went down,
I’d seen Murphy’s gun-a revolver, a Colt-.38 on a.45 frame. Big damn gun.
“I use strictly hollow-point ammo, y’know,” he said, almost proudly. “So the son of a bitch, the assassin was dead, then and there.”
Dead before the fusillade of the other bodyguards’ guns turned him into that punched-out punchboard. Murphy had done him that much of a favor, anyway.
“I was barely to my feet, away from him, when all hell broke loose, Messina and the others blastin’ away like the Fourth of fuckin’ July. That’s…that’s when the muzzle blasts blinded me.”
“A cramped area like that, it’s no surprise,” I said. “I heard somebody at the hotel say it’s a guy named Weiss…no relation to Seymour, I assume.”
“Not hardly,” Murphy said wryly. “Dr. Carl Austin Weiss.”
“A doctor? Not a
“Yeah, a medical doctor.”
“You’re kidding…”
“If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.”
I thought about the bloody rag of a man I’d seen sprawled on the marble floor last night. “He looked so young…what was left of him.”
Murphy nodded. “Just twenty-nine, they say. Top ear, nose and throat man in the state.”
“That’s goddamn odd, if you ask me.”
“What is?”
“A doctor, trying to commit murder.”
Murphy’s smile was condescending; he shook his head. “Not murder-
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing’s wrong.”
But I was lying
I asked, “How’s the Kingfish doing?”
“Holdin’ his own,” Murphy said. “Guy’s bullet went through him-but last night was chaos…that operatin’ room was a goddamn vaudeville show. More doctors in there than a country club dance…politicians…bodyguards….”
He waved his hands in the air, in distaste.
I rose, patted him on the shoulder. “Glad you’re okay. What’s a copper without his peepers?”
“You gonna leave soon?”
“Most likely.”
He stood, extended his hand. “You take care, Nate. You’re a good man, for a Yankee.”
“We’re both good men. But some son of a bitch still shot the Kingfish.”
We traded disgusted smirks, and waved, and I moved down the hall toward 314. Along the way I passed the Rev. Gerald L. K. Smith. He wore a somber black suit and dark blue tie, but his mood was boisterous. He was slapping reporter Chick Frampton on the back.
“This is
Frampton’s smile was skeptical. “You really think so, Rev?”
Smith gestured expansively; the hallway was his pulpit. “How many years have we been saying that the corporations have been tryin’ to kill Huey?
I didn’t stop to be part of that. But I did stop when I spotted, sitting alone in an alcove with three empty chairs in this standing-room-only house, Alice Jean Crosley.
She wore black-a black bonnet and prim-and-proper black dress. Her hands were folded in her lap like a corsage and she was doing her best not to cry. But her eyes were laced with red.
“Want some company?” I asked her.
She found a little smile for me, somewhere, and patted the chair beside her.
“I feel like a heel,” I said.
That statement astounded her. “Why?”
“I didn’t have the guts to knock on your door last night, and tell you. I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings.”
She lowered her head, but the little smile was back. “I think I understand.”
“We…we’ve had a great time, Alice Jean, you and I, but we’re bound together by that man, and whether he’s a saint or the biggest sinner the South has ever seen, he’s important to us. You hate him, and you love him. Me, I don’t know him all that well, frankly. How do you get to know a force of nature? I don’t know if I could ever understand a man who’s that motivated by power. Greed, I understand. Sex, I got a feel for that, too. But power I don’t begin to get.”
“What are you trying to say, Nate?”
“Just that I don’t want him to die, either, Alice Jean. If for no other reason than it might cast a pall on our friendship.”
She reached out for my hand and squeezed. “Will you do me a favor…friend?”
“Name it.”
“Nobody will talk to me. The only reason I got in was my statehouse pass-and now they’re afraid to cross me for fear I’ll blab to those reporters downstairs.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“Find out how he
“You bet.”
And I squeezed her hand.
The red-laced eyes were glimmering with tears, but at least I’d made her smile.
Down the hall, just outside Room 314, I saw Seymour Weiss. He was standing with a heavy-set white-haired gent who was obviously Governor O.K. Allen; shrewd detective that I am, I figured this out when I overheard Weiss refer to him as “Governor.”
Seymour noticed me, where I was standing patiently a ways down the hall-not wanting to interrupt him and the governor, after all-and came quickly over.
“Heller!” he said, with a somber smile. He extended his hand and I shook it. Why the hell was he glad to see me? He said, “There are some people I want you to meet,” and slipped his arm around my shoulder and walked me into the room just opposite 314. All of a sudden I was the guest of honor….
“Rose,” Seymour said, gesturing to me, “I’d like you to meet the young man who brought your husband to the hospital last night.”
Chairs had been arranged and the hospital bed removed; this was a sitting room now, a lounge for family members. Mrs. Long was standing talking to a young man of perhaps twenty, in white shirt and dark tie, who was a startling replica of what Huey must have looked like at that age.
She turned to me and her smile was both dignified and brave. Rose Long was a pretty, pale-blue-eyed Irish lass who had grown pleasantly plump in middle age; she wore a dark brown dress with her namesake flower pinned to the breast.
“We’re very grateful to you, Mr. Heller,” she said. “This is my son Russell….”
I shook hands with the boy. It was as if he’d been stamped in his father’s image. But his handshake was firmer.
She introduced me to her father-in-law-a long-faced, haggard, no-nonsense-looking farmer who was seated by Huey’s brother Earl-and her other two children, a pretty teenager also named Rose, and another Huey-in-the- making, eleven-year-old Palmer. They all seemed more confused than worried. It’s difficult to summon concern, let alone grieve, in the midst of bedlam. Outside the window, the crowd had begun to sing, “Every Man a King.” Its jaunty air seemed out of place.
