by Jack Martin
The doctor took Huey’s other hand and sought for a pulse. After a few moments, the man sighed, and placed the senator’s hand on his motionless chest. “He is gone,” he solemnly announced. The men in the room removed their hats. Some sobbed openly. Governor King was the first to speak.
“Earl, you got to tell the folks outside.”
“I have no position,” replied Earl Long numbly. “It would come better from you.”
The portly King shook his head. “The folks out there don’t want to hear from a fat old politician like me. They want to hear from a Long. If not Huey, then the next best thing, his brother.”
Earl thought a moment, then nodded. Releasing his brother’s hand, he left the room, followed by the governor and the leaders of the Long machine. When they reached the steps to the hospital’s entrance, there was no need to gesture for silence. The crowd of thousands was as still as a cemetery at midnight. Forcing himself to speak in as loud a voice as he could manage, Earl Long spoke without preamble.
“My friends, today I have lost a brother…” A collective groan traveled through the crowd. Earl continued, “But so have you. The crusader is dead, but I give you my word, his crusade will continue. Now go back to your homes and join with your family and friends to pray for the soul of Huey Long.”
There were scattered calls of “Hang the bastards! Death to Wall Street Jews,” and other phrases that rang out through the crowd.
Raising his voice even louder, Earl Long responded “None of that, my friends! There was no conspiracy in bringing about my brother’s death. A lunatic doctor did the deed, acting by himself. The state police have already confirmed that. The murderer is dead. Now go to your homes and mourn amongst your own people.”
With scattered muttering the crowd slowly broke up. Governor King came up to Earl and patted him on the shoulder. “Well done, Earl. That crowd could have got out of hand. There could have been riots, lynchings, God knows what else. They would have only listened to you. Only the words of a Long could prevent a real disaster. Now boss, what are your orders for the rest of us?”
In amazement, Earl Long responded, “Boss? Governor, you’re the boss now that Huey’s gone.”
“Afraid not,” responded King, chuckling ruefully. “I may not be the fastest bunny in the forest, but I know I’ll never be anything but a place-holder for the Longs, and I don’t mind that. Huey built up a Long machine, and a Long must head it. Russell’s too young, so it’s gotta be you. So let me repeat: What are your orders, Mr. Long?”
Earl Long was speechless for a nearly a minute as he contemplated a future that he had never imagined would be his. Then he began to give his first orders.
CHAPTER FIVE
“with peace and glory ahead”
Harry Bierce had been standing by the main entrance to the soaring Capitol Building in Baton Rouge for over an hour, watching the line of thousands of grieving people, forming a procession more than half a mile long. The Louisiana sun was blistering, but none of the mourners seemed to mind. Silence pervaded except for the occasional sobbing, as the citizens shuffled slowly up to the building and ascended the steps leading to the rotunda—a just-completed monument that Huey Long had built for himself—all for a few moments to see the corpse of the man who had embodied their hopes and dreams, who had promised them so much.
Earlier that morning, Bierce had flashed his badge to the stony-faced state policemen at the entrance, and had been allowed to go to the head of the line. He entered the enormous, echoing rotunda, and had seen the open coffin, set up on a platform on the spot where Senator Long had been shot and surrounded by elaborate floral displays. He stepped up to the coffin and stared down at the peaceful looking body, clothed in a formal tuxedo that, in life, Long would have disdained. Bierce shook his head, marveling how one man with so much energy, so much ambition, had allowed greed to bring him to such an end. Still wondering at the mysteries of mankind, he’d left the rotunda to enter the blinding Louisiana sunlight.
Across the street and near to the line of mourners, sitting on the grass under a shade tree was a black man with a guitar, blind, perhaps from a gas attack during the Great War. Not quite knowing why, Bierce crossed the street and walked over to him. The man was playing a guitar, and although quite good, the upturned cap on the ground in front of him only contained a scattering of change. Standing quite close, Bierce listened to the mournful song the man was singing. He recognized it as the melancholy song that was sweeping the Depressionstricken nation: “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?”
They used to tell me I was building a dream,
and so I followed the mob;
When there was earth to plow or guns to bear,
I was always there, right on the job.
As Bierce listened, he scanned the slow-moving line. He saw white families and black families standling close together, the uneasiness normally shown when whites were forced into close proximity to blacks, was absent.
They used to tell me I was building a dream,
with peace and glory ahead.
Why should I be standing in line,
just waiting for bread?
Bierce noticed a farmer in bibbed overalls in the line with three children under the age of ten clinging to him. The children looked bewildered, even frightened, too young to understand exactly what was going on, but not too young to understand something was badly wrong. No woman stood with this family. Bierce made an educated guess that constant pregnancy and grinding poverty had placed her in an early grave. The farmer himself had a lined face with sad eyes, his skin so roughened and burned by the Louisiana sun that Bierce could not decide whether the man was black or white. Bierce supposed that it did not matter.
Once I built a railroad,
I made it run, made it race against time.
Once I built a railroad, now it’s done,
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Bierce scanned the newsreel crews and their heavy cameras, the crazed equipment of the radio networks with electrical lines wandering over the ground like snakes, the reporters, the photographers. Normally, he despised the newshounds and their conscienceless pursuit of tragedy and sensation, the way that they would serve up to the public the tragedy and the pain of others in order to entertain the curious. For some reason, today they were subdued, even polite. Bierce decided that they realized that something titanic had happened, something that would affect them, as well as the public forever.
Once I built a tower up to the sun,
brick and rivet and lime.
Once I built a tower, now it’s done,
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Out of the corner of his eye, Bierce spotted Russell Long in the line, accompanied by his mother and sister. Russell and his sister showed signs of crying, although no tears flowed now. Their faces had the look of bewildered amazement Bierce had seen numerous times on the faces of soldiers who had just been shot, still conscious yet unable to comprehend that their lives were about to end. Mrs. Long walked steadily on, her face stony. Bierce had heard rumors that Huey saw his wife seldom in the last few years, contenting himself with casual affairs with admiring young women. Yet there was brittleness in the way she walked that indicated to Bierce that she did mourn, for the man she had married, if not the man he had become.
Once in khaki suits, gee, we looked swell,
full of that Yankee Doodly Dum;
Half a million boots went slogging thru Hell,
and I was the kid with the drum.
Bierce now focused on the blind performer, tears from his sightless eyes flowing down past the rim of his dark glasses as he sang the last verse in the voice of an angel.
Say, don’t you remember? They called me ‘Al’;
It was ‘Al’ all the time;
Why don’t you remember? I’m your pal,
Say buddy, can you spare a dime?
Bierce reached into his pocket and extracted a ten-dollar bill. He was about to put the bill into the upt
urned cap when he realized the blind man, unable to see the denomination, could easily be cheated. Placing the currency in the man’s hand, Bierce murmured, “Just so you will know, this is ten dollars.”
As Bierce straightened, the singer said, “Thanks, sir. It is a sad time, ain’t it?”
Bierce considered saying something blandly comforting, but then decided that would not do justice to the blinded veteran who had already given so much. All men need to hear the truth, but this man at this moment, Bierce thought, deserved it unvarnished and real. “It is, of course, sad. But you, of all people, must know that the ‘Share the Wealth’ plan could not have worked. There’s nowhere near enough rich people to have funded it. Yet Long would have tried to make it work, would have tried to seize enough of the nation’s wealth to make it work. All that would have done, is take from the country the capital necessary to restart the economy. The Depression would have gotten worse, would have gone on indefinitely, with no end in sight. And he would’ve have used any means necessary to accomplish his goals. That’s not the democracy you fought for.”
“Well, sir, you may have the right of it,” responded the man, idly picking a few notes off his guitar. “I know Long was a bit of a crook. Know some of the state money stuck to his fingers and those of his kin. I know that some of his ideas weren’t thought out, were—what’s the word?—utopian. But in spite of his greed for power and money, he cared. He really cared. That made up for a lot, sir. He did give us the roads, the schools, the hospitals, the textbooks. The other high-and-mighty types in Baton Rouge, in New Orleans, they didn’t care, sir. Didn’t care one damn bit for us common folks. Huey did. Can forgive a man a lot because of that.”
Bierce knew there was much truth in what the blind veteran said. “There are others who care, more honest, more capable—President Roosevelt and others. They will make certain that what can be done, will be done. Give them a chance.”
“I pray you’re right, sir.” The man began to strum out a melancholy tune. Bierce turned and, without saying another word, left the man to grieve.
After a short walk, Bierce reached his rented Hudson convertible, got in, and started the powerful engine. Placing it in gear, he roared off, taking the road out of Baton Rouge to the south. He was not headed to New Orleans … not yet anyway. After a relatively short drive, he turned into the entrance of a rural cemetery. Despite the brightness of the sun, there was a deep sense of loss guarded by ancient, spreading trees dripping moss. He spotted a small party in the distance. Driving toward it, he stopped the noisy car at a respectful distance and walked the rest of the way.
A Catholic priest was standing at the head of a coffin, reading something in a monotone. Behind him, at a discrete distance, stood two men in rough clothes smoking cigarettes; presumably these were the gravediggers. At the foot of the coffin stood the towering Judge Benjamin Pavy, one arm wrapped tightly around the shoulders of his sobbing daughter Yvonne, while his wife stood on the other side of him, dry-eyed, stony-faced. Bierce took a position under the shade of one of the massive trees and watched the remainder of the ceremony, removing his hat in respect.
Finally the mumbling priest finished his reading, made some gestures over the coffin, and hurried off, not bothering to stop to speak to the family. The two gravediggers simultaneously threw their cigarettes on the ground, and crushed them with the soles of their boots. They then picked up shovels that had been lying there and sauntered over to the coffin and the pile of fresh earth that lay beside a yawning grave. Putting a heavy arm each around his wife and daughter, Judge Pavy gently turned them in the direction of a distant chapel where their automobile was parked. As he walked by the tree that sheltered Bierce, the Judge noticed the federal agent. Murmuring a few words to his wife, he handed off their daughter to her. While they continued on the way to the chapel, he then walked wearily over to Bierce. Judge Pavy did not offer to shake hands, but nodded a greeting to the agent.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Bierce. As you see, no one else has come, not my other children, not even Carl’s father. They treat us like we have the plague.” Suddenly the old man’s face crumpled like old linen. As a wail of despair came his throat, he buried his face in his hands. He spoke between sobs. “Why, Carl, why? Why’d you leave my baby girl a widow, my grandson fatherless? Why’d you throw away that magnificent mind of yours? Was it because you thought I believed you a Jew, that others too believed the same? That Long was like that thug over in Germany? All that didn’t matter; you had a duty … a duty….”
Pavy descended into continuous sobbing for some minutes, then forced himself to stop, wiping his face with a large handkerchief and straightned his shoulders. He then turned his red-rimmed eyes on Bierce and asked him, “Or was it my fault? Was it because I was always venting my hatred of Huey Long and all of his works that he became obsessed with the need to kill Long? Did I persuade my baby girl’s husband to throw his life away?”
Harry Bierce normally kept his emotions well in check, but he pitied the old man to the bottom of his strange soul. “Judge Pavy, what Dr. Weiss did was murder, pure and simple. But every man must be responsible for his own actions. I am confident that you never once urged him to commit murder for any reason, good or bad. Having said that, I do not believe him to have been an evil man. He killed, not for personal gain, vengeance, or even hatred. He killed because he thought it would save lives. Take what consolation from that you can. When your grandson is of an age to understand these things, make sure that he knows that his father was a good man who took a wrong path. And don’t you give up fighting the corrupt and wicked through the ballot box. You are a good man, too, and America does not have enough like you. You and yours have my condolences. Now, you should go catch up with your family. They will need you more than ever in the coming weeks.”
Harry Bierce extended his small hand. Judge Pavy took it in both of his, shook it, then with a slight nod of his head trudged toward the chapel. Bierce watched him until he disappeared inside. Then Bierce strode purposely toward his Hudson. There was so much to do, and so little time in which to do it.
From behind him came the hollow “thunk, thunk” as the gravediggers threw shovels-full of earth on the coffin of Dr. Carl Weiss.
“So, Huey Long has come a cropper, eh? I knew he would, eventually. Tried to tell your bosses in Berlin that, but they wouldn’t listen. They were in too much of a hurry. Told them ’36 was too soon; told them to wait until ’40, when Roosevelt’s two terms are up.”
Von Papen face held an expression of ill-disguised disgust. He despised traitors—even those who benefited his beloved Germany. The man across from him took a long drag on an unfiltered Camel and blew the noxious smoke in his direction; von Papen did not attempt to hide his coughing response to the cheap American cigarette.
The American smiled, relishing von Papen’s discomfort.
“The Leader is not known for his patience,” replied von Papen dryly. “Besides, he knows that the limitation of two presidential terms is a custom established by your George Washington, not a requirement of your Constitution. He believes that should he live, Roosevelt will run for a third term in 1940. Perhaps even a fourth in 1944. That is what concerns him. He knows that your President hates Germany in general and the Nazi Party in particular. He has plans for the 1940s in Europe, and does not want American interference, like in the Great War.” Von Papen paused to grimace, and then continued. “Having said all that, in my personal opinion I believe you to be correct. Better to be successful in 1940 than fail in 1936.”
“I think you’re someone I can deal with. You’re not like those thick-headed thugs your precious Leader has sent in the past. And don’t worry, I don’t take much persuading to stay out of European affairs. We got into your Great War, and as near as I can see it all we got out of that was a quarter million boys killed. Still, the terms I’ve discussed with you people in the past will have to be changed. Without Huey, I’m all you got, and my price has gone up.”
Vo
n Papen just barely managed to suppress a sneer. “And just what is your price now?”
“First off, you can tell your buddies in New England to go crawl back in their holes. This is a white man’s country, and I’m not sharing it with anyone—least of all those freaks. Second, the money will be twice what I previously said, and all in gold. I’m going to need every ounce of it, especially if Roosevelt tries for a third term.”
“I have no power to agree to your new terms, although I will most certainly relay them to Berlin. Personally, I think the Leader will agree. As you say, you are now all he has.” Von Papen stood, and bowed slightly. “In any event, I must go. My ship leaves New York for Hamburg in fourteen hours, and I must be on it. That requires I take the very next train north. I will find my own way out.” Von Papen clicked his heels, turned, and exited the suite without a backward glance.
Vice President Garner looked thoughtfully at the door, then crushed out his Camel in the ashtray.
Another mercilessly hot day had just ended in Commerce, Oklahoma. In the small bungalow owned by the teacher, she had left all the windows open and kept two electric fans going, but the heat made the air seem almost liquid, made moving about seem like walking through water. The teacher wiped a layer of sweat off her face with a handkerchief, then walked into the dining room
Despite the temperature, she smiled at the sight of her recently adopted daughter, the orphaned child of Constable William Campbell, gunned down by Bonnie Parker last summer. Constable Campbell had no living relations, not even cousins, and there was talk of sending the girl to an orphanage. The teacher had grown up in an orphanage, and had no intention of letting this bright little girl live in a hellish state institution. Instead, she had taken the child in and had not regretted it for one moment since.
