Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 08 by Blood (and Thunder) (v5.0) Page B

all right. This killin’ is supposed to take place ’fore the special session of the Louisiana legislature adjourns.”
    “And when is that?”
    “Session starts the seventh of September. And it won’t last long…day or two. That’s all it’ll take to ram my bills through.”
    I frowned. “That’s just a week from now.”
    The casualness, I finally gathered, was his version of false bravado; studying his face, the bulging eyes, the faint tremor of his hands, I could see the Kingfish was well and truly scared.
    “That’s right,” he said. “This ‘conscience-stricken enemy,’ seems he’s willin’ to fight me, politically…but, much as he’d like to see me silenced, he draws the line at shutting me up permanent, through violence.”
    “And that’s all you know, about this specific ‘plot’?”
    Huey nodded, sipped his Coke, raised his eyebrows. “That’s the sum total.”
    There were several long moments of silence—an unusual occurrence in a room shared with Huey Long.
    I said, “You don’t have to be from Louisiana to know Huey Long’s got no shortage of enemies.” I shook my head, sighed heavily. “A week isn’t much time to sort through ’em all.”
    “No it isn’t.”
    “Who do you think might be behind the plot?”
    He twitched a humorless, disgusted smirk. “If we were talkin’ about some individual,” he said, “some sorry shiftless skunk who don’t cotton to my take-charge kinda gov’ment…the list could run in the thousands, anyway.” He looked at me, hard. “But a conspiracy—somethin’ organized—a ‘murder’ plot? That narrows it way the hell down.”
    “How far down?”
    He held up three fingers, began to tick them off. “It’s one of three, you can be damn sure…. It’s either my old friends at Standard Oil, who don’t take kindly to my idea of taxation…”
    Even I could’ve guessed that one.
    “…or certain gamblin’ interests, here in New York, who ain’t been happy ’bout me changin’ the terms on ’em, terms of a deal we made a while back….”
    And I knew Huey had some mob ties—I’d witnessed that in Chicago, in ’32.
    “…or the Square Deal Association—that buncha sorry, good-for-nothin’ political malcontents…”
    But I had no idea in hell what the Square Deal Association was.
    Much as I wanted to take Huey’s $250 a day, not to mention a chance at that ten-grand bonus, I was beginning to sense just how far in over my head I was.
    I spread my hands. “What do you expect me to do? I don’t know Louisiana. I’m a goddamn outsider….”
    His grin was nasty. “That’s what I like about ya. You I can trust. Easiest way somebody like me gets taken down is if somebody on the inside, somebody I trust, some dog-faced son of a wolf Judas Ice-carry-it betrays me.”
    “Okay. Okay. Three main possibilities, then. But how would I go about looking into it?”
    “You’re the detective. You tell me.”
    “No,” I said. “You tell me —where to look. Who to talk to.”
    He pointed a manicured finger at me. “Tell you what. I’m gonna give you three names outa my private son-of-a-bitch book. Each one of these names’ll represent one of them three groups I mentioned. You figure yourself a way to check up on jest these three individ’als, and in one hell of a hurry, we’ll have a damn good idea whether there’s any dang ‘murder plot’ or not.”
    The Kingfish looked at his watch, shambled to his feet. I had a feeling I was about to be dismissed.
    He said, “That fella from the Harrisburg paper oughta be here, long about now. You best run along.”
    I stood. “Huey, if I’m going to do this job for you, I’m going to need an in-depth briefing….”
    He shook his head, no. “Not from me, you ain’t. Far as the rest of the boys go, far as even Seymour Weiss and my aides and all are concerned, you’re just another bodyguard. Got it?”
    I nodded. “But I still need…”
    He took me by the arm, leading me toward the door.