Charlie Dickens had been surprised by the Labor Day telephone call he had received from Virgil McCone. The two of them frequently exchanged letters, but he hadn’t seen his former Stars and Stripes colleague since a few months before the Crash, when their paths had crossed in Albany, New York. An old hand on the political beat, Charlie had been working as a stringer for the Baltimore Sun, covering FDR’s early months as governor. That was Virgil’s first year with the Associated Press, and his editor had assigned him to the same beat. Charlie and Virgil had spent a lot of time comparing notes and talking to the natives at Harry’s Bar and Grill on Albany’s State Street, a couple of blocks from the capitol building.
All of that felt like ancient history, though. Charlie had had to drop what he was doing and go back to Darling to deal with his father’s final bout with cancer. And then he’d gotten stuck with the Dispatch when the old man died and the Crash became the Depression, a dismal swamp that swallowed all other options. He had hated the faltering Dispatch and wished to hell he could unload it and get back to his former life as an itinerant journalist. It had been a thoroughly miserable time, brightened only by the weekends he spent blessedly pickled with Bodeen Pyle’s white lightning.
But things had changed for the better when Charlie married Fannie. His attitude had done a complete one-eighty. She brought joy into his days and companionship and more into his nights—to the point where he didn’t need to drown himself in Bodeen’s finest. Darling was now full of friends (well, mostly), and the Dispatch had become a mountain to climb instead of a swamp to wallow in.
His old buddy McCone seemed to be changing, too. In his recent letters, Virgil had hinted that he was thoroughly sick of life on the road—especially the job of trailing Huey P. Long’s political circus around the country. In fact, he was only waiting for the right moment to quit his AP job and find a place to settle down and start a new life. If Charlie had any bright ideas, he’d be glad to hear them.
So when Virgil showed up in Darling late Tuesday afternoon, almost twenty-four hours in advance of Huey Long’s traveling road show, Charlie was especially glad to see him. When they were both with the Stars and Stripes during the war, Virgil had been an energetic, skinny-as-a-rail go-getter with a full head of dark hair and a burning desire to pin down every last detail of a story, the more sensational the better. He had gained thirty pounds, lost 30 percent of his hair, and developed a deep-seated skepticism about the political process, his attitude substantially soured by the years he’d spent following the political misadventures of Senator Long.
Virgil arrived at the newspaper office about four that afternoon, dressed in a wrinkled summer suit, a polka dot bow tie, and tricolor Derby wingtips, with a straw boater jammed on his head. Charlie introduced him to Wilber, Osgood, and Baby and showed him around the press room, giving him a blow-by-blow description of the Dispatch operation, both newspaper and job printing. He even described his plan for moving away from ready-print, expanding to twice-a-week publication, and doubling advertising and circulation—a plan that would now have to wait for better times, damn it. Al Duffy had phoned him that morning to tell him that the loan committee had decided to take a six-month rain check on his proposal.
Virgil listened attentively. “My uncle published a newspaper in a small town in Wisconsin when I was a kid,” he said, with a reminiscent half smile. “Growing up, I dreamed of working there. Maybe I’m an idealist, but it seems to me that you’d get to do real reporting on stories that matter to real people. Plus, you’d also be involved with the production and business end—advertising, sales, subscriptions and delivery, stuff like that. In the back of my mind, I kept that idea tucked away, something I’d do when I finished seeing the world. But Uncle Steve died five or six years ago and my aunt sold the paper. It’s part of Frank Gannett’s newspaper chain now. But I still dream about it.”
Charlie might have said that whole weeks could go by in Darling without a story that was worth reporting, and that there were too many days when the production and business end of things would eat you alive. But he held his tongue. No point in undercutting his friend’s fond memories.
When Virgil saw the old Babcock press, glowering like an evil genie in the back corner, he whistled admiringly between his teeth. “Boy-howdy, Charlie,” he said. “I haven’t seen one of these Babcocks in years. It’s just like my uncle’s old press. He let me work on it every summer, growing up. Made me feel like a real newspaper guy.”
“Happy to sell you this one if you’ve got a place to put it,” Charlie replied in a practical tone. “I’m planning to replace it with a Country Campbell press—if I can pull off the expansion.” He gave a realistic shrug. “That’s a big if. The bank may not be willing to give me a loan, ever—and I’m not exactly crazy about going that route, either. In the newspaper business, there’s always a risk, as I’m sure you know.”
“Boy, do I,” Virgil muttered, rubbing the bald patch on his head. But they went on to talk about the job printing business and the future of small-town newspapers in a radio age. And then, since Fannie was spending a few days with her son at Warm Springs, Charlie closed the Dispatch office and took Virgil next door to the diner.
The usual evening bunch hadn’t shown up yet, and Raylene was behind the counter, putting a pair of freshly baked pies—lemon meringue and sweet potato pudding pie—on the pie shelf. She was tall and slim, with heavy dark brows, a full mouth and firm chin, and auburn hair lightly and attractively streaked with gray, snugged into a bun at the back of her neck. She was wearing a blue and white checked uniform with a white collar and white apron, and Charlie thought once again that if he hadn’t already handed over his heart to Fannie, he might have tried to strike up a close friendship with Raylene. That could be a little tricky, though. She was said to be clairvoyant, which might or might not hamper the way things developed.
Charlie said hello to Raylene and introduced Virgil. “This is my friend Virgil McCone. He’s a reporter, here to cover the Long speech tomorrow afternoon.” He grinned at Raylene. “We want Virgil to give our fair town a little plug in his story, so be sure to treat him right.”
“We’ll make every effort,” Raylene said, in her low, husky voice. She gave Virgil a considering look. “Is this your first visit to Darling, Mr. McCone?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Virgil said, snatching off his boater. “It sure is a pretty little place.”
Raylene arched her brows. “It’s pretty when it’s not on fire.”
“A series of arson fires,” Charlie explained to Virgil. “They’ve been going on for a couple of weeks now. They’re generally small enough that our volunteer fire department can handle them. But yesterday’s was damned serious. The cotton gin burned.”
“Uh-oh,” Virgil said. “Bad news for the owner—and for the farmers, I suppose.”
“It is bad,” Charlie said. “Picking season will be starting before long. The growers will have to drive their cotton all the way over to Monroeville.” Ruefully, he added, “The fires have been good news for the Dispatch, though. Circulation is up. People want to read about what’s going on.”
“Name of our game,” Virgil said. “People aren’t much interested in good news. It’s bad news that sells papers. Murders, kidnappings, graft, corruption—fires will do if there’s nothing else.”
Raylene looked at Charlie. “Any developments on the investigation? Everybody’s hoping that the reward will help. If somebody knows something, seems like fifty dollars ought to tempt them to spill it.”
“Nothing on either front that I’ve heard,” Charlie said. He paused. “What’re you and the girls dishing up for supper tonight, Raylene?” To Virgil, he added, “Myra May—Raylene’s daughter—owns the diner, with her friend Violet. But the two of them couldn’t get along without Raylene in the kitchen. She makes the best meatloaf you’ll ever hope to eat, hands down.”
With a smile, Raylene nodded at the blackboard on the wall behind the counter. “Menu’s on the chalkboard. You boys sit wherever you like and give me a holler when you’re ready to order.” She put a dry emphasis on “you boys,” and Charlie belatedly remembered that Fannie had cautioned him against calling women “girls.”
As they sat down, Virgil took off his suitcoat and draped it on the back of his chair. The menu board promised a choice of fried catfish, fried chicken, and meatloaf, with the usual sides: mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet corn, lima beans, okra, collard greens, and coleslaw. After some discussion, Virgil settled on Raylene’s meatloaf and Charlie went for the fried chicken.
Raylene brought them a plate of hush puppies, a china tub of butter, and glasses of sweet tea with plenty of ice. While they waited for their supper, they caught up on the latest chapters in each other’s lives. Charlie filled Virgil in on his recent marriage to Fannie, along with a quick outline of her millinery business, and Virgil filled Charlie in on his divorce from his second wife, Winona.
“Nobody’s fault,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s just not fair to saddle a woman with a reporter husband. Especially a reporter who’s on the road four or five days a week, three weeks out of the month.” He made a face. “To tell the truth, what I miss most about Winona is her cooking. But wives don’t like it when you’re not home for supper.”
“Can’t blame ’em,” Charlie said, thinking that he wouldn’t want a job that took him away from Fannie. And then Raylene brought their plates, heaped and deliciously fragrant.
Virgil leaned over his plate and took a deep breath. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said with a smile. “This sure smells wonderful.” And for a little while, paying respectful attention to the food, they didn’t talk at all.
When they were finished, Raylene arrived to clear their empty plates, pour the coffee, and take their orders for pie (Charlie got Euphoria’s sweet potato pudding pie, and Virgil ordered Raylene’s lemon meringue). And when the pie arrived, they got down to serious talk about what Virgil had been seeing as he covered Huey Long over the past three or four years, splitting his time between Louisiana and Washington.
“So Long is actually running for president, is he?” Charlie asked, savoring the nutmeg-flavored richness of sweet potato pie lathered with whipped cream.
“He hasn’t announced yet. Word on the street says that’ll happen as soon as the Louisiana state senate agrees to give him the legislation he wants. He may be a senator but he still runs the Louisiana statehouse.” Virgil dug into his pie. “Truth is, everybody knows he’s angling to be a spoiler in the ’36 race. But nobody wants to guess how far he intends to go with it. The bookies aren’t taking bets, either. Not yet, anyway.” He rolled his eyes and forked another bite of lemon meringue. “Mercy, Charlie. That lady bakes a mean pie.” He paused. “Nice to look at, too. I didn’t see any wedding ring. She married?”
“Not to anybody around here,” Charlie said. He went back to their subject. “You’ve been writing about Huey for a long time, Virg. You must have an idea of what’s going on in that head of his.” He gestured with his fork. “Is he really as corrupt as you make him look?”
“More,” Virgil said. “My editors won’t let me tell the half of it.” He gave Charlie a twisted grin. “Maybe that’ll come in the book.”
“Oh-ho,” Charlie said. “So there’s going to be a book?”
“I’ve already got a good start.” Virgil put down his fork and picked up his coffee. “I’m opening with the impeachment. Then I’ll pick up the backstory.” He looked at Charlie over the rim of his cup. “I’m sure you know the Louisiana House impeached him when he was governor. Eight counts.”
“But he wasn’t convicted,” Charlie said. He added, “On a technicality.”
“By the skin of his teeth,” Virgil said. “The state senate dithered around until they flat ran out of time—or they ran out the clock, if you want to look at it the other way. They wanted to be rid of him, but he scared them all to death. They’re still scared, every man Jack of them. He’s seduced the voters in their districts, so the politicians are afraid that if they don’t toe Huey’s line and show up to kiss his ring whenever he calls, he’ll have them booted out at the next primary. He even campaigns against them himself.” He shook his head. “Talk about the consolidation of power.”
“Like Tammany Hall,” Charlie offered, thinking of the New York Democratic political machine he had written about in years past.
“Not really,” Virgil said. “Tammany is a cohort of political bosses all working together in support of the party. And it’s decentralized. Ward leaders, even ward heelers—they all have a role to play—and they all get a piece of the action. In Huey’s universe, forget the ward leaders, forget the bosses, forget the damn party, even.” Virgil’s voice was becoming more insistent, more emphatic. “In Louisiana, the party’s dead. It’s a personality cult. Long’s the man, the Kingfish, start to finish, top to bottom, nobody else. He buys loyalty in the usual way—through jobs, money, real estate, even pardons. He buys voters with his grandiose campaign promises, things that only he can fix, fixes that only he can engineer. Of course, it’s all a swindle, a big lie. But people believe him.” He shook his head. “Tomorrow, you’ll get a chance to see him work your crowd. When it comes to voters, he’s the best con man in the country, hands down.”
“FDR calls him one of the most dangerous men in America,” Charlie said.
“I’ve heard that.” Virgil grinned. “And I’ve heard that MacArthur is the other one. Well, FDR got rid of MacArthur by deporting him to the Philippines. Short of shooting Huey, it won’t be that easy to get rid of him. He says he ain’t goin’ nowhere, and I believe him.” He cleaned the last bite of pie off his plate. “And yesterday, in a radio talk, he called President Roosevelt a ‘faker’ that he wouldn’t believe under oath. So I’m guessing that you’ll be hearing Huey’s opinion of the president tomorrow, too.”
“Then what’s to be done?” Charlie asked seriously. “The way I read it, Long figures he doesn’t have a much of a shot at upsetting FDR and grabbing next year’s party nomination. But he’s only forty-two. He can play the long game. He’ll be just forty-six in 1940. About the right age to run a winning presidential campaign.”
“Yes.” Virgil cocked his head. “The odds are that he won’t win next year, but he could siphon off enough Democratic votes to allow the GOP candidate—Herbert Hoover, maybe, or Alf Landon, whoever it is—to waltz into the White House.” He sighed. “And even if Roosevelt manages to pull off a win, you’re right about the long game. Huey is looking ahead to 1940. By that time, folks will be sick of the New Deal and skittish about what FDR wants to do about the Supreme Court.”
“The court?”
“Yeah. You won’t hear much about it until after the election, but he’s talking about increasing the size of the court. It’s old, decrepit, and backward looking, he says. He wants to add one new justice for every justice who is over seventy.”
Charlie knew this was serious business. Just a couple of months before, the court had virtually destroyed FDR’s popular plan for industrial recovery when—in a unanimous decision involving a kosher poultry business in Brooklyn—it shot down the NRA, the National Recovery Administration.
“Every justice over seventy?” Charlie mused. “Isn’t that all of them?”
“Six of the seven,” Virgil said. “So FDR would add six new justices, making the court fifteen. People will be afraid of change on that scale, and Huey will be out there on the stump, preaching against it.” He leaned back in his chair. “If he lives that long, that is.”
“Lives that long?” Charlie was surprised. “You’re not suggesting—”
Virgil raised a hand. “Not suggesting anything, my friend. But there have been plenty of death threats, and Long is getting more paranoid by the day. He eats conspiracy theories for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A couple of weeks ago, he told Senator Byrd that his Louisiana enemies had hired gunmen to ambush him the next time he drove through a rural area. ‘I’m not going to live much longer,’ he said. ‘You just watch. Some damned fool is going to shoot me.’”
“I reckon that’s why he has so many bodyguards,” Charlie remarked.
Virgil nodded. “He just added another one, I heard, which makes eight. He keeps a couple with him twenty-four hours a day, and a team of four or five always travels with him. When he’s in DC, the three toughest ones actually live in his suite at the Broadmoor. They’re the butt of everybody’s jokes. When Long came to Tennessee to make a speech, the Nashville Banner joked that the state had to make Huey’s boys deputy game wardens, so they could carry their guns out in public.”
“Appropriate, I suppose,” Charlie said. “Since they’re guarding the Kingfish.” He paused. “They’ll be with him tomorrow?”
Virgil chuckled. “You bet your life.” More soberly, he added, “Keep an eye on George McQuiston. That’s Huey’s top man. He carries his sawed-off shotgun in a paper bag, with a hole for his trigger finger. Huey’s told him, ‘If there’s trouble, fire at will.’”
“Fire at will?” Charlie stared at him. “Come on, Virg. You’re jerking my chain.”
“Not a bit of it,” Virgil said. “I heard him myself. ‘If there’s trouble, boys,’ he said, ‘You fire at will. You shoot somebody by accident, I’ll fix it for you later.’” He paused. “If there’s trouble, Charlie, be sure to get out of George’s way. That guy is trigger happy. If he decides to shoot, he’ll fire right through the bag.”
“You don’t really think there’ll be trouble, do you?” Charlie asked, frowning, and then answered his own question. “Darling people aren’t activists, but Long may attract some from elsewhere. Some might come with the intention of raising a ruckus.”
“Could be,” Virgil said. “There were protestors at the train station in St. Louis last week, and Huey’s bodyguards roughed them up a little when they escorted them out. The senator doesn’t take kindly to hecklers, so let’s hope your crowd is friendly.”
“And if there’s trouble,” Charlie added, “we’ll be there to get the story.”
Virgil’s smile was lopsided. “Yes, but our boy Huey likes to control the story. He doesn’t take kindly to reporters, either. I always stay in the background as much as I can. And I especially try to stay out of the way of his bodyguards. McQuiston always carries that gun. And Joe Messina—the hulk who looks like a B-movie thug—is plenty free with his fists. I saw him beat up a reporter in Baton Rouge a few weeks ago.” He shuddered. “Made mincemeat out of him.”
“That’s bad,” Charlie said soberly. “That kind of threat can make even good reporters think twice before they write a critical story.”
While they talked, the diner had been filling up with people. Now, Raylene came to the table with a coffee pot in her hand. “You boys want some more coffee? And how about seconds on that pie? Glad to cut you another slice.”
Charlie and Virgil exchanged glances, then shook their heads. “That does it for us, Raylene.” Charlie pulled out his wallet and handed her a bill. “Come on, Virg,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Let’s take a walk around the square, so you can see the layout before it fills up with Long’s friends and fans tomorrow. I know you’re a big-city guy, but Darling is a pretty fine small town.”
“With some pretty fine Southern cooking,” Virgil stood, giving Raylene an appreciative grin. “What time is breakfast tomorrow?”
“Aren’t you staying at the Old Alabama?” Charlie asked. “You can get a good breakfast there.”
“I’d rather eat here,” Virgil said. “What time?”
Raylene cocked her head at him. “Coffee’s fresh by seven. That’s when the biscuits come out of the oven.” She smiled. “See you then?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Virgil said. “Nice lady,” he added under his breath as they went to the door. “Makes a superior meatloaf, too. Even better than Winona’s.”
Charlie and Virgil were stepping out onto the street just as the sheriff and Harold Dixon, the state fire marshal, pulled up in the marshal’s car in front of the diner. The two men got out, hot and sweaty in their shirtsleeves, and Charlie introduced Virgil.
After a round of handshakes, Charlie said to Buddy, “Raylene Riggs was asking if there were any new developments in the investigation—like maybe a response to the reward.”
Crossing his arms and leaning against the hood of the state car, Buddy exchanged glances with Dixon. With an uncomfortable frown, Dixon gave a slight shake of his head, and Buddy said, “Not for publication, yet.”
“Yet?” Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Well, that sounds promising.” He paused. “Tomorrow’s Wednesday. The paper goes to bed Thursday afternoon and onto the press Thursday night. Of course, we’ll be running a full story. But if you think you might have a public statement, I can save an extra half-column until about three o’clock Thursday. More if you need it.”
Another exchange of glances. This time, it was Dixon who spoke up. “No problem coming up with a statement,” he said cautiously. “But I seriously doubt that we’ll have the case wrapped by then. These investigations are complicated, you know. And it’s not just the cotton gin fire. There are several crime scenes to consider.”
Buddy grinned. “Haven’t you got enough news in that rag of yours for one week, anyway, Dickens? Huey Long’s appearance tomorrow ought to fill up a whole page, maybe two, all by itself. He’ll probably draw a couple of hundred people.”
“Long’s a big story, that’s for sure,” Charlie said. “But the local firebug is bigger—especially now that he’s burned down the only cotton gin in the county.”
Virgil spoke up. “If I were you, Sheriff, I’d up that estimate by another couple of hundred people. Long draws a big crowd—sometimes an unruly one. And if you’re having the event on the square, you’re making some extra problems for yourself.” He gestured. “Traffic control, for instance. Has his security team contacted you yet?”
It was the sheriff’s turn to frown uncomfortably. “His security team?”
“He’ll have four or five bodyguards,” Virgil said. He glanced up at the windows in the Dispatch building next door and down the street to Mann’s Mercantile, also two stories. “They may want to clear out the upper floors in the buildings around the square. The courthouse, too.” His mouth twitched. “Snipers, you know. The senator takes the threat seriously. He’s not going to be too happy with these windows looking down on him.”
The sheriff rolled his eyes. “That is just swell,” he muttered. “Just what we need.”
Charlie frowned. “Virgil will have to tell you about George McQuiston and his paper bag—and Huey’s orders to fire at will.”
“Fire at will?” the sheriff asked, and Marshal Dixon echoed incredulously, “Fire at will?”
Virgil told them.
Charlie looked at Buddy. “You don’t suppose it’s too late to move Long to the baseball field, do you? Out there, people could sit in the bleachers and Long could have a microphone and loudspeakers. You’d have better crowd control.”
Buddy straightened. “Sounds like the right thing to do,” he said decidedly. “I can tell Mrs. Biddle—she’s the head of the local Share Our Wealth Club—that we have to move it for security reasons. Tommy Lee can announce it on the radio a couple of times every hour, and the club can put up a few signs around town.”
“You’ve got your own radio station?” Virgil asked. When the others nodded, he said, “Then you’re way ahead of most towns. You’ll be glad you moved the event, Sheriff Norris. Save yourself a lot of grief.”
Charlie sighed. This was one of those occasions—it struck him that there were more of them all the time—when WDAR was a heckuva lot better than the Dispatch at getting the word out in a hurry. If he couldn’t get his expansion plans underway pretty soon, radio might just make his newspaper irrelevant.