“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. “
“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
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….”
12
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
