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

by Hal M. Harrison

  Assured the comment had not been overheard, Sloan redirected his sharpened gaze to Bellemont.

  “Don’t be a fool, Doctor. We wouldn’t want this effort to blow up in your face, now would we?” Sloan’s voice had darkened to a snarl.

  Bellemont took his turn looking around the room. He looked back to Sloan and laughed.

  “You’ve got to be kidding! These assholes are more interested in discussing how LSU’s gonna pull off an upset over Florida this afternoon in Tiger Stadium. They could give a shit about you and me.”

  Sloan took another sip of beer and let the tension subside for a moment.

  “Nevertheless, we must be prudent. I’m just here to make sure there are no misunderstandings and that everything proceeds smoothly.” He had softened his voice.

  “Oh, hell. There’s not going to be any problem. I talked to Brocata yesterday. We’ve made arrangements to get together tomorrow. The vote will come down next week, and you can slither on down the road.” Bellemont was nearly finished with his latest beer, and Sloan noticed the glassy eyes and the slurred speech, and realized that maybe the professor had been waiting at the bar for some time before his arrival.

  “Fine. I just wanted to be sure that you were happy.”

  “Happy? Hell, I’m ecstatic.” Bellemont then turned and barked over his shoulder, “Miss? Miss! Service over here!”

  The waitress nodded to Bellemont and forced a smile as she finished taking an order from another table of Tiger fans.

  “You want another beer?” Bellemont slurred.

  “No, I’ve got to be going.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Bellemont immediately swaggered up from the table and made his way to the bar, passing the waitress and giving her a stumbling hug on the way.

  “Hell, what does a guy have to do, get his own beer around here?”

  Niles Sloan left a ten-dollar bill on the table and made his way to the door as quickly as possible.

  FIFTEEN

  Sherry LeVasseur didn’t expect to see many people at Ashton Brocata & Associates on Saturday morning. The staff of the ad agency kept long and erratic hours during the week, but unless there was a major project with a non-extendible deadline pending, the office would begin to clear out around noon most Fridays, with a slow return to full-staff status not occurring until late mid-morning Monday.

  There were a couple of artists in the art department, cursing at their Macs while trying to configure a new scanner. Either they were behind schedule on some pressing assignment, or, more likely, working on a freelance job that couldn’t be done during regular business hours. They hardly noticed Sherry’s arrival.

  Her desk still held the clutter from Friday’s work. A half-empty Diet Coke can sat precariously close to the desk’s edge. Little yellow self-adhesive memos hung from the bottom of her computer monitor, on the phone and on her desk calendar. Three wads of paper littered the floor adjacent to the wastebasket, with nearby paper clips ready to booby-trap an unsuspecting vacuum cleaner.

  She sat down and shuffled a few papers, saved the can from its near suicide plunge, and threw away a couple of reminders that were now too late to act on.

  Sherry surveyed the rest of the office. Desks in similar disarray surrounded her. The phones were silent. Computers blinked with animated screen savers. No one was in sight.

  Ashton Brocata’s office door was slightly ajar, but no light was on inside. She sighed with relief. LSU was playing Florida, and it was a safe bet that most of the staff of earnest over-achievers that would normally work on a Saturday would be at the game instead, either schmoozing with clients and potential clients or tailgating with family and friends. It was just Sherry LeVasseur and some socially detached layout artists.

  This was the perfect time.

  Sherry got up and walked past the desks and down the corridor, past Brocata’s office towards the bookkeeping office.

  It was still quiet. Most of the lights here were also off. Only during frantic, end-of-the-month billing periods would this department show any sign of activity on the weekend. But the billing process had just been completed, except for the Tropical Treasures account. Because Sherry had to gather duplicate affidavits to replace the missing Red File for the riverboat casino, its bill would be a few days late this month. That would be wrapped up next week. Right now, the billing process would still be mid-stream for the Tropical Treasures account. Transactions would be posted, but the billing would not be closed.

  Sherry looked around the small, cluttered office. Ad agencies had to be a primary enemy to the world’s supply of trees. Paper was everywhere: copy paper, stacks of invoices, reams of statements, billing folders, account printouts, affidavits, memos, notes and lists.

  She sat in one of the chairs near a computer and rolled up to the keyboard. What she had to do couldn’t be accessed from the computer at her desk. All account information pertaining to billing was available on the inter-office computer network, but not the account statement in its final form. Sherry wanted to compare the media invoices she had approved with the amounts that were to be billed to the client.

  “Sherry, Clarence thought the billing problems with Tropical Treasures weren’t unintentional.”

  Rob’s words still rang in her ears.

  Sherry entered in her password and then the Tropical Treasures account code. A menu popped up on the computer screen. Sherry made a selection, and within moments the billing file was on the screen.

  She scrolled through the entries. All of the media buys were there. She looked at line after line of television and radio station time purchases. If something was missing, it certainly wasn’t apparent. Sherry had an intimate familiarity with these entries, having gathered and analyzed the media invoices not once, but twice.

  She punched the “PgDn” key time after time on the computer keyboard as she scrolled through item after item. It was a large file.

  Her fingers froze over the keyboard.

  The file was too large.

  She checked again.

  The invoices were there. From each and every media outlet. But, there were too many invoices.

  She pulled up a detail-line on one radio station. Ironically, it was KAGN, Clarence Menard’s radio station. She looked at the schedule summary. Eight hundred commercials placed and billed for the month.

  Eight hundred.

  That was twice the amount she had ordered for KAGN.

  Sherry wheeled the chair around to a nearby file cabinet and began searching for the Tropical Treasures media invoice file. These would be the affidavits of performance mailed directly from the radio and television stations, filed as a record of actual media placements for each account.

  She thumbed through the current month’s invoices until she found KAGN’s. There was the invoice for four hundred commercials. One hundred per week, just as she had ordered.

  How was this possible? The invoice stated just the amount she had approved; yet the bill to be sent to Tropical Treasures was for twice that!

  Sherry began to replace the invoice into the KAGN file when another page caught her eye. Another invoice from KAGN.

  For another four hundred commercials.

  She studied the two media bills carefully. The airdates were identical. The times the commercials aired were identical.

  It was now obvious. The Red File had never been lost. It had been on Ashton Brocata’s desk when Sherry caught a glimpse of it. The agency was using both sets of original affidavit/invoices to double-bill the client.

  Sherry studied the invoices further. They were identical except for one detail: the invoice number on one bill had been slightly altered. Two notarized original media invoices — identical except for a modified reference number. She flipped through the rest of the file. They were all the same. Each invoice identical, except for a modified reference number.

  Tropical Treasures was being billed twice as much as their media placement warranted.

  Sherry used both hands to smooth b
ack her velvet-black hair.

  It didn’t make sense. No account, no matter how big, would overlook being billed twice as much as authorized for advertising.

  They had to know.

  Sherry felt a deep queasiness. The nausea swept over her completely. She needed air. Too much was happening. She was so confused.

  She got up from the chair and stumbled through the door towards the break room. The air was stuffy throughout the building, unstirred from the usual office activity. Even the artists had left the agency by now. Every room was silent and empty.

  The lounge was cluttered from the early morning assault by the art department. Coffee cups were scattered among several magazines and a newspaper or two.

  Sherry retrieved a Diet Coke from the free supply stashed in the refrigerator and sat at the table stained with coffee rings and half-empty Styrofoam cups. She held her head for a minute, then looked for a distraction to ease the clutter in her mind.

  She picked up the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate scattered on the table. Only one section had been opened and read: the comics page. The front news section, the metro news pages — even the sports pages! — were still folded together, intact.

  Artists.

  Sherry glanced at the front page. It held the usual assortment of violent headlines, international intrigue and Louisiana political scandals. She tossed it aside.

  The bottom half of the Metro news section stared up from the pile, on top of the People and Adweek magazines. In the bottom left corner, a small photograph topped a minor news story. It was a late-breaking news item, slugged “Crime.” The sub-head read: “Late night fatality.”

  Sherry’s throat tightened. She dropped her Diet Coke to the table.

  The photograph was of a familiar face. A face she had seen contorted with fear and rage the night before.

  Angela Currier was dead.

  Rob lowered the windows in his car. He needed fresh air. The dank smell of the KAGN transmitter still lingered in his lungs. He couldn’t think about the bitter taste in his mouth, or the sour feeling in his gut. He had to take in big gasps of fresh air every few moments to keep the nausea contained. His face was clammy.

  It had hit him the moment he had walked behind the KAGN transmitter to the very spot where his friend had died. He had grown very still, his face had drained of all color, and Rudy had led him by the arm, until they stood in the soggy mud outside the tiny shack. Rudy had offered Rob a mint, dug from the bottom of his well-stocked shirt pocket. It had helped, but only for a moment. Rob had thanked Rudy — for what? The mint? Rob’s memory of leaving the transmitter site was vague.

  But, he was driving now. Slower than normal. The mint was still stuck between his gums.

  Rob had missed the turn that led to the interstate, but he wasn’t really in any hurry. Abby knew he would be late getting home. Maybe he would take a few days off and spend some time with her and Valerie. He would try to forget what had happened. Get his “quality of life” back.

  His peaceful moment of planning for family comfort was broken by a loud, shrill warble.

  He grabbed the cell phone from its dash-mounted charger/cradle before it could ring again.

  “Hello!” He offered a harsh greeting.

  “Rob?” Sherry LeVasseur’s voice was unsure, tentative.

  “Yeah. Sorry for the rude answer. It’s been a tough day.” Rob’s voice softened. “How did you get this number?”

  “I called your home. Your wife gave me cell number.”

  “You talked to my wife?” Rob was instantly sorry for sounding so defensive. And guilty.

  “Yeah, she sounds nice.”

  “She is.” He felt dumb for his reaction. “So, what’s so important you had to track me down in the middle of nowhere?” Rob suddenly realized that he didn’t really know exactly where he was.

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone. Can we meet?”

  Rob had always wondered what it would be like when they finally met. He had wanted the meeting to be under quite different circumstances.

  “Look, I don’t think so. I’m on my way back home from Clarence’s funeral, and I’m really not up to any more intrigue.”

  “Clarence was right.”

  Rob had to pull the car off the road. He was tired. Tired and confused.

  “Clarence was right about what?”

  “The billing problems with Tropical Treasures are intentional.”

  “Sherry, look. I don’t mean to be rude, but those guys can bill whoever they want as much as they want, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to be a part of some big investigation. I don’t know what you and Clarence are on to, were on to, whatever — I don’t want to be a part of it.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, but I think Clarence knew…”

  “And what Clarence knew probably got him killed.”

  The words sounded harsher than Rob had intended, but there was no gentle way to describe murder.

  Silence.

  “Sherry?”

  “You — you think Clarence was murdered?” Her voice was faint and trembling.

  “I don’t know. Look, maybe you’re just getting all worked up for nothing. Clarence just got a bad break. It’s been tough on both of us.” Rob was doing his best to sound reassuring, but felt he was probably failing miserably in the effort.

  “Rob, there’s more.”

  He couldn’t ask, but he knew she would tell him anyway.

  “I was at a fundraiser last night for Governor Clayton and there was a woman there, she was pretty drunk —”

  “Sherry, what are you talking about?” Rob was losing his patience.

  “She said something about Moss Point, about someone getting killed.” Sherry’s voice was hurried and thin. “She was arguing with Governor Clayton about something —”

  “Sherry, I don’t understand —”

  “She’s dead. She was found dead this morning, Rob.”

  He froze, unable to respond. His mind was making no connection, but he knew Sherry was upset.

  “Rob, I think she knew something about Clarence’s death.”

  What was she saying? The governor was a murderer?

  “Rob...”

  A long pause.

  “...please.”

  He leaned back on the headrest, rubbed his face and eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  “Where do you want to meet, Sherry?”

  “The Tropical Treasures.”

  “Oh, that’s way too funny.”

  “First deck, nine o’clock. I’ll be on the first slot machine on the third row to your right.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “See you there.”

  “But, Sherry—”

  “Thanks, Rob.”

  She hung up.

  Rob sat for a moment in the idling car.

  Once again, he remembered his last conversation with Clarence Menard.

  “Rob, our little radio stations will be breaking this story wide open — I’m talking statewide exclusive — hell, this thing could go national...”

  Menard had been so excited about his news and his pending plan of action.

  “I’m sending you the file...”

  What file?

  “I’ll send you the details and we’ll figure out when we’re gonna break this thing.”

  He played back the words again.

  “I’m sending you the file...”

  A log truck slammed a wall of wind through the car window and against his face as it passed, rousing him from his daze.

  He looked at the cellphone in his right hand.

  Now, to call Abby and tell her that he was turning around, heading to Baton Rouge, spending the night, and meeting a woman at a riverboat.

  The fun was just beginning.

  SIXTEEN

  In 1996, amidst ownership consolidation and employment cutbacks in the radio industry, all-news radio stations were in short supply and lightly staffed. For a college freshman, like Rob
Baldwin, majoring in journalism and looking for a break in news broadcasting, an internship at KEXI radio was as good as it got. “99X, K-E-X-I” wasn’t an all-news station; not even close. It was a typical contemporary hit radio station of the times: fast-talking deejays with outrageous promotions and contests, but one thing made KEXI unique in the genre — a dynamic local news department.

  A gaunt, nasal-voiced, hawk-faced News Director named Ben Bradford led KEXI’s news team. He had spent years in the newspaper business and had gotten his start in broadcasting when the daily newspaper, The Baton Rouge Chronicle, purchased KEXI.

  Bradford looked like a newspaperman. His crew-cut rust-red hair was short, even for a former Marine, and a cigarette constantly dangled from his mouth, especially when he was on the air delivering a newscast. Bradford was a no-nonsense man — a firm believer in hard news coverage and investigative reporting.

  The only other full-time member of the KEXI news department was a young, long-haired news reporter named Andrew Walker — an aggressive, exceedingly self-confident, good looking (just ask him) reporter who knew that one day he would be a major news star. Rob was not the least bit surprised when a few years later Walker would leave the radio business and become a top-rated television news anchor. Last Rob had heard; Andrew Walker was making big money as the lead anchor for the ABC affiliate in Houston.

  Two interns, Rob — and another college freshman, Anita Fannin, rounded out the KEXI news team.

  It was an exciting place to work. KEXI had two red Chevrolet Blazers, popular SUVs at the time, which were equipped with Marti remote broadcast transmitters and large station decals on the side, emblazoned with the station logo and the slogan, “KEXI News...live, NOW!” on the side. In between Collective Soul and Mariah Carey hits — as well as the incessant “Macarena,” — listeners would frequently hear “KEXI Breaking News — Live!” from the scene of the latest car pile-up on I-10, or from crime scenes: murders, burglaries, shootings and the like. Oh, how Rob wanted to be behind the wheel of one of those Blazers, racing down Florida Boulevard, broadcasting a live report and right in the middle of the action.