Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

by Jack Martin

  The conductor and twenty of his students, wearing bright, garish uniforms, crowded onto the platform. After a downbeat, the band began to play the music, while Long cheerfully bawled out the words:

  Why weep or slumber America,

  Land of brave and true,

  With castles and clothing and food for all,

  All belongs to you.

  Ev’ry man a King, ev’ry man a King.

  Ev’ry man a King

  But there’s something belonging to others,

  Enough for all to share,

  Winter or Spring,

  Sunny June or December,

  Ev’ry man a King, ev’ry man a King.

  Ev’ry man a King!

  Bierce had not thought it possible that the crowd could whoop any louder than it had already, but he was wrong. Men and women trapped in lives of misery had been shown a road to a wonderful life—by a man who seemed only to have their best interests at heart—a golden future, if only they would follow him. They danced and sang the verse, repeating, “Ev’ry man a King,” until Bierce could stand no more. He turned away in disgust, and worked his way out of the crowd, anxious to get back to the Roosevelt and get a decent bath, wash away Long’s reverie, and get good night’s sleep.

  Of course, Bierce knew that it was all nonsense, but the desperate poor didn’t realize that, although Long would undoubtedly do more to improve their lives if he were in power in Washington, but Bierce thought, as well he imagined Long knew, that he would never even come close to doing it all. Whatever one thought of the rich, there simply were not enough of them to fund Long’s utopian scheme—not nearly enough.

  Supposing, Bierce thought, he did become president, would Congress enact his laws? Absolutely not. But supposing it did? In no time, it would be clear that the revenues gained would not support what he had promised. He would then be forced to take even more from the rich, and start taxing the middle classes. Bierce knew that when all of this was done, there would simply not be enough capital to provide for the long term investment and development necessary to drag America out of the Depression. The country would become poorer. And even poorer still. Not only would it lack the money to fulfill all of Long’s grand promises, there would be no money to modernize the military to face the potential threats from Japan, and a Nazified Germany, which were already on the horizon.

  Bierce decided he would begin an extended series of interviews of Long’s enemies, to see if he could find something—anything—that could remove the threat that Long posed to FDR. He realized bitterly that he was not going to be able to get enough evidence to connect Long to the attempts on FDR’s life, or even to the criminal schemes set forth in the dead lawyer Rocha’s notebook, but he would settle for proof of some lesser crime that would be sufficient to crush his presidential hopes. After all, he reminded himself, the mad dog criminal Al Capone had been responsible for scores of murders, but was in the end, brought down by a simple tax evasion case.

  Yes, he would start on a new course to bring Long to justice, but only after a bath and a good night’s sleep.

  The Ford Tri-Motor was a steady, reliable airplane, and the weather during the trip from New York had been reasonably good. Still, Franz von Papen’s complexion was ashen, and sweat rolled down his cheeks. Only the swift action of a smirking stewardess with some towels had kept him from fouling his elegant suit an hour before.

  Across the aisle, Jackson Noyes bestowed a cocky smile on the German. He was amused to find von Papen was not quite the “superior man” of which the current rulers of Germany spoke. Noyes chuckled to himself at how shocked von Papen had been when shown certain things in rural Vermont and the Massachusetts town of Innsmouth. Still, Noyes could tell von Papen had been impressed—awed, in spite of himself. Now, all that was needed was to seal the deal with Huey Long.

  Over the roar of the three engines, Noyes heard the pretty stewardess announce they were about to land in New Orleans. The only sign von Papen gave that he had heard was that he tightened his hold on the arms of his seat into a death-grip, and tightly closed his eyes. There was a hard bump followed by two smaller ones, and the aircraft landed firmly on the ground. The pilot taxied over to the small terminal building, and one-by-one, killed the engines. Only then did von Papen unclench his eyes. As the door to the passenger compartment was thrown open, the German bolted from his chair and was first out into the sunshine. The amused Noyes followed at a more sedate pace. He found von Papen leaning against the wall by the luggage claim desk, gulping air, the color slowly returning to his face. Noyes approached the airsick German, trying to suppress his amusement.

  “So, Franz, you do not have the stomach of a flier.”

  “I did not claim to,” replied von Papen, now wiping the sweat from his face with a large handkerchief.

  “It might be something else,” replied Noyes with a smirk. “You haven’t seemed quite yourself since you met our Vermont and Massachusetts friends. Don’t worry, you probably won’t need to see them again. They will remain behind the scenes, for obvious reasons.”

  Gott im Himmel! thought von Papen as he restored the handkerchief to his coat pocket. He wondered if there was any end to the perversions of the Nazis … to contemplate an alliance with those … those….

  A voice interrupted von Papen’s thoughts. “Good afternoon!” said a tall, overweight man who pumped Noyes’ hand up and down as if he was trying to get water from a well. The stranger then turned to von Papen and took the German’s right hand in both of his. “And this must be our friend from overseas. I’m Earl Long, Senator Huey’s little brother. Big brother has told me you’re here to discuss some arrangements of benefit to all. I’m to take you to the Roosevelt Hotel, where the Senator maintains a private suite. Very private. Perfect for discussing private matters. If you both will follow me, I’ve got a Packard parked on the street.”

  Von Papen grabbed his bag and, along with Noyes, followed the strange young man with the crazy eyes whom he had instantly distrusted.

  After Earl Long had settled von Papen and Noyes into their rooms at the Roosevelt, he escorted them down to the first floor and led them into The Cave, the Roosevelt’s high-end restaurant. As its name implied, it had been decorated to resemble an underground grotto, complete with small waterfalls and ponds. Seated in a nook farthest from the entrance, was Senator Long, eating a juicy steak while chatting with a local judge. To either side of the table stood two large, beefy men with bulges under their left armpits. The hour was early, and there were no other diners. Earl Long ambled nonchalantly up to the table and said, “Brother Huey, here are your two visitors from out of town, just as you asked.”

  The Senator scowled at his sibling. “How many times I gotta tell you Earl, in front of others it’s ‘Senator’. Gotta show respect for the office.”

  “Sorry Hu—Senator. Anyway, here they are.”

  Long spoke to his dinner guest. “Judge, I hope you’ll forgive me, but my visitors’ time is short. If you’ll excuse us, you can come back tomorrow morning for breakfast and we can continue our talk.”

  “Of course, Senator,” muttered the small, rather plump man dutifully. He maneuvered his chair backward, stumbling clumsily before scurrying out of the restaurant. Long then gestured to his bodyguards and said, “Move off a-ways. Make sure neither you, nor anyone else is close enough to hear.” They acknowledged their orders with grunts and moved off. Senator Long turned his attention to his brother and the two newcomers, gesturing for them to sit.

  “Brother Earl, I’ve not met either of these folks. Care to do the introductions?”

  “Surely, Hu—er—Senator. This here is Mr. Jackson Noyes, senior partner in the Boston law firm of Marsh, Pabodie, Pickman, and Noyes. His firm is very influential in the politics of New England. Much less publicly, he is on the Council of Starry Wisdom, which can deploy similar power, but only on a very discreet level.” Noyes confidently shook the Senator’s hand.

  “Heard of your law firm in Washington
City,” said Senator Long. “People say it’s got a lot of influence in both parties. I’ve also heard rumors about Starry Wisdom—some really crazy stuff. On a previous visit by one of your people, he tried to tell me some of what it could do for me. Now, I’ve heard a lot of shinola in my political career, but what he told me … well, you’ll have to pardon my skepticism. I think your man got himself into some bad moonshine and stretched the truth just a little bit.”

  “You can believe it, Senator,” interrupted von Papen in a hoarse voice. “Whatever he has been telling you, you can believe it.”

  “My apologies,” said Noyes. “Senator, let me introduce you to Franz von Papen, former Chancellor of Germany, and until two months ago, Vice Chancellor under their new Leader. My friends in Starry Wisdom felt that it would be useful to bring in the resources that the new, reinvigorated Germany can make available to us.”

  Von Papen did not offer his hand, but nodded his head slightly. “Senator, as you can imagine, interfering in the government of a country with which Germany is currently at peace, is a monumental step. The Leader wishes to assure himself that Germany’s resources will be used wisely, that our role in changing the government will not become known, and that the plan is certain of success.”

  Senator Long frowned. “I expect we are in agreement on your one point—the whole country would go plumb nuts if they thought the Krauts were supporting me. But you said I could trust what Mr. Noyes says about the abilities of Starry Wisdom. Just why is that?”

  Noyes answered for the German. “I’ve taken our guest on a little tour of our facilities, introduced him to some of our … allies. That convinced him that they could deliver as I said. Isn’t that right, Mr. von Papen?”

  At this, von Papen glanced at Noyes, and began to sweat. Under other circumstances, it may have been the New Orleans heat and humidity. He turned his attention back to Senator Long, and in a quiet voice said, “Yes, Starry Wisdom can provide you a great deal of help. Just pray to God you will not need it.”

  Long seemed to chew on his lip. “I don’t expect you Krauts are helping me because you believe in my Share the Wealth plan. Just what will you expect in return?”

  Thinking back to his last meeting with the blond monster Heydrich, von Papen shivered slightly before answering. “The Leader has certain plans for the future. He would like assurances that—”

  “Perhaps we should not be discussing details in a public restaurant,” interrupted Noyes smoothly. “Besides, we are hungry and need some rest. Is there some private place, truly private, where we could have some extended discussions tomorrow?”

  Before the Senator could answer, his brother eagerly said, “Huey—damn—Senator, we’ve got a good little suite upstairs. We could all meet up there around 9:00, after our visitors have had a chance for a little rest. Sound agreeable to everyone?”

  Senator Long looked around the table. No objections were raised. “Well then, that’s settled. Let me order you gentlemen a fine New Orleans dinner, and we’ll make an early night of it.”

  It was getting dark when Harry Bierce pulled his Hudson convertible into the driveway of Judge Benjamin Pavy’s colonial revival house. He had only taken a short nap in his room at the Roosevelt before he got up and called his friend in the local Bureau office, asking if he knew anyone hostile to Senator Long who would talk to him. The friend had hesitantly recommended Judge Pavy, a well-respected and honorable jurist who had somehow come afoul of the Long Machine. The Judge’s reputation for honesty and integrity was unsullied, despite many attempts by Long to tarnish his character, including widespread whisperings that the judge had some black ancestry. Normally, this would be a devastating charge in the Deep South, but the people of his district either didn’t believe it, or they didn’t care. In short, Judge Pavy could be a sterling witness on the stand, if Long were ever brought to trial.

  Bierce walked up to the front door and rapped three times. The door was opened by a tall, heavy-set man in his fifties, with a full shock of white hair, dressed in a somewhat wrinkled, white linen suit.

  “Judge Pavy?” asked Bierce, taking off his hat in a show of respect.

  “I am,” the man said in a profound, commanding voice that must have been the terror of all lawyers in his district.

  “Agent Harry Bierce of the Department of Investigation. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Well, come in,” boomed Pavy. “Let me take your hat.” As Bierce entered the hallway, he handed his homburg to the judge, who placed it neatly on a side table, then gestured to the first door on the right.

  Bierce entered a vast room, which must have taken up a third of the ground floor. Yet the comfortable, lived-in furnishings scattered about the room made it seem welcoming rather than grand. Seated on a large sofa was a plump woman about the same age as the judge. Beside her was a younger, thinner version of herself, cradling a baby in her arms while holding a bottle. Bierce immediately liked her; women in Judge Pavy’s class usually handed off all caring and feeding of infants to servants. Standing behind the couch was a thin, dark, bespectacled man who was gently massaging the young woman’s shoulders, but his cold, suspicious eyes glared at Bierce through thick lenses.

  “Mr. Bierce, I hope you don’t mind these people being present during our discussions, but I get so little time with my family I want to share with them every moment I can. The silver-haired beauty is the love of my life, my wife Ida. Beside her is the only slightly more beautiful Yvonne, our daughter, who is holding her son Carl. And behind the couch is the man who has made my daughter so happy, Dr. Carl Weiss, Sr. Everyone, this is Agent Harry Bierce, from the Bureau of Investigation. He is trying to make a case for trying our beloved Senator Long on Federal charges in Federal Court. Have a seat, Agent Bierce. Care for a drink?”

  “Thank you, but no, Judge,” replied Bierce as he settled himself into an armchair directly across from the long couch. Judge Pavy shrugged, then poured himself a whiskey from the drink cart before taking a seat between his daughter and wife. Having taken a sip, Pavy told Bierce, “Fire away, Mr Bierce.”

  “My sources tell me that you are the greatest opponent of the Long machine in the state. Would you say that is true?”

  The Judge chuckled ruefully. “Your sources are too kind. Our esteemed Senator has many enemies in Louisiana. The trouble with most of them is that their only problem with the Long machine is that it freezes them out of the spoils. I am certain it comes as no surprise to you that Louisiana is monumentally corrupt, has been since the Civil War. Each parish is run by a local ‘courthouse gang’, usually centered around whoever is their sheriff. The mayor of New Orleans heads his own machine—not big enough to run the state, but big enough to make even Huey sit up and take notice from time to time.”

  “What issues divide them?”

  “Issues?” The Judge laughed bitterly. “It’s all about the spoils. Whose cousin is appointed to which state job, which county gets a new road, what town will have a state hospital built. Aside from unanimous agreement that the Negro should be denied any trace of political power, issues seldom come into it. The only thing that can unite them is that Huey Long doesn’t share any of the spoils.” The judge took another drink and tipped the glass at Bierce. “That, and the fact he does not respect the rich families that have pretty much run things in this state since the last century.”

  “Is that the reason you oppose him, frustrated ambition?” asked Bierce quietly.

  “An interesting question,” replied Pavy, who took another sip of his drink. “I suppose I am ambitious. Most men are. But I’m not ambitious for money, patronage, or even high office. I guess I’m ambitious for Louisiana. You’ve a bit of a Southern accent, Agent Bierce. Your people from Texas or Kentucky?” When Bierce didn’t answer immediately, Pavy continued. “Doesn’t matter. You’re a Southerner. You know how we feel about home and honor. Louisiana is my home, has been all of my life. I love her almost as much as I love my wife and daughter. But it pains m
e, Mr. Bierce, to the core, to see what people in other states think of my home. A land of shoeless crackers and shiftless darkies, a land of corrupt officials in white linen suits, a backward place where the KKK hangs innocent Negros and allows white killers to go free. A land where there is one form of justice for rich whites, another for poor blacks. That’s not the whole truth, Mr. Bierce, but there is enough truth in it to make me angry and ashamed.

  “So, I decided to do what I could to bring Louisiana into the twentieth century. I became a lawyer, and I defended the poor and powerless, no matter what their race. People hereabouts got to know me, got to know I couldn’t be bought, got to know I wanted to make Louisiana a better place, and eventually they made me judge. In my sinful pride, that was my ambition—to be known as a good and just man, so I could become a judge. Yet, despite my sin of pride, for which I pray for forgiveness nightly, I have done genuine good in my little part of this state.”

  Without a trace of sarcasm, Bierce said, “I would have thought that your devotion to reform would have made you a supporter of Senator Long. Many have told me he has done much good in this state.”

  “What good is reform, even prosperity, if we lose our freedom? Already Louisiana is close to a dictatorship. I am one of only a handful of elected officials who are not creatures of the Long machine. Whatever he wants done is done. Even the current governor is well known to be only a recording of Senator Long’s voice, and he cannot tolerate even a smidgen of dissent from his will. There is a bill currently before the legislature to physically move my district to a heavily pro-Long area, denying me reelection. Every educated person sees that Long wants to be dictator of Louisiana, and after that, of the entire United States. That is the reason why in two days the few members of the legislature who are not in Long’s pocket will spring a motion to impeach our governor, sending a message to Long. It has little chance of success, even as a surprise, but we have to try something.”