacco counter. She had eyes that were a robin’s egg blue and a Southern accent you could have ladled onto pancakes. She was also chewing gum: nobody’s perfect.
“I get off at ten, han’some,” she said. “Why? You got somethin’ in mind?”
Us randy sumbitches always do, but before I could mount a reply that would combine just enough sincerity with the vague promise of sin, a sound, from above, interrupted.
Muffled thunder.
“What the hell was that?” the blonde asked.
“Not thunder,” I said, and ran, pushing open one of the heavy glass doors like it was spun sugar, rushing up into the stairwell, where the rumbling sound continued and goddamn it, I knew what it was, not thunder, but the sound of blood being spilled: gunfire, roaring gunfire.
Not one gun, but many, an artillery barrage of handguns and maybe a machine gun….
Pulling my nine-millimeter out from under my left shoulder, I went up the stairs two at a time, the echo of continuous gunfire rumbling down the stairwell like an earthquake.
I practically collided with him, as he came staggering around the corner, onto a landing of the stairway: the Kingfish!
His mouth was bloody, but his suit was pristine; his eyes lighted up at the sight of me, and he held out his arms as if he wanted to hug me.
I slipped my arm around his shoulder, as he leaned on the railing. I managed, “What the hell?…”
“I’m shot,” the Kingfish sputtered, and in the process spit blood all over my suit coat.
We were both shouting: the echoing thunder of gunfire upstairs roared on, unabated. We were in a terrible fever dream and neither of us could wake up. He was stumbling down the stairs, weaving, and I supported him as he tried to walk, and guided him out of the stairwell, down a hallway and to a bank of glass doors at a side entrance, pushed one open with my shoulder and drunk-walked him outside.
When the glass door shut, the thunder of guns finally stopped-or did it just seem to?
I had no idea what had happened up there, except that it had been some form of hell on earth. I knew, for certain, only two things: I had failed this man leaning limply against me; and that I mustn’t fail him now.
I leaned the Kingfish against the glass doors, like I was balancing a bass fiddle against a wall, and ran out under the portico into the driveway and stood in front of two approaching headlights with my arms outstretched.