The Kingfish Commission: A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder. (Kingfish Corruption Series Book 1)

by Hal M. Harrison

  A Tropical Treasures attendant approached the group, trying his best to exude enthusiasm, but his face looked more like a plaster of Paris Mardi Gras mask, the smile etched permanently in place. He began handing out coupon books to the seniors; good for Tropical Treasures merchandise discounts, free pulls on the $100,000 Instant Payoff Slot Machine, and free desserts with the purchase of all-you-care-to-eat dinner buffets.

  The buffet-dessert offer was met with the most enthusiasm from the assembled women; the men took the free-pull coupons, shuffled, coughed and headed for glass doors to the pavilion, which fronted the entrance to the riverboat.

  Rob parked his car on the third level of the adjoining parking garage, couldn’t find the elevator, and walked down the musty, enclosed concrete stairwell from the garage to the pavilion. He had already broken a light sweat, and his chest was tightening from the unexpected workout.

  “I’ve got to get in shape,” he thought, as he passed the slow moving tour group and entered the pavilion.

  He was impressed with the spaciousness of the interior. Obviously, the pavilion was built to offer relief from the claustrophobic confines of the riverboat itself. He passed a massive gift shop to his left, a large, open dining area to his right, then a small sports bar and finally, a spacious atrium where a jazz band entertained a handful of couples, sitting at small cocktail tables. The atmosphere was airy, festive and Caribbean. Palm trees, pastels and neon everywhere. But, in spite of the light and frivolous atmosphere, most of the patrons in the pavilion seemed preoccupied and subdued. Perhaps the riverboat’s profit margins were continuing to exceed all projections. Try as it might, the island milieu couldn’t conceal the pervasive essence of mass losing.

  Rob made his way down the gently sloping incline of the boarding ramp. The designers had worked hard to disguise the fact that you were actually entering a sea-worthy vessel, but the expansiveness of the pavilion was slowly replaced by the constricted walls and narrow passages of a large, yet space-starved riverboat.

  Rob passed through the turnstiles and walked onto Level One of the Tropical Treasures. The first floor was a non-smoking level, yet the air still seemed dusted with second-hand cigarette smoke. Poor air circulation must be another structural challenge of the nautical facility.

  The room was filled with the sounds of slot machine bells, clinking tokens, pulled levers, tossed dice, and excited players. Wary pit bosses observed all the action with pleasant, but pre-occupied smiles.

  To his left, Rob saw rows of tables filled with blackjack players. One roulette wheel was stuck off into a dim corner. Six craps tables were ringed with patrons elbow to elbow.

  He looked to his right, to the rows and rows of slot machines. Mostly older men and women stood gaping at the machines, pushing buttons, occasionally pulling levers and endlessly feeding the insatiable token-eaters.

  Rob searched for the first slot machine on the third row.

  He must be early. Or late. A rather stunning woman sat in front of the machine. Her hair was as black as midnight in the Atchafalaya swamp, and she wore red-rimmed glasses and a short black dress, revealing legs that seemed to stretch below deck. Very nice, but not Sherry. He was looking for Sherry’s head of shocking red hair.

  His staring must have been obvious. The brunette looked up and smiled. Rob felt the flush of embarrassment warm his face. He quickly looked away, pretending to notice the craps tables for the first time. He took a couple of steps forward and jammed his hands into his pockets, seemingly looking for someone. Well, he was.

  He got the courage to look back toward the slot machines. Still, no sign of Sherry LeVasseur. He looked at his watch. Nine minutes after nine. No, he was not early, and just barely late, but then, he had been standing here for a couple of minutes, at least. He looked at the third row again. The brunette was still there. She looked up. She winked.

  Rob’s face warmed again in embarrassment. This was ridiculous. But then again, maybe she was a friend of Sherry’s. Maybe Sherry was sitting nearby. His embarrassment deepened as he realized what a fool he must look like, standing in the middle of the room, red-faced and confused.

  He walked to the brunette.

  “Hey, Rob.”

  She knew his name! He looked to the machine next to her. A man in his sixties, or early seventies, was sitting in front of the neighboring machine, slowly sliding coins into the slot and sipping a Miller Lite. He looked back at the brunette. Her smile was broad and inviting.

  “Do I know you?”

  “What? Do you think you’re getting picked up by a lonely woman in a riverboat casino?” Rob could tell she was really having fun at this.

  That voice.

  “Sherry?”

  “First machine, third row, nine o’clock. Who did you expect? Mother Theresa?” She laughed as she pulled the lever on the slot machine. Two hearts and a lemon. No winner.

  Rob was desperately trying to regain his composure, as she loaded the machine with tokens and again pulled the lever.

  “But, I thought you said you had red hair!”

  She laughed again as a handful of coins fell to the tray below. He looked at the payoff line. Two bars and a cherry.

  “Oh, that!” Her surprise and amusement was genuine. “I’m sorry. I forgot my little ruse.”

  “You mean you used to be a red head?”

  “No! Does it look like I color my hair?” Sherry was ruthlessly goading Rob into further shame. “It’s just that we media buyers have to use whatever influence we can to get a good rate for our clients. You media-types seem to respond very favorably to the notion of a red-head on the phone line.”

  Now his humiliation was completely overwhelming.

  “So, you thought I liked red-heads, and would give you a better deal, huh?” Rob felt even more foolish to learn that her friendliness and flirtation had been a ploy to gain better ad-rates.

  “Not just you! All my male media reps think I’m a red head. The women think I have mousy-brown hair. Non-intimidating, you know.”

  While she fed the machine, Sherry sipped on a glass of chardonnay. Rob decided he could use a drink, as well. He waved to a nearby waitress.

  “Draft, please.”

  “Are you playing, sir?” The drinks came free, but at a cost.

  “Yeah, just waiting on this lucky machine.” His response seemed to appease the waitress, but Rob got the idea she’d be watching him.

  “You, ma’am?” She looked at Sherry. The waitress knew she was a player.

  “I’m fine for now, thanks.” Sherry was cleaning out the coin tray. Rob noticed that she had gathered quite a temporary profit.

  As the waitress moved on, Sherry’s attention returned to her newfound winnings. Rob took the opportunity to take a closer look.

  He liked what he saw. She could have truthfully described her appearance and gotten a good ad rate from Rob.

  He reminded himself to call Abby and Valerie later.

  “You like to play the slots often?” Rob felt awkward standing beside her without making some kind of conversation.

  “No. First time,” Sherry answered. “I guess I’m having a little beginner’s luck here.”

  In a moment, Rob’s beer arrived. The old man next to Sherry finally got disgusted and moved on to another machine, so Rob took his place. Now, when the waitress made her way back to their part of the casino, she would know that he was earning his beer. He put a twenty-dollar bill in the cash slot and began punching the ‘Spin’ button absent-mindedly. He expected nothing more than to pass a little time, and to pay twenty bucks for the seat next to Sherry.

  In what seemed to be only a couple of minutes, his money was gone.

  Sherry was still winning.

  “So, this is fun,” he said as he set his empty beer glass down on the ledge by the slot machine and slapped his hands to his knees. “I’ve paid twenty bucks for a beer and you’re building a retirement fund.”

  “Yeah, this is ridiculous!” Sherry laughed as more coins hit t
he payoff tray. “How do these places stay in business, if they just give money away?”

  “I have the feeling that not everybody around here is winning.” Rob looked around the room and saw most faces etched with quiet desperation.

  “You hungry?” she asked.

  “Yeah, starved.”

  “I’ll buy you dinner.” Sherry hit the ‘Pay-out’ button and received the rest of her winnings as a cash ticket, to be redeemed at a nearby cashier’s window.

  Rob’s spirits were lifted as they made small talk. Sherry cashed out and led the way to the atrium. They laughed about her potential new career as a professional gambler.

  “So, you really think Clarence was murdered?” Sherry’s words came from out of nowhere. They had just been talking about how she might learn to play craps, and take her luck to a higher-paying arena. Rob had forgotten that their meeting was not arranged to discuss such trivial matters.

  He looked around to see who was listening as they made their way to the open restaurant near the jazz band. Everyone was wrapped up in his or her own thoughts of winning — or losing.

  “Sherry, I don’t know what happened to Clarence. It’s just a shame, that’s all.” Rob’s voice revealed his frustration. “It just doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with me.” Sherry had stopped walking. Her piercing blue eyes darted back and forth across Rob’s face. Her eyes were pleading for help and Rob hoped she wouldn’t ask for it.

  They walked in silence for a moment or two, and were seated by a young headwaiter in tropical attire. They ordered drinks and glanced at the menu before deciding.

  “You said you had something important to tell me, Sherry.”

  She took another sip of wine. The jazz band had taken a break and the room was quieter now. Soft reggae music was being piped into the atrium now, and it blended with the muted rush of the large waterfalls near the entrance to the restaurant area.

  “I checked the billing history on the Tropical Treasures account. It’s very unusual.” Now it was Sherry who looked around the room to assure herself that their conversation was private. “I found evidence that the agency is double-billing the account.”

  “Double-billing? That’s kind of hard to miss, isn’t it?”

  “That’s just it. I checked and re-checked the invoices. On more than one occasion, identical invoices have their reference numbers changed, charging Tropical Treasures for exactly twice the amount of media advertising placed. Some of the invoices were doctored, others were the duplicate originals that we requested.”

  “So, that’s why they kept ‘losing’ invoices. They were using the spare affidavits to help pad the billing.”

  “Apparently so. But, I think the duplicates were just a little insurance to help cover their tracks in case someone starting digging around. It makes it harder to follow the trail. It was easy for me, though, because I’ve placed all the media buys. When I saw the duplicate originals and the ‘lost’ originals in the file, I knew something was wrong.”

  “So, the agency charges the client twice what it owes for schedules that have been placed, and makes a killing. You work for some firm.” Rob took another sip of his beer, relieved that her problem only involved a greedy ad agency and wouldn’t have to directly involve him.

  “It includes nearly every invoice placed during a particular month, on at least three occasions that I found.” Her voice was almost a whisper, and her eyes squinted slightly with concern. “It amounts to hundreds of thousands of dollars in over-billing.”

  Rob was playing the scenario over in his mind. Even though he believed that Sherry had stumbled onto something, he couldn’t determine what the possible motive would be. It was just too blatant to be a fraudulent billing scheme. Nobody could possibly think they would be able to bilk a client of twice what they were authorized to spend.

  “Tropical Treasures must have some pretty sloppy bookkeepers, not to catch that kind of fraud.”

  “That’s just it.” Sherry paused, drained her wine glass, her second, and fixed her gaze directly into Rob’s eyes. He was transfixed by her intensity.

  “They have to know.” She finished her sentence with a deep sigh.

  “I don’t get it.” Rob was really perplexed, but wasn’t sure he wanted to know what all of this meant. “You mean the Tropical Treasures management is conspiring with Brocata and Associates to bilk their own business? That doesn’t make sense. The agency is getting paid for the double-billing, right?”

  “Yep. I checked our records of accounts receivable. The padded bills were paid in full.” Sherry motioned to get the waiter’s attention.

  “Then, what’s the point?”

  She ordered another glass of chardonnay and smiled innocently until the waiter left, then her face regained its serious demeanor.

  “I don’t have a clue, but I think Clarence knew — or was close to finding out.” She looked at Rob for a response. “You said yourself that Clarence was killed.”

  Rob wished he had ordered another beer.

  “I don’t know what happened. Maybe he was killed and maybe it was just an accident.”

  “You said today that you thought he was killed,” she pressed.

  “I had just been to a funeral, then went to the transmitter — I was just depressed, that’s all.”

  “You went to the transmitter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where he was —- where he died?”

  Rob decided he would have to order another beer as soon as the waiter returned with Sherry’s wine.

  “Yes. It just doesn’t make sense, that’s all. Clarence knew better. He would never have tried to work on that transmitter alone. He didn’t know enough about it. He was as scared of high-voltage transmitters as I am.”

  The waiter returned with Sherry’s wine. Rob ordered a beer. The waiter frowned. Like, you didn’t need another beer just three minutes ago?

  “Rob, you said that Clarence told you that the Tropical Treasures billing problems weren’t unintentional.”

  “Yeah, he told me that he had someone in Baton Rouge checking it out, and that he was on to something big.”

  “And the next day he was dead.” Her voice had lowered an octave.

  Rob had no response. The same thought had occurred to him.

  “And this woman at the fundraiser, arguing with the governor about something to do with Moss Point,” Sherry added. “And then she’s dead the next morning.”

  “Now you’re saying the governor’s behind all this?”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying,” she admitted. “It’s all so confusing, but there are just too many coincidences.”

  The waiter returned for their dinner order, and for a few minutes Rob forgot their conversation and enjoyed the fact that he was out with a beautiful woman.

  A beautiful woman that wasn’t his wife. He had to remember to call Abby.

  His thoughts returned to the issues at hand.

  “I want to see those invoices. Maybe we’re making something out of nothing.” He tried to hide the futility in his voice. He just wanted it all to be over. He wanted to get back to his small town quality-of-life.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Nobody will be at the agency,” Sherry said. “We’ll go up there and see if we can dig anything else up.” As she took another sip of wine, she flipped her hair over her shoulder. It was a familiar gesture.

  Rob sighed as he thought of Anita Fannin for the first time in years.

  He looked around the room, searching for normalcy. The members of the jazz band were returning to their instruments. They started their set with some Dixieland jazz. It was a refreshing break from the piped-in reggae. He looked back at Sherry and realized she had been watching him for several moments.

  “I don’t know what Clarence could have known that was so important it was worth having him killed,” Rob muttered.

  “And now we know some of the same things he did,” Sherry added.

  The i
mplication was not lost on Rob.

  TWENTY

  Rob was staying at the Hampton Inn off I-10 on College. With Baton Rouge’s notoriously bad traffic, it was about a half hour drive away from the Tropical Treasures riverboat casino in Port Allen. He knew the Hampton Inn may not be fancy, but it wasn’t pricey, either. While his trip to Baton Rouge would be charged off as an expense to the station, he also knew that he wouldn’t be making any money for his business while here, and prudent regard for the station’s bottom line had guided him here.

  The rooms were clean and modern, having been built in only the last year or so, but they were also small. Rob wanted a king-sized bed and got it, but the bed so dominated the tiny living space that there was little room left to move. He was impressed however, with the ingenious manner in which all the furnishings were designed to save what precious space there was in the room. The television was part of a console that doubled as a dresser and armoire. He halfway expected to find a sink and toilet as part of the massive unit, but was relieved to find a complete, if compact, bathroom tucked behind the room’s front door.

  He felt a twinge of claustrophobia after his meeting with Sherry LeVasseur. He opened the curtains on the far wall. A spectacular view — of the parking lot — did little to relieve his cramped anxiety.

  He tossed his keys onto the television/dresser/armoire and sat down on the bed — naturally. There was a recliner/desk chair and small desk/vanity in the corner, but Rob opted for the room’s primary furnishing.

  He picked up the phone — it was well within reach — and called Abby. As the number rang, he remembered Sherry sitting in front of the slot machine, her glossy, onyx hair melting over her shoulders, seamlessly blending into that short black dress —

  “Hello?” Abby sounded as if she had run to the phone.

  “Hey, sweetheart. It’s me.” He hoped his voice would conceal the guilt he felt for his interrupted thoughts. But, they were just thoughts, he rationalized. “How’s everybody?”

  “Everybody’s asleep.” Rob realized that she hadn’t run to the phone, she had been suddenly awakened by his call and had grabbed her phone from the nightstand in an effort to end the ringing and gain consciousness as quickly as possible.