Blood and Thunder

god-damn respect.” He smiled but it turned quickly into a sneer. “Come Sunday, we’ll gerrymander Judge Pavy slap damn to hell and gone.”

Seymour patted the air cautiously. “Judge Pavy is very popular around Opelousas way….”

“I’ll teach those peckerwoods to git off the sidewalk and bow down good and goddamn low when the Kingfish comes to town.” Huey’s cigar had gone out. He sat up on the bed, and reached for the Zippo on the nightstand. “Who’s that? New bodyguard?”

The Kingfish had finally noticed me.

Seymour smiled. “Old friend of yours. From Chicago.” Slowly, his face began to light up, like a kid handed a candy bar.

He hopped off the bed and came over with his hand extended; it was as if he planned to stab me with it. But we only shook hands, warmly, though truth be told, the Kingfish had a strangely cold, clammy handshake.

Like shaking hands with a corpse.

“Well, well, if it ain’t the smart-ass Chicaga boy hisself! Nat Heller!”

I gave him half a smile. “It’s Nate. But I’m surprised you remember me at all, Senator.”

Both eyebrows lifted momentarily. “Why, ’cause of them speakeasies we damn near drunk outa business?”

“Man like you meets a lot of people, Senator.”

He shook his head. “Not that stands up to me. I scare the bejesus out of ninety-nine out of a hun-erd men, but I guess maybe you’re that other one.”

“I don’t know. Pay me enough money and I’ll be glad to grovel.”

His laugh was a howl, and whether sincere or just part of the rube persona he affected, I couldn’t say. He slipped an arm around my shoulder.

“You know,” he said, “if you didn’t have the same color hair as me, mebbe I wouldn’t cut ya so goddamn much slack….”

I ran a hand through my reddish-brown locks and grinned. “Maybe there was a Long in the woodpile.”

This time the laughter was a roar, and he gestured for me to follow him over to a sofa, where we both sat. Seymour took a chair nearby, but sat quietly.

“Forgive the pajamies, Nate-kinda got to be a trademark with me. People half expect it”

“If it’s good enough for the German consul,” I said, “it’s good enough for me.”

“But it wasn’t good enough for that Heinie son of a bitch,” Huey said good- naturedly. “That’s how these things got to be my trademark.”

We were both referring to a notorious international incident that had made great press for Huey. In New Orleans, at Mardi Gras time a few years ago, the commander of a German cruiser and the German consul called on the Governor of the Great State of Louisiana in the latter’s hotel suite. Huey greeted them in his blue robe, green pajamas and red slippers (he later admitted he’d looked like an “explosion in a paint factory”), unintentionally insulting the dignitaries. The press got hold of it and had a merry time with the story, and ever since, Huey had played up the rustic fool business, probably because it softened his American Hitler image.

“So,” Huey said, using the Zippo again, “what brings the Chicaga Police Department to New York? Bigger and better graft?”

“That might do it,” I said. “But me, I went private back in ’32.”

“Hot damn.” He slapped his thighs. “Hope that means you come here to fin’ly take me up on my job offer!” He shook his head. “Them sorry-ass, shif’less, worthless Cossacks of mine…I can use somebody that don’t think with his fists.”

“Isn’t Murphy Roden still with you? He’s a good man.”

His mouth twitched. “’Ception to the rule. He’s drivin’ my Caddy from D.C. down to Baton Rouge for me. He’d be pleased to see you-took a real shine to you.”

“Huey,” Seymour interjected, “Mr. Heller is here at my invitation.”

“Really? That’s one good idea you had lately.”

Seymour’s eyes tightened. “I…I wanted to give you something special. For your birthday.”

Huey smirked at me, rolled his eyes. “Big day. Big deal. The ol’ Kingfish is gettin’ on in years. So, Seymour. Is Chicaga here my gift? Why ain’t you wearin’ a big red ribbon, Heller?”

“The cake I was going to jump out of fell,” I said.

Seymour nodded toward the brown-paper package I had laid next to me on the couch. “I asked him to bring you a present from Chicago….”

I handed him the crinkly package and he took it eagerly, his smile making his cheeks fat, his eyes those of a greedy child; he tore at the wrapping, but as the contents were revealed to him, his glow turned to glower.

In the Kingfish’s hands was a thick, bulky tan canvas sleeveless garment, a vest of sorts that would cover its wearer neck to waist.

Disgusted, he threw the gift at Seymour who caught it, flinching.

“I don’t need no goddamn bullet-proof BVDs, Seymour! Jesus H. Kee-rist! I’d look, and feel, like a damn fool in the fucker. Send it back!”

Seymour’s homely face was tight with concern. “Huey…please…with these death threats…you have to have protection.”

“The kind of protection I need ain’t the kind you wear.”

“I simply thought…”

“That’s your problem, lately. Simple thinkin’.” He shook his head and the spit curl flounced. “Well, ya did one thing right, anyway-you invited my ol’ pal Heller here to come to my birthday shindig.”

Seymour managed a smile that was a sickly half-moon.

Huey waved dismissively in the air, as if shooing a fly. “Seymour, check on them train reservations.”

“I already have….”

“Double-check. Don’t you understand? I want some privacy here. I want a private consultation with my Chicaga security adviser.”

Seymour nodded numbly, rose, and carrying the tan bullet-proof vest in his hands like something he needed to bury, went out, shutting the door behind him.

The Kingfish slapped me on the shoulder; his grin was tight and somewhat glazed; he was, after all, at least a little crazy. “So…you’re in private practice now, are ya, son? Ya know, I’m serious about that job offer still bein’ good.”

“That’s flattering, Senator.”

“Huey. Call me ‘Huey,’ or ‘Kingfish.’ Senator is what you call them numbskulls back in Washington.”

“All right…Huey. But I got a nice little business goin’ back home.”

He jerked, as if I’d slapped him. “In this goddamn depression? Under Prince Franklin? Are you joshin’?”

Actually, I kind of felt the depression was letting up a little, and I’d voted for FDR; but I didn’t share that with the Kingfish.

“Well, I have clients to consider. Retail credit, insurance investigation…can’t just walk away from them.”

And I had no desire to move to bayou country, even temporarily, though I didn’t share that thought with him, either. Swamps and gators weren’t my style.

“Can you give me jest a little ol’ month of your time, son?” His voice had turned surprisingly gentle; the soapbox nowhere to be seen. “Even jest a measly li’l ol’ two weeks?”

“Well, I might be-”

He leaned forward; his dark brown eyes fixed on me in a manner that was both seductive and discomfiting. “I need a man…a man I can trust.”

“What about Seymour Weiss?”

“I trust him like a brother,” he said flatly. Then he leaned back, and draped his arms along on the top of the sofa. “’Course, on t’other hand, I don’t in particular trust my brothers.”

“You said yourself, Murphy Roden’s a good man.”

“So he is, and so, in his inimitable way, is Joe Messina-he’d die for me.”

“He also needs help tying his shoes.”

“That’s a God-granted fact,” Huey said, and grinned. “So…what I need is a man I can trust, who’s also a man