The Kingfish Commission_A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder.

by Hal M. Harrison

  “Damn, Max — what is it, another full house?” The Lieutenant Governor was a perennial loser. “I’m out.”

  “Me, too.” The state senator played for much lower stakes back home in Acadia parish.

  The security intercom by the entertainment center buzzed.

  “Governor, I hate to bother you, but we have a lady here who says she has an appointment with you at eight o’clock.” The state trooper’s voice couldn’t hide his amusement.

  “Oh — well yes, that’s right!” The governor’s excitement was genuine. He had forgotten, for the moment, his scheduled “meeting” with Angela Currier. He was surprised and pleased that she had shown up, but then, most times his late-night invitations to the mansion were accepted.

  “Gentlemen, let me cut this hand a bit short.” He held out his cards. “A full house. See, I saved you some money.” Clayton raked in the chips and started to rise. “You gentlemen will excuse me for a while, won’t you? The business of this great state calls.”

  Clayton walked to a giant, floor-length mirror just off the foyer, smoothed back the gray hair at his temples, adjusted the collar to his tastefully casual sport shirt, and made his way past the faux green marble entrance hall columns to the massive front door of the mansion. The columns had been placed there two terms ago by the administration of the first reform governor to be elected in Louisiana in over three generations. That governor had served one term. The people of Louisiana like the promise of reform, just not the practice of it. The columns were about the only legacy that remained from the ambitious administration.

  One of the troopers from the front gate had also taken a break from his poker game and was escorting the visibly nervous Angela Currier to the mansion. Clayton met them just as the trooper opened the door. The governor welcomed her and helped with her coat, revealing a very slinky, very revealing red dress. “Business girl” had more in her wardrobe than simple, understated business suits. The governor’s eyes lingered.

  Currier answered the governor’s stare with carefully chosen words. “I wasn’t sure if this was a business or a casual affair, Mr. Governor.”

  “Max, Ms. Currier.”

  “Angela.”

  “Oh, well yes, Angela, then. And I should say that you certainly made the right decision in what to wear.”

  “Why, thank you. I brought you plenty of information to review.”

  “Information?” The governor had already forgotten his ploy.

  “Yes, on Port Allen Living.”

  He recovered quickly.

  “Oh, well yes. Absolutely. Everything I need to know about your lifestyle magazine, I trust.” He led Angela by the arm into the living area, where the poker players were engaged in a much quieter game now, hoping to overhear the conversation in the foyer.

  “Yes, and you promised to show me a little about your lifestyle, governor.” Max was pleased to note that she was being much less coy than when they met this afternoon.

  The boys had to see this.

  “Well, part of that lifestyle includes a rowdy poker game with some noted degenerates, Ms. Currier — Angela.” As they walked into the room the governor made the introductions. Again, eyes lingered. Heads nodded in approval. Angela caught a wink or two exchanged. “Can I pour you a drink?”

  “Maybe just a little Chablis.”

  The governor motioned to a stool in front of the bar as he took a glass from the large collection and began to pour her wine. Perched on the stool, her legs became a major distraction for those still pretending to play poker. The Lieutenant Governor heaved a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes to the others. The PR guy waggled his eyebrows salaciously.

  “Don’t let me interrupt your game, gentlemen,” she teased as she took the glass of wine from the governor. She slowly crossed her legs and took a long sip of the Chablis.

  “Uh, I believe the bet was to you, Sonny,” the Lieutenant Governor prodded.

  “Me? Hell, I raised it fifty bucks ten minutes ago,” Sonny, one of the governor’s old cronies, answered.

  While the players attempted to renew the game, Max whispered to Angela, “Let’s go into my office where we can talk.”

  Clayton finished making himself another Maker’s — a strong one — and then they slipped past the arguing poker players into the adjoining hall which led to the governor’s office.

  “Your office, huh? I guess we’ll get some work done after all,” Angela goaded.

  “Well, it’s quiet — and private,” he answered.

  The governor’s office was a large room with ceiling-high bookcases and tasteful antiques, blended inartistically with Max Clayton’s personal treasures: a stuffed elk’s head, a deer and a large-mouth bass or two. Angela Currier wasn’t really sure what these wildlife trophies were all about, but she was quite sure it wasn’t the decorator’s idea. A small, round smoked glass conference table sat in the corner of the office, a navy leather sofa at the other end, and the governor’s large executive-sized desk took up a large portion of the rest of the office, surrounded by three deeply stuffed leather side chairs. The desk’s wooden surface was waxed to a flawless shine, hidden only by paperwork carefully placed in neat piles.

  Angela circled the room, wine-glass held high in one hand, her other arm hugging her waist.

  “So, this is it? The governor’s office!” She seemed to prance from chair to chair, from sofa to elk. “I’ll bet you’ve seen some interesting meetings in here, hey fella?” The glassy eyes of the stuffed elk seemed to be looking right at the governor’s desk.

  Clayton delighted in watching Angela’s “dance” around the office. The hunt was on again.

  Angela moved to the large desk, caressing the dark woodwork, then sat in the governor’s large swivel chair. She leaned back and put her high-heeled feet on the desk, taking another large sip of wine, allowing Clayton a spectacular view of her legs, and more. He felt a deep twinge of anticipation sear through his gut. It made him suddenly weak. He quickly sat down in a side chair across the desk, taking a long gulp of whiskey from his glass.

  Damn, if only I had the bottle, he thought.

  She leaned her head back in the chair, eyes closed, and sighed deeply.

  “I feel the power.” She whispered in the sigh.

  “Power?”

  “I feel it. The power of this office. The governor’s power.”

  Max was becoming incredibly aroused. He took another long drink. His glass was nearly empty after two very deep sips.

  “So, tell me a little about yourself.” His voice was hoarse. He needed to pace himself.

  “Me? Oh, nothing special. Just a typical Louisiana girl.”

  “Married?”

  “Oh, sure. Couple of times. First time when I was a senior in high school. Last time, up until three years ago.” This was not her favorite topic.

  “Anyone I know?”

  Angela laughed. Politicians. Always looking for a connection, no matter how tenuous.

  “The first one, no. He was just some nameless kid, like me. Still works off-shore, last I heard.” She took a drink. “Number Two, I’m sure you’ve heard of, but he’s nobody important.”

  “Who?”

  She could see that he would not give up. “Alton Romero.”

  “Al Romero?”

  Here it came.

  “Yes. Al Romero.” Her exasperation was undisguised.

  “The Crawfish King?” The governor laughed. “The guy with the chain of restaurants and all those ads with the damned crown on his head? The Crawfish King?”

  “Yeah, yeah. The damn Crawfish King,” she replied. “The bastard made a lot of money, but smelled like a week-old sackful of sucked crawfish heads, OK?”

  “Sorry. I’ve just heard of him, that’s all.”

  It was plain to Angela that he now realized his mistake for pushing.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” she offered. “The bastard finally gave me my divorce three years ago. Caught him offering some special benefits to a nineteen-yea
r-old waitress, that’s all. Turns out, she was one of many. It’s old news.”

  The reopened wound called for a little painkiller.

  What the hell? She thought. Might as well have some fun tonight.

  She took another sip of wine, then stood and stretched, her clinging red dress rising. The governor watched every muscle extend.

  She slowly strutted to the front of the desk, directly in front of where Clayton sat, slid Clayton’s name plate and pen set aside, leaned back against the desk and set her wine glass down.

  “Let’s talk about us.” She stroked the desk with both hands, then looked down at Clayton, who was slumped in the chair in front of her.

  “Such a big desk, Mr. Governor.” Her words were wrapped in deep breaths now.

  “Well, a lot gets done at that desk, Ms. Currier.”

  She was inching up onto the desk now, her waist at Clayton’s eye level. He really wanted another drink now.

  Angela was now sitting on the desk, her legs spread slightly. She leaned back farther.

  “Governor, I think you left some unfinished work on your desk.”

  As the poker players exchanged winks down the hall, the Governor did some work at his desk.

  TEN

  Niles Sloan thought it strange that mansion housekeeping had already shampooed the carpet in the governor’s office so early in the day. Just the governor’s office, nowhere else. The smell of cleaning chemicals was predominant only here. Sloan’s nose was particularly sensitive to such pungent odors as carpet shampoo — and the remnants of stale cigar smoke.

  The governor must have held one of his adolescent poker games last night, he thought. Probably got drunk and spilled his drink — but, they don’t play poker in his office —

  His thoughts were interrupted when Clayton entered the office. The governor looked haggard. Sloan’s suspicions were reinforced. The papers on the governor’s desk looked slightly disorganized — not in their usual perfect piles.

  He’s losing his grip.

  “Morning, Sloan.” The mutter barely classified as a greeting.

  Sloan looked at his watch. It was nearly lunch time. Just barely qualifying as morning.

  “Good morning, sir,” he offered sarcastically. “Late night, I trust?”

  “You can never punch a time clock when you service the needs of the constituency, Mr. Sloan.” Arrogant bastard, Clayton thought. As he sat down, Max stared for a moment at his desktop.

  “I was hard at work at this very desk until late last night.” The governor was very amused with himself. “Now, tell me. Where do we stand with the commission?”

  “I’d say we’re exactly where we thought we would be,” Sloan answered with confidence.

  “You’d say? Do you know?” Clayton knew the odds were high. There was no room for guessing.

  “Well — yes, Governor. We’ve got the votes we need.” Sloan hated when the governor questioned his abilities. ” I went to the commission’s meeting yesterday. We should expect a final vote within a week, maybe less.”

  “Have you talked to Bellemont? Is he on the same page with us?” The governor got up and paced the office, stopping to stare into the lifeless glass eyes of the wall-mounted elk.

  “I haven’t had a meeting with Bellemont in the last several weeks.” Sloan was beginning to sound defensive. He cleared his throat, and shifted his weight, what little there was, in the chair. “He’s still with us. Bellemont’s situation hasn’t changed. He’s always broke and he always needs money.”

  Max Clayton exploded. He turned on his heel and was instantly within inches of Niles Sloan’s nose.

  “Damn it, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!” His words were spewed between clinched teeth, his breath still withered from whiskey. “I don’t ever want to hear that kind of talk in this office! What kind of fool are you?”

  “I simply said —”

  “I heard what you said, you silly bastard! Now, look. I want you to make sure things go exactly the way I want them to. You take care of the details and just get the job done.” Clayton backed off an inch or so, and then forced what almost resembled a smile.

  “OK, look,” he said, patiently now. “You know what’s at stake here. I just want you to know we have no room for error. Just talk to Bellemont, express my concern that he makes the right decision. It’s that simple.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Sloan was beginning to regain his composure. He’s really losing it.

  “Max, dear...” It was a woman’s voice coming from the private hall that led to the governor’s residence adjacent to the office.

  Sloan did not recognize the voice as belonging to the governor’s wife.

  “Sweetie, I have to leave.” Angela Currier opened the door with her lilting words still echoing through the mansion.

  “Uhm...Governor.” She attempted what seemed to be a quick recovery. It was a futile effort. “I suppose I’ll be leaving now.”

  She tried to casually button the top of her wrinkled red blouse as she spoke. Clayton stepped quickly to the door, blocking her at the entrance.

  “Uh, yes, Ms. Currier. Good. Well then, we’ll have to get together again soon.” He gently led her back a step, so that the door partially concealed them.

  “I’ll call you,” he whispered.

  “It looks like you’ve got a lot of work left to do at your desk, Governor — and in the hall, and on the staircase, and in your bed...” Her lips touched his ear as she whispered. Her tongue licked his ear.

  “Yes, yes. Thank you, Ms. Currier.”

  Angela Currier turned and left, while Max Clayton watched her long legs carry her to the mansion’s side door.

  “Early appointment this morning, I see.” Niles Sloan didn’t bother to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

  The governor ignored it, clearing his throat.

  “Look, let’s just take some measures to insure the outcome of this project,” he said as he turned from the door. “I’ll set it up tomorrow. You can get with Bellemont this weekend and let him know how much of a priority we’re putting on this matter.”

  “Absolutely.” Sloan’s reply was clipped, monotone.

  There was a moment’s hesitation as Clayton averted his eyes, broaching another uncomfortable subject.

  “And what about that other little complication?” the governor prompted.

  “Complication?” Niles Sloan knew exactly what Clayton was referring to, but wasn’t allowing the governor any leeway.

  “You know damn well what complication. Our nosy little Cajun friend,” The governor’s irritability was obviously aggravated by a lack of sleep.

  “Oh, he had some connections in the capital and thought he was on to some big story about the riverboat, and its — uh — financial affairs.”

  “How close did he get?” Clayton’s face was turning red with suppressed fury again.

  “Not very, really. Just speculation. He had nothing to pin it on, just circumstances.” Sloan’s voice belied his true lack of conviction. “No one was going to listen to him, anyway. After all, he owned some little swamp-water Cajun radio station, not the Times-Picayune.”

  “I don’t give a damn if he owned Port Allen Living!” The lifestyle monthly was fresh on the governor’s mind. “I told you I didn’t want to risk this getting out. Did you take care of it, or not?”

  “Take care of it?” Sloan was amused by Clayton’s timidity.

  “Yes. I told you to handle it, whatever.”

  Niles sneered at the governor’s weakness. Clayton couldn’t just come out and say what he meant. He was too much of a coward for that. Niles Sloan was used to making up for the governor’s spinelessness.

  “Well, you know, radio stations can be very dangerous, what with all that high-voltage electricity and all.” Sloan voiced mock concern as he stood up from his chair.

  “Whatever. I don’t want to hear about it.” Clayton crossed the room and opened the door that led to the governor’s secretary and the adjoining reception area.
The meeting was now over.

  “Yes, Governor. You don’t have to worry about it. It’s been taken care of.” As usual, Niles Sloan adjusted his suit coat, and smoothed back his hair as he left.

  Max Clayton closed the door, returned to his desk and sat down. He didn’t move for a moment or two, lost in the ramifications of the just solved “complication.”

  Once again, he looked at the desk. The concern on his face melted into a growing smile as he dismissed the business at hand and replayed the events of the past evening in his mind.

  Then, just as quickly, the moment passed and his smiled faded.

  His wife would return to the mansion by noon.

  Angela Currier realized she had been practically holding her breath for what seemed several minutes. Her high heels dangled from her fingers. She tightened her grip, careful not to drop them.

  What had the governor and his aide been talking about?

  Angela had been able to make out only a few words as she approached the governor’s office. Wanting to surprise him at his desk again, Angela had suddenly thought the better of it when she heard someone with him in his office.

  A man named Bellemont needing money? A commission vote within a week? Bellemont had to make the right decision.

  When she heard Clayton become angry, Angela had decided to make sure that their impression would be that she had just arrived outside of the governor’s office. Angela had pretended to be unaware that Clayton had company.

  What else had they said?

  A complication?

  After her performance in the governor’s office, Angela had made her way to the mansion’s side exit, aware of the governor’s lingering gaze. Instead of leaving through the side door, once sure he had returned to his conversation, she had allowed the door to slam shut, then took off her heels and doubled back, eavesdropping from the governor’s private hall.

  A nosy little Cajun guy that owned a radio station had been ‘taken care of’?

  Remembering Sloan’s words made Angela’s skin crawl: