Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 08

by Blood (and Thunder) (v5. 0)

  “I am?”

  He stood and came over and patted me on the back; it about knocked the wind out of me. “You’re the guy that rushed the Kingfish to the hospital! You’re okay.”

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  “You want coffee? We got coffee.”

  I shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  He padded out into the hall in his stocking feet and bellowed: “How about some coffee in here? Two coffees!”

  He came back in, sat on the couch and got his shoes on. After he got them tied—which took all his concentration—he gestured around him, to his nearly empty office. The only art on the wall was a calendar of a little girl and her puppy and a framed photograph of Huey Long with his arm around a stiltedly smiling Messina.

  “Some layout, huh?”

  “Some layout. What do you do here, Joe?”

  “I’m on the dock board!”

  “Yeah, I gathered, but what…”

  “We’re in charge of the docks.”

  “Ah.”

  He got up and went behind his desk and sat. I turned my chair around to face him. Through the windows behind him, the Mississippi looked choppy; the wind was picking up.

  “You’re from Chicago,” he said.

  “Right.”

  “I remember you from ’32.”

  “Right again.”

  His frown was puzzled, not hostile. “What are you doin’ in town?”

  “I’m looking into the Kingfish’s death.”

  Now it turned hostile. “What do you mean, ‘lookin’ into’ it?”

  “I’m working for an insurance company, trying to establish that Dr. Carl Weiss was responsible.”

  He blinked. “What else could he be but responsible? He shot him!”

  “There are other opinions.”

  The big round head shook, no, no, no. “I don’t know anything about no other opinions. In a cowardly way, Senator Long was shot. That’s the whole story.”

  A nervous bespectacled thirtyish male clerk, in a vest and suit pants, came in with two paper cups of coffee. He handed one to Joe, the other to me, and I thanked him. Joe, being a big shot on the dock board, didn’t say a word to him. If anything, that seemed only to relieve the clerk, as he went out.

  I sipped my coffee, which was strong and black but not very hot. Then I said, “It would help, Joe, if you told me your version of the shooting.”

  He took several gulps of his coffee, swilled it around in his mouth, possibly trying to eradicate the sleep taste of his nap.

  “I don’t know nothing till the time the shots were fired,” he said. “When that doc fired the shot, I seen the Senator jump back and I knew he was killed.”

  “What did you do, Joe?”

  “I immediately run up, pull my rod out and unload it in that bastard.”

  “Murphy Roden was scuffling with him, right?”

  “I started firing when the guy broke loose from Murphy.”

  According to Murphy’s story, Carl Weiss had been shot in the throat by this point; I doubted he’d broke away from anybody, after that.

  But I asked, “He got loose from Murphy?”

  “I guess. All I know is, I shot the man that shot Senator Long. I saw the pistol in his hand, too.”

  “Some people say he didn’t have a gun.”

  He had the coffee cup in his hand when he slammed that hand on the desk; the desk whumped and the coffee splashed on Messina and the desktop. “They’re goddamn liars! He had a pistol and woulda shot anybody there!”

  Messina, glaring now, began licking the coffee off his hand.

  Nonetheless, I ventured another comment: “Some people say the doctor slugged the Kingfish.”

  “He didn’t slug him, he shot him.” The Neanderthal brow furrowed. “I thought you were the Kingfish’s friend!”

  “I was.” I smiled, shrugged. “You know how it is, Joe. You worked for the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. You know what it’s like to have to investigate….”

  He slapped his chest with a thick hand; his eyes were tortured. “I was his favorite! Some people made fun of me, ’cause I slept at his feet, sometimes. But he had to be protected! They can see that now, now that it’s too late!”

  “Take it easy, Joe.”

  His fist quivered in the air. “I loved that man. He was good to me. I was just sweepin’ up hair in a barbershop when he found me.”

  “Joe, surely you’ve considered the possibility, that with all those slugs flying…”

  He stood up, pushed his chair back with a fingers-on-black-board scrape on the wood floor. “You accusin’ me of somethin’?”

  “No, I…”

  He came around the desk and stood, facing me. His voice was trembling; his eyes had teared up. “You think I’d do that? Shoot the best friend I ever had?”

  “I didn’t say that. Some people think one of the bullets could have ricocheted—”

  I didn’t finish, because a huge fist was flying toward my face; I ducked back, to avoid it, which I did, but with his other hand, he shoved me, and I went backward, ass-over-tea-kettle, taking the chair with me, the rest of my coffee flying against the wall with a splash.

  I landed on my back with a teeth-rattling jolt, and then I was looking up at him, and the grimacing little man seemed huge, towering over me, particularly his Florsheimed foot, which was poised to stomp me. I grabbed hold of it and yanked, and set him on his ass—hard. Everything in the room shook, and so did the frosted glass in the door and outer wall.

  I got on my feet and so did he, and he crouched, like a wrestler about to make a play. So I picked up the chair and hit him with it.

  In the movies, chairs bust in a million pieces when you do that; but this was a solid wood chair and it didn’t break. It just whacked into him and hurt him. Tough as he was, it still made the stocky little bastard drop to one knee and hug himself.

  He was crying. Whether over the pain or his dead boss, I wouldn’t hazard a guess.

  “Joe,” I said. “Honestly, I meant no offense. I had to ask the questions. But Joe, a friendly warning—touch me again, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

  And I kicked the chair into the wall, where it made a hell of a racket, and, I hoped, my point.

  Messina didn’t say anything. He was still on one knee, crying. Trying to scare him was probably about as useful as trying to put the fear of God into a potted plant.

  The bespectacled clerk appeared in the doorway, looking like a startled rabbit.

  “No more coffee, thanks,” I said, and got the hell out.

  Diamond Jim Moran wore a double-breasted money green suit and a pale yellow shirt with a light green tie with a diamond stickpin spelling out DJM; the tinted lenses of his gold wire-frames matched the suit.

  “How many pair of tinted glasses do you own, Jim?” I asked him. It was just the two of us, in a booth in the Blue Room on the first floor of the Roosevelt Hotel.

  “Nineteen,” he said, as he studied the menu. He’d invited me for dinner and I’d accepted. “All different colors. Each one matchin’ a different double-breasted.”

  Moran clashed with the blue-tinted glass of the glass-and-chrome cocktail lounge/restaurant with its circular bar and plush deco decor. Phil Harris would be performing later on the Blue Room’s surprisingly small stage; it was early—a little after six. We’d already had a drink—I’d had the Planter’s Punch (I was Ramos Gin-Fizzed out, house specialty or not) and Moran had something called a Roffignac.

  “How’s the slot-machine business?” I asked.

  “Flourishin’,” he said, reading the menu. “Flourishin’.”

  “You and Dandy Phil Kastel getting along okay?”

  “Famously. Famously.” He lowered the menu and looked over it at me; his battered pug’s puss seemed mildly troubled. “Though I am afraid, ’tween you, me and the lamppost, that we been a little overly ambitious.”

  “How so?”

  He brushed his mustache with a thumbnail. “Well, gettin’ the
little devils put in places like restaurants, cafés, grocery stores, cigar stores—establishments that never seen a slot machine of any kind, before—that may be askin’ for trouble. Some of the women’s clubs and ministers are gettin’ after Bob.”

  “Bob?”

  “Mayor Maestri.”

  Alice Jean had mentioned His Honor the Mayor—a short, swarthy, inarticulate Sicilian whose business interests included whorehouses and gambling dens—who had been inserted, by Huey, into the office of mayor, unopposed, without an election.

  I hadn’t looked at my menu yet. “Will Kastel pull out, if the slots go?”

  “Hell, no! We’ll just move along onto the next thing.”

  “And what’ll that be?”

  “Pinball machines.” He clicked in his cheek. “Wait’ll you see the latest ones, with their electric lights and trick gadgets and bells and such. That’ll be the next big thing, wait and see.”

  Those were made in Chicago, too.

  I said, “Your invitation was a pleasant surprise.”

  “When I heard you were in town,” he said, putting the menu down, “I wanted to get together.”

  “How did you know I was in town, Jim?”

  His smile was teasing; I couldn’t read his eyes—the green lenses blocked the view. “My office is here in the hotel, remember. Maybe the desk clerk told me.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Maybe a little bird. Word’s around you’re askin’ questions about Huey’s killin’. Only, nobody seems to have a fix on just where you stand on it.”

  I shrugged. “I’m working for Mutual Insurance, following up on Mrs. Long’s double-indemnity claim.”

  “Some people think you’re pushin’ fire.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Causin’ trouble. Some people have the idea you want to clear Dr. Carl Weiss.”

  “What people?”

  He picked the menu back up, opened it and began browsing. “You really should start with the bouillabaisse—the New Orleans variety is sure ’nuff second to none. And we’ll have oysters Rockefeller, of course—even if this ain’t Antoine’s.”

  “Did Kastel ask you to warn me off?”

  His expression was affable. “Nobody asked me to warn nobody off. I jus’ invited an old fren’ out to dinner.”

  “Jim—we’re not old friends. We met, briefly, last year. I’m surprised you even remember me..”

  His expression turned somber. “I remember you. I remember ’cause it got back to me you tried to help the Kingfish. I loved that man.”

  Not again.

  He said, “You were down at the dock board, earlier t’day, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “What kin’a fool thinks he can talk to Joe Messina and learn anything?”

  “I learned Joe Messina is driving himself daffy thinking he might have killed his ‘best friend.’”

  He shrugged his furry eyebrows. “You’re prob’ly right about that. Now, the jambalaya here is really quite respectable, for a fancy hotel…I mean, we’d have to go back down inta the Vieux Carré, to give you the true Creole experience.”

  “What do you want with me, Moran?”

  “I like ‘Jim’ better. You’re readin’ a threat into this, Nate. No threat. I am your friend. And I admire ya for lookin’ inta this killin’.”

  “You do?”

  He sat back, viewed me appraisingly. “What are ya doin’ goin’ aroun’ the dock board, anyway? Three of the five members are ex-Huey bodyguards, and Seymour Weiss hisself is head man. What a setup for dope and other smugglin’ payoffs, and general waterfront shakedowns…. Those boys must be gettin’ nice and rich—even a dumbbell like Messina.”

  “I hear all the bodyguards got cushy jobs.”

  “That’s the truth. Big George McCracken? He’s buildin’ superintendent out at LSU, now—soakin’ up this federal money that’s flowin’ again. Murphy Roden got appointed assistant superintendent of the state coppers.”

  “And none of ’em are going to like me poking around in this case. Not when maybe they accidentally shot their boss.”

  He looked at me over the tinted glasses. “If it was an accident.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He shrugged. His voice was so soft it was barely audible. “I’m not saying anything. But sottiethin’s been botherin’ me a long, long time…and you’re the first person who I can maybe risk sharin’ it with.”

  “Sharing what?”

  He sat forward, keeping his voice sotto. “Last year, ’round when you came callin’, some of these guys bringin’ them Chief slot machines down from Chicago was shootin’ their mouths off to Dandy Phil about the Cermak rubout”

  The back of my neck began to tingle.

  “They said to Dandy Phil, ‘If Huey Long’s givin’ ya money trouble, you oughta do what Frank Nitti done.’ And Dandy Phil says, ‘What?’ And they tell Dandy Phil, ‘Nitti bumped him.’ And Dandy Phil says, ‘You’re kiddin’.’ And they say, ‘Kiddin’ my ass! He bumped off the goddamn mayor of Chicago!’”

  It was true. Most people thought a crazed assassin named Zangara had missed, when he shot Mayor Cermak, who’d been standing near FDR at a rally for the President-elect at Miami in 1932. Others—like me—knew that Roosevelt was not Zangara’s target; knew that Zangara had been a one-man Sicilian suicide squad out to avenge the corrupt Cermak’s own failed attempt to have Capone’s successor, Frank Nitti, killed.

  “Are you listenin’, Nate?”

  I nodded numbly.

  “Anyway, they told Dandy Phil, ‘Do it right, set it up from the inside, and the most important thing—find yourself a patsy. Do that, and it’ll get written off as a political assassination.’”

  “When…when was this?”

  “When they was bringin’ down one of the first loads of them Chiefs. Probably a few weeks before you come down, last year. Of course, they was prob’ly jus’ shootin’ off their big mouths…. You are familiar with the Cermak hit, Chicago boy like you?”

  “I’m familiar with it,” I said. “Too familiar.”

  “And why’s that?”

  I could barely get the words out. “I was there—in Miami. I was working as one of Cermak’s bodyguards.”

  “Ouch! Remind me not to hire you for protection,” Diamond Jim said, bugging his eyes. “Aw! Here’s the waiter. Hope you’re hungry, Nate….”

  State Police Headquarters was on the outskirts of Baton Rouge, out Florida Boulevard, in a flat, lushly wooded area. The building was new—a V-shaped white-washed brick two-story with its blunt bottom facing Foster Drive. I pulled my rental Ford into a driveway that divided to form a circle with a garden in the middle. Like the dock board building, this was a pedestrian structure whose appearance was gussied up: vivid flower beds were all around it, with moss-draped oaks here and there, providing a Louisianian touch.

  Over the two front doors in the blunt bottom of the V were the bas-relief words: louisiana state police. A pair of troopers in spiffy green-and-black uniforms were coming out as I went in. At the reception counter inside the front door, a policewoman in gray sent me down the left wing of the V, where on either side was a row of offices with frosted glass and names.

  One of them was MURPHY RODEN, ASSISTANT SUPERINTENDENT.

  I knocked.

  “Come on in,” Murphy’s voice said.

  I stepped inside. Blond, rugged Roden, looking fit and trim as ever in white shirt and blue tie, was on the phone, swiveled to one side in his desk chair, looking out the window at the driveway flower garden.

  His office was the opposite of Messina’s: half a dozen file cabinets, a desk cluttered with paperwork and 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?”