She was nodding. “So, then-I would imagine you’ll be donating all the money.”
“What money?”
She put on an innocent air. “Why, the money Huey paid you. You’ll be donating it all to charity, of course.”
I grinned wickedly at her. “You wanna know what I’m gonna do?”
“Sure. I wanna know what you’re gonna do.”
I put my hand on one of those round, high, firm breasts and exerted just enough pressure to make her lean back and she smiled slyly as I climbed on top of her.
“I’m gonna do the same thing to you,” I said, undoing my belt, “that Huey P. Long’s doing to Louisiana….”
12
The next morning-Sunday-just after nine o’clock, the House Ways and Means Committee assembled in an upstairs public hearing room at the capitol. Seated on a riser on a table that stretched horizontally along the wall, the fourteen committee members faced a small table where citizens could testify or speak their minds, and, behind that, a gallery of benches where citizens could observe the sacred lawmaking process.
Murphy Roden, Joe Messina, Squinch McGee, Big George McCracken and myself were stretched along the rear wall like a hoodlum honor guard.
The Kingfish-resplendent in tan linen, red-and-green tie, black-and-white shoes-was seated at the witness table, and his presence was no doubt responsible for the packed house. Abuzz with excitement at being in the same room as the great man, the God-fearing folk filling the gallery had either skipped church or gone to early services, men in straw fedoras and white shirts and black suspenders, women in Sunday bonnets and floral-print frocks. Farmers and other working-class salt of the earth, here to worship their rustic savior. A few representatives of the “lyin’ press” were scattered throughout the gallery, as well.
The morning outside the open windows was a little cloudy but windless and dry and hot; there was no sign that God had noticed August was over and September had supposedly arrived. Ceiling fans whirred and the gallery spectators used cardboard fans, some of which said “I’m a Long Fan”; flies droned and swooped and, when swatted, died.
First thing this morning, I had asked Huey to have somebody book me a plane or a train back to Chicago, for tomorrow; this would be my last day. He’d thanked me for my services. We were still pals.
I had one last day of Loozyana craziness to endure, at the not inconsiderable $250 daily rate. And while I was almost certain to be appalled on occasion, I was equally sure of being entertained.
Right now, for example, Huey was chairing the Ways and Means Committee meeting from the witness table.
“Of course you know,” Huey was saying, pouring himself a glass of ice water from a sweating glass pitcher, “I’m not here in any official capacity-I’m merely here to discuss these measures, a priv’lige accorded every Loozyana citizen. Now, shall we begin our discussion?”
All but one of the committee members nodded; a young, dark-haired fellow was glowering at the senator.
“That’s Jack Williamson,” Murphy whispered. “Lake Charles. He’s the only anti-Long man on the committee.”
“This first bill, Senator,” Williamson was saying, “rearranging the thirteenth and fifteenth districts…you of course realize it, in effect, gerrymanders Judge Pavy out of office.”
“Nonsense,” Huey said. “The Judge retains his office until January 1, 1937…. When it comes election time, he simply has to run in a new district, is all.”
Williamson arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Did the people of these districts request this change be made?”
Huey stared at the young representative for a long time; but Williamson did not wither. In fact, he repeated his question.
And Huey finally said, with a smile about as convincing as mail-order false teeth, “Yes, the people of Evangeline Parish are ever’ bit behind it, and the St. Landry Parish members of the House are all for it. Now, call the question.”
The bill passed committee, 13 to 1.
But at least Williamson got on the record his objections to the various bills Huey roller-coastered through, most of which were gerrymanders or assaults on Huey’s enemies in New Orleans; but the anti-FDR bill sparked the biggest discussion, one that woke up the press reps in the gallery.
“What exactly is the purpose of this bill, Senator?” Williamson asked.
Huey answered grandly: “Why, to enable us to carry out the great principles of the Constitution of the Yew-nited States.”
“I see. Then it’s not designed to prevent the expenditure of federal funds in Louisiana?”
For once Huey was thrown; his answer was a vague muttering: “It intends to prevent the violation of the Constitution of the United States.”
“What do you have in mind, Senator? What’s the purpose of this bill?”
Huey flared; his voice was a roar. “That certain sacred rights are reserved to the states and the people! That whoever violates the Constitution of the United States in the great state of Louisiana is subject to a misdemeanor punishable by a fine and a jail sentence!”
“You’re willing to make law of this vindictive, patently unconstitutional claptrap,” Williamson said, ruffling the pages of the bill in the air disgustedly, “even though its chief effect would be to keep vast sums of federal money out of your own state?”
Huey slammed a fist on the witness table; his water glass and pitcher sloshed and spilled some.
“Young man,” the Kingfish said indignantly, “I will preserve the Constitution of the Yew-nited States at any cost! We’re still Jeffersonian Democrats in Loozyana!”
Applause and cheers from the gallery rocked the room. Shouts of support echoed: “Hot dog!” “Give ’em hell, Huey!” and such like. It was the Oklahoma fairgrounds all over again.
This was a crowd that apparently relished the idea of being deprived of federal funds.
I shook my head.
“What’s wrong?” Murphy whispered.
“I gotta get back to Chicago,” I said, “where people understand the value of a dollar.”
By early afternoon, Huey had pushed thirty-one bills through the committee.
He bragged about it, over the lunch he had sent up from the basement cafeteria to that twenty-fourth-floor suite. “That’ll put a crimp in that crip’s plans! Sumbitch thinks he can run my state!”
He sat at a white-topped table in the kitchenette area of the suite, eating with the boys. I’ll spare you the brutal details, but watching Messina put away meat loaf and mashed potatoes was an appetite killer; suffice to say even Huey didn’t eat off Messina’s plate.
We bodyguards played cards again, all afternoon, while Huey entertained a stream of legislators and lobbyists and the like, on errands of patronage and politics; the only one of these I recognized from previous sessions was Reverend Smith, who dropped by with some Share the Wealth Club literature for Huey.
But the paramount topic seemed to be lining up January’s primary ticket, and in Louisiana, the Democratic primary was the only election that counted. One visitor in particular seemed even more concerned about this topic than Huey.
You had to look hard and close to see that they were brothers. The cleft chin was the only near give-away. Earl Long’s eyes were dark and hard and sharp, but everything else about his face was soft, and his smile was a nervous, unsure, sideways thing, while his voice was the gravel road his words were forced to travel.
“I know we done had our ups and downs,” Earl said. In a cream-color pinstripe suit, his red-and-black tie loose, the younger, slimmer Long stood before his brother, who was seated on a sofa in his shirtsleeves with an ankle resting on a knee, a foot wobbling a slipper.
“You mean, like when you swore an oath I took a ten-grand bribe,” Huey said pleasantly.