Blood and Thunder

folders, and numerous framed photos of Murphy with the likes of the late Governor O.K. Allen, current Governor Leche and, of course, the Kingfish. There were also watercolor prints of aircraft from the World War on one wall, and a model Fokker atop one of the file cabinets.

“I’ll be jinks swing!” Murphy said, as he swiveled around just enough to see me; his brown eyes lighted up. Into the phone, he said, “I’ll get back to ya, Ted-ol’ pal of mine just dropped by.”

He hung up, stood behind the desk and stretched his hand across, grinning. “I wondered when you’d get around to me!”

I shook his hand, pulled up a chair. “You heard I was in town?”

“Who hasn’t?” He sat. “You want some coffee?”

“No thanks. So what do you hear? Is somebody going to shoot me, for poking around?”

He rocked gently in his chair; his smile was wicked. “I don’t think they decided, yet-’cept maybe for Joe Messina.”

“I barely asked him a question,” I said. “He just blew the hell up.”

Murphy shrugged. “Sore point, with him. He’s tore up with the possibility he mighta shot Huey. They had him in a private madhouse for a couple weeks, while back.”

“No kidding?”

“If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. They had him in a jacket that buckles up in back, if ya get my drift-he bawled his head off all day, all night, hollerin’ about how he killed the best friend he ever had. Pitiful.”

“Did he?”

“Did he what, Nate?”

“Kill the best friend he ever had?”

Murphy rocked; his mouth was smiling, but his eyes weren’t. “What’s your angle on this one, kid?”

“Well, that kinda depends on who I’m talking to, Murph.”

He snorted a laugh. “I know that about you. But if you try the truth out on me, maybe I’ll try it out on you.”

“Sounds fair enough. I’m working as an impartial investigator, mutually acceptable to both the insurance company and Mrs. Long.”

“The double-indemnity issue, huh?”

“Right.”

His eyes narrowed. “Just how impartial are you?”

“I lean toward Mrs. Long, frankly. She got a raw deal on the financial end of the stick-seems to me all her late husband’s cronies are a hell of a lot more flush than she is.”

“Includin’ me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Now his smile turned sly. “This is awful noble of ya, Nate, takin’ Mrs. Long’s part in this. How much is she slippin’ ya under the counter?”

I grinned. “Why, is that kind of thing just not done in Louisiana?”

He grinned back. “Why, hell, no. That’s for them graft-happy Northerners, up in Chicago and such.”

“Your turn.”

“Pardon?”

“The truth.”

He rocked in his chair. “First, answer me: you think this is goin’ to go public?”

“If I can prove something that contradicts the public record? Hard to say. It shouldn’t-it’s a private matter, between Mrs. Long and her insurance company. But I suppose there’s no guarantee the lid’ll stay on…. That would ultimately be up to Mrs. Long.”

“I don’t think she’d do that,” he said. “I don’t think she’d trade her martyred husband for a damn fool shot down by his own overzealous men.”

I said nothing; just waited for him to convince himself. He wanted to talk. I just had to sit and wait and let him.

Finally, he stopped rocking; sat forward. He folded his hands, prayerfully. “The truth is, Carl Weiss did shoot the Kingfish. I saw the gun in his hand. I saw him shoot the damn thing at him, point-blank.”

“And it’s that simple?”

He looked away from me. After a long time, he said, “I didn’t say it was…simple.”

“What is it, then?”

He gazed at me with eyes that were a hundred times more intelligent than Joe Messina’s but every bit as tortured.

“The doc shot him, all right, but it’s possible…just possible, mind you…that one of our bullets clipped Huey in the back, as he was runnin’ off.”

I sat forward. “But there was no talk of two wounds-just an entry and an exit….”

He shrugged. “All I can say is…and I never told a soul on earth this, Nate, goddamnit…I heard Huey cry out a second time. Not as loud. But as he was runnin’ away, he cried out, again.”

“With all those bullets flying, it wouldn’t be surprising if…”

“Nate, either way, it was that son of a bitch Carl Weiss’s fault. No doubt about it.” He slammed a fist on his desk and the paperwork shuddered. “But I have to wonder if one of our bullets didn’t, goddamnit, finish the job.”

“This is just a…feeling on your part. A hunch. A suspicion.”

“A fear,” he said. “And only one person would really know the answer.”

I knew.

“Dr. Vidrine,” I said.

“Vidrine,” Murphy agreed. “The man who operated on Huey. Maybe you should talk to him….”

I shook my head. “But would he talk to me? His public statements were that one bullet killed Huey-entry wound, exit wound, front, back. Not two entry wounds. Why the hell would he contradict himself, now?”

He blinked. “You mean, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

His laugh was humorless. “Vidrine’s already disgraced. Governor Leche fired him from his job as superintendent at Charity Hospital, and he’s been demoted from dean to assistant professor, out at LSU. Who knows? Maybe if you go talk to him, he’ll come clean. Now, skeedaddle-I got criminals to catch.”

I stood. “I appreciate the lead.”

“No problem,” he said. “Let me know when you’re out from under, so we can go back to the French Quarter and find us a couple more college gals.”

The stalls of the French Market in the Vieux Carre stretched along Decatur and North Peters streets, from Barracks to St. Ann. Though it was late evening-approaching nine o’clock-the stalls under the dark pitched roof of the tawny shed with its decorative ventilation towers and endless row of pillars were hopping with buying and selling. It was Thursday night-time to buy Friday’s fish.

I wasn’t buying or selling; I was looking for something for nothing. Guess at heart I was still a Chicago cop.

At one end of the market was the Cafe Du Monde. Designed to provide weary teamsters with a rest stop, the cafe-and another, at the other end, the Morning Call-attracted all kinds. Farmers off wagons and trucks mingled in cheerful anonymity with posh couples in evening clothes, teenage lovers in sweaters and slacks and skirts, and the inevitable camera-carrying tourists.

Dr. Arthur Vidrine was seated in a corner, with his back to the world. But in the mirror that began halfway up the white wooden wall, I could see his dark hair, oval face, cleft chin-and morose expression. He wore a white linen suit, like Dr. Carl Weiss had, one Sunday night last year.

I pulled out a chair at the little black table and sat down. “Thank you for seeing me,” I said.

“I appreciate the opportunity,” he said quietly. He gestured to his small cup of dark steaming liquid. “You must try the cafe au lait, though if you like your coffee strong, I would suggest the cafe noir.”

“You’re the doctor,” I said.

A young waiter in white shirt, black bow tie and black pants came for my order. I tried a serving of the