Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

by Jack Martin

  Bierce contemplated Earl Long for a long moment before lowering his gun, slowly uncocking it, and restoring it to his shoulder holster. “Very well. I have long suspected I would need to meet with your brother. Might as well be now, as later. When do we leave for Baton Rouge?”

  Earl Long gave vent to a not quite sane giggle. “Oh, no need to go that far, Mr. Bierce. Brother Huey is here. At The Roosevelt Hotel, ‘meetin and greetin’, as he calls it. I’ll take you there right now, if you don’t mind. After you,” he said, gesturing to the open door.

  “I think not, Mr. Long. After you.” Bierce waved his hand toward the door.

  Earl Long sniggered again. “As you wish.”

  Senator Long’s entourage seemed to have taken over the entire seventh floor of New Orleans’ best hotel. The moment Bierce and the senator’s brother stepped out of the elevator, two hulking men in ill-fitting suits confronted them. One said, “Afternoon, Earl. Who’s your little friend here?”

  “Why, this is Mr. Harry Bierce, come clean from Washington City. Huey sent me to invite him over for a little talk.”

  The other guard looked suspiciously at Bierce’s left armpit. “Seems the G-man is packing a heater. He’ll have to hand it over before he sees the Senator.”

  “I will do no such thing,” responded Bierce mildly.

  “Then I’ll have to take it from you.”

  Bierce locked eyes with the guard. “You are entitled to try,” replied Bierce

  “Now, now, boys, let’s not exercise ourselves over a small formality,” interrupted Earl. “I’m sure brother Huey don’t mind if we let one of Mr. Hoover’s boys keep his gun. After all, we’re all friends with Washington City, now that Huey is a United States Senator.”

  Both of the guards stared stonily from Bierce to Earl, and back to Bierce again, then simultaneously both shrugged and moved aside. Cheerfully, Earl said, “Now, Mr. Bierce, follow me, if you will.” The Senator’s brother ambled down the hallway, followed by a somewhat amused Bierce.

  The door to the largest suite on the floor was wide open. Bierce’s gaze swept the room as he entered. Two elderly men, dressed in the planter style white suit so common among southern politicians, stood in front of the room’s large bed. One man was tall and portly, the other short and thin. Both sported white moustaches and goatees. And although chairs were available, they both stood, their faces reddened by suppressed rage.

  Sitting on the bed, back supported by several pillows pushed up against the headboard, was United States Senator Huey Long, coat and tie discarded, sleeves rolled up, eating with his fingers from a heaping plate of fried chicken while his eyes constantly roved about the room. As a man with formal habits and an austere lifestyle, Bierce frowned at the sight of the absurd figure on the bed—short, greasy-fingered, pot-bellied, with a wild tousle of black hair. Slovenly was the word that came instantly to Bierce’s mind.

  The taller of the gentlemen spoke through gritted teeth. “Senator, you know that the proposed Army air base in Caddo Parrish is vital to my constituents. The Depression has hit the whole country hard, but especially hard in places like Caddo. The hundreds of jobs and millions of dollars Washington would spend means everything to my constituents.”

  “I expect that it would,” replied Long as he selected a chicken leg and tore a chunk of meat off it with his teeth.

  “Don’t play games with us, sir!” said the shorter man, the high pitch of his voice indicating his anger. “You know very well that the Army will only give us the base if we can get that additional land from the neighboring parish. And for that, we need permission of the state government to exercise eminent domain in another county.”

  “So, go to Baton Rouge and get the legislature and governor to give you permission,” replied Long around a mouthful of masticated poultry. “What does this have to do with me, a humble United States Senator?”

  “Don’t treat us like children,” said the taller man, voice trembling with rage. “The whole state knows your organization controls Baton Rouge. If the boys in the statehouse have held up permission, it’s because you told them to!”

  Long swallowed his mouthful of chicken, threw the half-eaten leg on the plate, and wiped his greasy fingers on his trousers. “I suppose it’s true I have a little influence in Baton Rouge. Now you gentlemen, the two most powerful people in Caddo Parrish, come asking me to use that little influence. I have to ask myself why should I do such a thing? I have no trouble helping my friends, but the good folks of Caddo have not exactly been friendly to me. The two times I ran for governor, they voted by a wide majority for my respected opponent. Same thing happened when I ran for the Senate. Now that was hardly friendly.”

  The two elderly politicians looked at each other, then the taller began to speak. “All right, Senator, we understand. You want something from us. Tell us what you want. The folks of Caddo Parrish are in dire straits, some are actually starving. Tell us what we need to do, and we will do it.”

  “Oh no, gentlemen. Not me. I don’t have much influence with Baton Rouge. Go up there and talk to the governor. Tell him that I really hope he can reach an agreement … an accommodation with you both. Perhaps something to do with the deduct box.” The two elderly politicians glared at Long for a moment, then slightly nodded their heads. Without a word, they turned and trudged out of the room.

  “Earl, close the door,” the senator told his brother. “Don’t want the boys hearing what Agent Bierce and I’ve got to discuss.”

  “Want I should go, too?” asked Earl as he walked over to close the door.

  “Nope, little brother. You’re family, and I trust family. Most family, anyway.”

  Earl Long closed the door and leaned against it, eyes fixed adoringly on his big brother.

  “Now, Mr. Bierce,” Huey Long began, “you seem to be nosing around some of my … ah … interests here in Louisiana. What happens here is of no interest to Washington City or to Mr. J. Edgar Hoover. When I first heard of you sniffing around New Orleans, I had myself a nice little talk with Mr. Hoover. Nice little talk. He understood that it was best for everyone concerned if you stopped making such hurtful inquiries about state matters in Louisiana. Imagine my surprise, my hurt, when I learned you were carrying on just like before. I understood Mr. Hoover to be a gentleman of his word. My hurt is so great that I may feel it necessary to use my position as United States Senator to demonstrate the degree of my hurt in the budget of Mr. Hoover’s organization.”

  “Senator Long, I am not here at the behest of the Bureau. In fact I am on vacation, as you can easily verify by making a simple call to Washington. How I spend my vacation time is not your business, nor, with respect, is it the business of Mr. Hoover.”

  Huey Long’s flabby features usually gave him the appearance of a buffoonish rube. At this moment, however, Long’s features transformed. The mask of the genial, rural politician had dropped to reveal features that conveyed implacable hatred and fury. Bierce had seen such features before, most recently on German shock troops storming the trenches in France.

  “So, that’s how it’ll be,” replied Long. “Well, Mr. Bierce, I hope you enjoy your vacation here in Louisiana. However, a word of caution: outsiders who aren’t used to our humid, insect-choked climate can find it mighty unhealthy. The longer they stay, the more unhealthy it becomes for them.” With a wave of his hand in dismissal, Long said, “Be that as it may, enjoy your time in my state. Brother Earl, open the door for our visitor.”

  Earl Long did as he was told. Bierce gave the governor a shallow bow, turned on his heel and strode out the door, which Earl Long closed behind him. The young man turned to his older brother and spoke.

  “Huey, that feller impresses me as right stubborn, and unlikely to take the hint. Want that I take some cash from the deduct box and have our Texas friends go visit that feller up north who does those special little jobs for us?”

  Senator Long had resumed eating his chicken. He chewed for a while, swallowed, then said, “Not yet
, little brother, not yet. Bierce is after all a Fed. Let’s see if Mr. Hoover can rein in his little doggie before we do anything, ah, irreversible.”

  “I would like to see Agent Pierre Lanier,” said Bierce to the pinch-faced receptionist at the Bureau’s New Orleans office.

  The middle-aged woman stared sourly at him, replying, “I’ll see if he’s available. Who may I say is asking?”

  “Harry Bierce. He knows me.”

  The receptionist spoke into an intercom. To her surprise, no response came over the device. Instead, a fiftyish, somewhat overweight man virtually exploded out of an inner office and grabbed Bierce’s hand, shaking if effusively.

  “Goddamnit Harry, this is a surprise! Haven’t seen you since the business with the missing lunatic up in Providence, and before that, the professor with a crazy story of beasties up in Vermont. Hear you’re doing great work in Washington. Come in, come in.” He led Bierce into his office and closed the door, leaving the puzzled secretary to speculate in her own mind how her boss and this slight visitor were connected.

  Lanier steered Bierce into an old but comfortable leather armchair alongside his desk, then planted himself in the swivel chair behind the desk. “I’d offer you a drink and a cigar, except I remember you don’t indulge in either of my favorite vices. So, what brings you to the Crescent City? Vacation?”

  “Technically I am on vacation, but it is a bit more complicated than that. May I speak off the record?”

  Lanier’s cheerful expression slumped into a worried frown. “Of course. You’re here about the Long organization, aren’t you?”

  Bierce nodded. “At first I thought it would be a straightforward investigation into the forgery of federal passports and other documents. But when I came down here to follow a lead, I found myself running headfirst into Senator Long’s people. Officially, Hoover ordered me off the case and advised me to go on vacation.” Bierce smiled. “Turns out I have quite a few accumulated vacation days.”

  “Not surprised,” Lanier said. “And unofficially?”

  “Unofficially, the director would not be displeased if I could dig up proof of corruption on the state’s beloved senator.”

  Lanier pulled a sour face. “Just like that two-faced bastard Hoover. He will hang you out to dry if you fail, and take all the credit if you succeed.”

  “True enough. Still, he has done a good job of keeping political influence on the Bureau to a minimum so he deserves credit to that extent. In any event, I need a favor. I would like you to give me a briefing on Long and his organization—a briefing based on your knowledge and suspicions, not just documented material.”

  Lanier chuckled ruefully. “How long do you have? I’ll give you the short version first. Believe everything you’ve heard and double it. Huey Long isn’t just a powerful political boss, he flat out owns this state. Politically, he is an absolute dictator. Reminds me of that Jew-baiter who just took over Germany. Here in Louisiana, Long controls over two-thirds of each house of the state legislature, the state supreme court, and all the state boards and agencies. And without exception, every single state employee holds office at the pleasure of Long. Do you know about the deduct box?”

  “I have heard it referred to. Just what exactly is it?”

  “Rumor has it that it is a four-foot high tin box, filled to the brim with cash money. Each and every state employee must ‘voluntarily’ pay ten percent of his salary, in cash, to the Long organization. The story going round is that Long never deposits this money in banks, as that would leave a paper trail, which might be inconvenient. You of all people would appreciate that, considering your involvement in the Capone case. Rumor has it that at any given time, Long has over $2,000,000 in cash in that box.”

  “So, Long has the ready resources to bribe anyone who opposes him, including any district attorney or grand jury who looks into his actions. He can outspend by a wide margin any political opponent running against his machine in a state as dirt-poor as Louisiana. Without leaving a paper trail.”

  “It’s not just the money, Harry. The people of Louisiana, especially the poor people, love the bastard unreservedly. Partly, it’s his cornpone up-from-poverty act in his speeches. In fact, he is from a wealthy family in the northern part of the state. But he is also the first politician in the history of this benighted state to ever give a damn about the poor. Poor whites couldn’t afford schoolbooks for their children or hospitals when they were sick. The poor blacks were essentially excluded from both schools and hospitals. Long built scores of new hospitals, hundreds of new public schools—providing free textbooks—for both whites and blacks, and built thousands of miles of all-weather paved roads so the poor could have access to them. The poor know that Long is raking off enormous amounts from all this construction, but they simply don’t give a damn. ‘A dollar for Huey and a dollar for the people’ is a popular saying hereabouts. Before Huey, there was no dollar for the people. There was barely a single red cent. And the old, entrenched money liked it that way just fine. Make no mistake, the rich and the large landowners hate Long like poison, but it seems there is nothing they can do about him.”

  Bierce frowned. “I would have thought the business community would have been in active opposition. If nothing else, businessmen know that corruption is bad for commerce.”

  Lanier laughed bitterly. “Long has actually brought them into his system, making sure that those who contribute to him get favors, tax breaks, special permits, while those who don’t … well, a story is told about that. I don’t know if it is literally true, but it illustrates how things work here. Supposedly, back when Long was governor, he called some of the wealthiest and most influential businessmen in the state for a meeting in his office. Very bluntly, he demanded ‘campaign contributions’ from them. When they balked, he supposedly said, ‘Those who give a lot will get a lot of the pie; those who give a little will get a little of the pie; those who give nothing will get … good government.”

  The corner of Bierce’s mouth turned up slightly. “An intriguing man. I would like to hear more about what you have learned. I suggest we do this over dinner. It is close to five, so why don’t you pick the best restaurant in town. I’m buying.”

  “Agent Bierce, can you hear me?” J. Edgar Hoover yelled into the mouthpiece of the telephone, the difficulty of his being understood exacerbating his already foul mood.

  “Yes, Director,” responded Bierce, his voice soft as ever, and yet, somehow going through clear as a bell over the crackling line between New Orleans and Washington.

  “What the hell have you been doing?”

  “Doing? I have been vacationing, as you recommended, sir.”

  “I know damn well what I recommended! Well, you certainly hit pay dirt! The President called me over to the White House and raked me over the coals pretty damn good. Mentioned you by name. Told me to get you out of Louisiana, or he would fire my ass and replace me with someone who would fire yours!”

  “Mr. Director, I don’t want you to risk your position on my behalf,” Bierce said, a note of genuine concern in his voice.

  Bierce could not see the predatory smile spread across Hoover’s face. The Director was thinking of the file he had already started to assemble on Roosevelt. A file being filled with transcripts of sprightly conversations the President had with his mistress, and even more disgusting photographs taken by hidden cameras of his trysts with the charming woman. He had to hand it to the crippled Bolshevik. Who would have imagined he could be as energetic in bed as he evidently was? Hoover decided that it was about time Roosevelt learned of the existence of the file.

  “Bierce, don’t worry about that. Neither you nor I are going to be fired. For now, none of this can be on the record, but I want you to dig deep enough to get what we need to send Long to Alcatraz for life. But I also want you to dig into the Barrow-Parker business. They’ve been crossing state lines to commit their crimes, so it’s a Federal case. And they’ve been active in Louisiana, so that’s why, officially,
you’re down there investigating. You can juggle both cases at the same time, can’t you?”

  Bierce hesitated for a moment. “Yes, I believe I can.”

  “Good. As of now, your vacation is officially over. If the politicians press me, I can truthfully tell them I have you working on Bonnie and Clyde. I want you to do real work to bring in those two, but discretely, and without creating waves, continue to dig into Long’s doings. No jumped-up cracker politician is going to put the squeeze on the Bureau of Investigation!” Hoover slammed his phone into its cradle.

  As he hung up, Bierce’s face bore a puzzled look. He had fully expected Hoover to cave to political pressure at some point. Well, the pressure had been applied, but all it had done was turn Hoover into a raging bull. He shrugged, deciding he had underestimated the Director.

  What bothered him more, though, was his near-certainty that he had heard a third-party breathing on the line. The breathing had been extremely quiet, and most people would have missed it, but Bierce’s hearing was extraordinarily sharp. He could not be certain, but he had a hunch who the silent listener had been. He stood up quickly, buttoning his double-breasted suit as he headed for the door of his hotel room. He decided to play the hunch and see where it led.

  In a room one story below Bierce’s, Earl Long gently removed the headphones to the telephone-tapping machine and shook his head wistfully. Earl was essentially a man of peace, and liked everything around him agreeable. Still, it looked like there was no way around it. He was going to have to tell brother Huey about this. He had no doubt Huey would order him to take a big sum in cash to their friends who specialized in taking care of Huey’s particular problems. Earl sincerely hoped Agent Bierce had no loved ones.