“Well, it took a while to drive back into Baton Rouge and check in.” He realized that his explanation sounded lame, and didn’t reconcile the fact that after he and Sherry had discussed the intriguing matters at hand, they had enjoyed a pleasant evening together, a surprisingly good meal and after-dinner cocktails, accompanied by a talented jazz band that, thankfully, didn’t just play Dixieland.
“How’s Valerie?” He changed the subject.
“She’s asleep, too.” Her voice grew colder by the moment.
“Did you hear from anyone at the station today?”
“No, it’s been quiet all weekend. No problems, I guess.”
Rob remembered that he had left early Saturday morning to attend Clarence Menard’s funeral, leaving Abby alone to entertain Valerie for the weekend. He had promised to return early Saturday evening and take them both out to dinner. Instead, he was calling his wife at 1 a.m. after having dinner with someone else.
He decided to end the call as soon as possible, so that matters were not made worse. They talked for a few more moments, and then Rob wished her goodnight. She said that she doubted if she would be able to go back to sleep now.
They said good-bye.
Rob was miserable and lonely. He wanted to be home. He needed some noise.
He reached for the television remote.
For a moment he thought of the irony of the Hampton Inn providing such a device in a room so small. The television was almost as close within reach as the remote.
He mindlessly surfed the channels for several minutes. Rob was rarely up at this hour, unless the radio station was off the air or there was some other station emergency, so overnight television viewing was a novel experience. But, he was learning, not a rewarding one.
Infomercial. Old movie. All news channel. Old movie. Infomercial. Wildlife documentary. Old movie. Infomercial.
Rob was about to turn the television off, but decided instead to leave it on in the background as he unpacked his clothes, brushed his teeth and prepared for bed. He completed his tasks quickly and efficiently. Now he knew what it was like to live on board the cozy international space station.
As he came back to the bed, he picked up the television remote — even though he was standing three feet away from the set — and was about to turn it off, when he flipped past a Baton Rouge station beginning a local news update.
“Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, we keep you in touch with Baton Rouge. We’re News Center Ten — with live updates every hour, on the hour.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed in front of the set. He was still three feet away.
Boy, this business was changing. Rob remembered when television stations signed off at midnight. Now they were doing twenty-four-hour local news. Thank goodness he ran a radio station in small-town Magnolia. He was happy to provide local news five times a day, five days a week — but news updates all day, every day? No thanks.
The update’s lead story was concerning that mass of hysterical humanity known as the Louisiana Legislature. No local television newscast would be complete without a violent crime story or two, and News Center Ten would not disappoint the viewer in that regard. Rob was starting to lose interest. He turned away from the set as the update continued, and began pulling down the covers on the bed.
“...and finally, New Orleans came a step closer to becoming the home of the world’s largest land-based casino today...”
Rob was thinking of projects left undone at the station. He realized that he needed to get through with this silly Tropical Treasures business and start taking care of his own.
“...when the State Gaming Commission announced a pending vote that would complete the licensing process for the new casino.”
Rob’s attention slowly re-focused on the television.
“Trent Moreau, chairman of the commission announced today that a final vote will be held this Tuesday to award the exclusive rights to construct the casino as part of a massive renovation of the Old New Orleans Mint.”
As the television anchor’s voice-over report continued, Moreau was shown at a large conference table, supposedly at a commission meeting, banging a gavel and pointing off camera.
“The rebirth of the historic mint as a casino is said to be the most ambitious project ever undertaken in the gambling industry. The license has been sought by five competing applicants, and once granted by the State Gaming Commission, will grant twenty years of exclusivity, making the new land-based casino the hottest game in town for New Orleans’ booming tourism industry.”
The camera was panning the exterior of the Old U.S. Mint, which had been used as a Coast Guard storage facility and a fallout shelter after ending its currency manufacturing life in 1909. More recently, the massive building had been home to historical and art exhibits, as well as the occasional jazz concert. Now the requisite video of a French Quarter crowd was on the screen.
“The key vote in the matter will be cast by Gaming Commissioner and LSU professor of economics, Dr. Henry Bellemont, whose lone vote will break the tie that has knotted the process for weeks.”
Bellemont came on screen, surrounded by microphones and cameras.
“This is an important process that can’t be taken lightly,” Bellemont was saying. “We’re granting a license to once again print money at the Old U.S. Mint, almost literally. We’re handing over exclusive rights to build a land-based casino in one of the great tourism capitals of the nation — perhaps the world. I just want to make sure that we make the right decision. A decision the people of the state of Louisiana can be proud of.”
Sounds like he’s running for office, Rob thought.
The anchor’s perfect face returned to the screen and began giving sports scores and the weather forecast.
Rob turned off the television and got into bed.
Just what we need. More gambling facilities, in a state with one of the lowest average household incomes in the nation.
Oh well, maybe they’ll buy some radio spots.
Maybe Brocata and Associates will place the buy.
He groaned at his quirky train of thought. He must be really tired.
Rob realized that he had forgotten to turn out the light by the front door to the room.
Damn, I can’t quite reach it from here.
TWENTY-ONE
Ashton Brocata didn’t like Dr. Henry Bellemont. The two men had engaged in small talk for nearly a half-hour now and Brocata was just about out of patience.
He would be glad when this was all over and he wouldn’t have to deal with such a spineless weasel.
But Brocata was in advertising. One of the best. He could put on his ‘client smile’ and instantly become someone’s best buddy. He was used to dealing with furniture salesmen, car dealers and politicians. Hell, Bellemont was easy to stomach compared to those folks. It was people like Bellemont that had made it possible for Brocata to have a huge house on the lake. A Mercedes. And a great golf game, developed with years of ‘grueling’ practice at some of the most exclusive clubs in the South.
He smiled at his thoughts and realized that Bellemont was droning on about the inequities of compensation for someone who dedicated themselves to academia. He adjusted his smile from one of self-satisfaction to one of friendly compassion. As if he really cared that Bellemont was an underpaid LSU professor. No tenure, my God, the fools! And the students — nothing but slackers, indeed!
Ashton Brocata grunted in disgust. Bellemont thought it was a grunt in agreement with his ranting about the state of higher learning in the twentieth-first century, but Brocata was grunting at the sight of the slovenly heap of dog excrement sitting before him.
You poor, fat, bald-headed fool. Whine on, I care. I really do.
With the money Brocata would make soon, he decided he could listen to Bellemont’s brooding for hours.
Finally, the professor’s diatribe had ended and he was looking around the advertising executive’s luxuriously appointed office where the two men ha
d agreed to meet.
After a moment or two of silence, Brocata realized that Bellemont had finished. He had been in his client mode: brain in neutral, face friendly.
“Well, soon you won’t have to worry about being an under-paid professor, right Doctor?” Ashton asked, with a nod and a wink.
“Yeah, right,” Bellemont mumbled. “You guys are gonna take care of me, right?” His words dripped with sarcasm.
“Haven’t we always?”
“When it’s been profitable for you.”
“Don’t you mean, mutually profitable?” Brocata let a little of his personal distaste for Bellemont seep through his words. He told himself to be more careful.
Bellemont just nodded and looked away.
“So, the final vote comes up Tuesday, huh?” Ashton’s voice was now soft and upbeat. He looked at his watch. His Sunday afternoon tee time was just an hour and a half away. It was time to confirm the details and move on.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Bellemont replied. “Tuesday you guys’ll get what you’ve been waiting for.”
“All the votes are in place, and you hold the swing vote, right?” Brocata was pressing to confirm what he already knew. He knew that Bellemont was not the only commission member whose financial problems had been eased lately.
“Of course. Haven’t we been over this enough?” Bellemont looked as if he were ready to leave also. A tee-time perhaps? At a municipal course, no doubt. Brocata smiled again.
“Certainly. Well, here’s a little envelope with your name on it, with a little extra to show our gratitude.” Brocata was getting up from behind his desk as he spoke. He was heading for the door. Bellemont took the hint and followed him.
“The regular fee, plus more?” Bellemont’s voice had gained an edge of excitement as he walked.
“A little extra,” Ashton repeated as he shut his office door behind him. “Of course, we’ll make our final installment — your well-deserved bonus — after the vote Tuesday.”
“The bonus we agreed on, right?”
God, was Bellemont pathetic, but Brocata just smiled.
“Yes, of course. The check is already cut, and will be yours Wednesday morning.”
“How about Tuesday night?”
“Even better.”
“So, will you give up the job at LSU and take it easy?” Brocata was leading Bellemont down the agency’s long hall to the elevators.
“No, hell — I want that retirement they owe me. Another five years and I get 100% pay with full benefits.” Bellemont was still gripping the envelope tightly in both hands.
“Certainly you won’t need the money.”
“No, but they owe it to me, for all the years I’ve put in,” Dr. Henry Bellemont’s voice was tight and ominous.
As the two men reached the elevators, Ashton Brocata saw a light on in an office down the hall, past the lobby.
Damn sluts back in bookkeeping must have left it on in their hurry to leave Friday. They couldn’t be late for happy hour, now could they? He reminded himself to turn it off when he left. The elevator doors yawned open.
“Well, good luck Doctor.” Bellemont pushed the ground floor button while standing halfway out the elevator. “I’ll see you again Tuesday evening for that final payment. Let’s say around eight, here, of course. We wouldn’t want to be too high-profile out in public, you know.”
“Fine. Fine.” Bellemont walked to the back of the elevator, turned around and noticed that Brocata wasn’t staying on. “You’re not going down?”
“No, I’ve got to lock up and put a few things away,” he answered. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
Bellemont nodded and looked down at the envelope, still gripped firmly in his hands. Brocata saw him begin to rip the envelope open as the elevator doors met.
“Greedy little bastard,” Brocata muttered as he began walking down the hall back to his office.
Brocata reminded himself to check on the light left on in bookkeeping.
TWENTY-TWO
Rob slept late, then went downstairs to enjoy the free continental breakfast he had seen promoted on the tent-card by the phone. There was no restaurant, no cafe, not even a banquet room converted into a breakfast area.
There was a shelf stuck in the corner of the lobby, which held a carafe of coffee, a wicker basket of cold muffins, another basket of fruit and a small pitcher of orange juice. All placed neatly in a compact area no larger than five feet wide.
Continental breakfast, Hampton Inn style.
After his morning jog, which mostly entailed dodging traffic in the highly congested retail area surrounding the motel, Rob called home.
Abby was only slightly more civil than before, but he did get to talk to Valerie, which lifted his spirits considerably.
He and Sherry had agreed to meet at the agency at 2 p.m., so Rob spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon reading the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate and the New Orleans Times-Picayune, then watched the old Clint Eastwood movie, “Every Which Way but Loose” on cable.
He would be glad to get back to his family and make better use of his spare time.
Shortly after 1 p.m., he checked out, punched in the address in his truck’s GPS and made his way to the offices of Ashton Brocata and Associates. Rob wanted to have plenty of time to wander through the city’s winding streets and listen to the radio. Occupational habit.
When it was nearly two, he parked his Explorer on a side street, around the corner from the smoked-glass exterior of the Petroleum Tower on Government Street. As if there was a need to be discreet. Nobody knew him in Baton Rouge — but just the same — he was going into an office building to surreptitiously search through the files of a large advertising agency, for evidence that might implicate who knows who, in who knows what? It seemed prudent to park at the side of the building. The streets were barren, with only a few cars parked within four blocks. Most everyone in Baton Rouge was at home with their families, enjoying a lazy afternoon of NFL football after a big Sunday family meal and a full morning of church going.
He wondered if one of the few cars on the side street was Sherry’s. Certainly not the Mercedes. Not the dirty, black Toyota pickup with the LSU faculty sticker. There weren’t any cars parked directly in front of the building. He must be the first to arrive.
In the lobby, he found the office directory and noted the floor for the agency. He wouldn’t go up. Sherry had told him that they would meet in the lobby, so he sat on a small maroon sofa outside a glass-walled gift shop near the building’s entrance.
He didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, a red Nissan 370Z screeched to a halt at the front of the building. So much for stealth. Sherry sprang from the car and trotted through the front doors.
“Hey! Wait long?” She flashed a smile.
“No. Just a few minutes.”
“Well, come on, Sherlock. Let’s solve this mystery.”
She seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood. They took the elevators up to the agency’s offices.
“Come on. Bookkeeping’s over here,” she said as she bounced from the elevator.
“Don’t you want to look around first?” Rob realized how nervous their little excursion was making him.
“And what? See if anybody’s here? Are you kidding?” Sherry giggled and kept walking. “This is an ad agency, not a radio station. Nobody is going to be here on a Sunday afternoon.”
She seemed confident, so Rob took a deep breath and followed her. He looked all around the office as he walked. A spacious, fichus-filled lobby was located just to the left of the elevators. Mirrored letters on the wall behind the circular reception area proclaimed ‘Ashton Brocata & Associates.’ Rob noticed a stale, dank smell — no doubt the result of the reduced air circulation of vacated offices using weekend climate-control settings. Two halls leading from opposite sides of the reception area fed the lobby.
The only light in the reception area came from a small floor lamp by a sitting area and from ambient daylight streami
ng from the tinted glass walls that fronted the lobby to the right of the elevators. Sherry bounded to the corridor leading from the far side of the lobby. Rob could see about halfway down the hall, to the well-lit offices where they were apparently heading.
“O.K. These puppies should still be up and running,” she said as they entered the bookkeeping offices about a quarter of the way down the hall. She took a seat in front of one of the computers. “The girls start a backup on the whole system just before they leave for the day, but it takes a while to finish, so, they don’t wait for it. They just log-off and let the screen savers kick in after the backup is done.”
“Is all the data password protected?” Rob asked as he took a seat next to her, looking over her shoulder.
“The general files aren’t. Just the payroll and detailed financial stuff.” Sherry was already tapping away at the keyboard. “First, I’ll bring up the media purchase orders that I used to place the buys for one of the months in question. Then I’ll print out a corresponding client bill. You’ll see the difference in the amounts right away.”
“If it’s so obvious, why wouldn’t anyone catch it?” Rob couldn’t help but catch a whiff of her hair as he tried to concentrate on the computer screen.
“Well, I track the invoices and script affidavits and authorize the payment. Once the bills are approved, they’re marked for payment in the system,” she explained. “That part hasn’t been tampered with. The data that is referenced for client billing is what has changed.”
“So, that means someone made the changes after you approved the media invoices for payment, right?”
“Yep. They came in, added the bogus charges to the client’s computerized billing, and then spread around enough duplicate and modified paperwork to cover their tracks.” She pointed to a couple of media invoices on the screen, then split the screen into a second window showing how the amounts had doubled on the client billing side.
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