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

by Hal M. Harrison

  Her first move as his new wife had been to Lafayette, where he was the station manager of a small FM station. In fact, they had met in Lafayette.

  As station manager, Rob had been hosting a Mardi Gras party for clients at the Hilton ballroom. Abby had been visiting an old college friend of hers, who was the art director of a Lafayette ad agency. Her friend had introduced her to the owner of the agency, Larry Carter, who was just a year or two older than Rob. Carter had invited Abby to go with him to the station function.

  During the course of the party, Rob made the rounds of the room, sure to greet all of his guests. When Larry Carter introduced Abby to Rob, she starting ribbing him about his town’s “little Mardi Gras.” The New Orleans native was unaccustomed to Fat Tuesday festivities on such a small scale.

  They had a good-natured argument over the pros and cons of Mardi Gras New Orleans style and Mardi Gras, Acadiana style.

  Midway through their playful banter, Carter, bored with the discussion and obviously peeved about the attention Abby was heaping upon Rob, excused himself. He wasn’t seen again until hours later, slow dancing in the arms of another woman.

  In fact, Rob had driven Abby back to her friend’s place, where they sat in the car talking for hours — in the parking lot of the Bayou Shadows apartment complex.

  Now, Rob seemed to experience that same pleasure of company with Sherry — and couldn’t shake it.

  He snapped to a sudden awareness of his surroundings and looked for a familiar landmark. He checked the time and saw that it was after 4 p.m. He’d look for the interstate, get back to the Hampton Inn, relax a while, shower and meet Sherry.

  And, he’d call Abby.

  After taking a shower, Rob picked up the Sunday newspapers off the small table where he had left them that morning. Housekeeping, thankfully, had not thrown them away, but had stacked them neatly. He pored over the Bellemont articles again, trying to learn all that he could about the professor and the licensing process for the New Orleans casino. There were no clues in the stories that gave him any more insight to whatever scheme might be in place between Bellemont and Brocata.

  It was apparent from the articles, though, that a great deal was at stake in the licensing process for the new land-based casino. Experts were projecting the gambling venue to be potentially the most profitable of its kind. After slowly recovering from Katrina, tourism had recently rocketed to all-time highs. Demographic studies suggested that the casino would fit the city’s visitor profile perfectly. It would be a lucrative venture, to say the least, and that told Rob that those competing for the exclusive license to the casino would do almost anything to get those rights: bribery, money-laundering, black-mail — even murder.

  Bringing the greed of the gambling industry together with the perennially unscrupulous politics of Louisiana in general — and New Orleans in particular — would be a volatile mix.

  He had seen first-hand what could happen with corrupted authority.

  Rob also knew the risks of an investigative crusade. It could be a high price to pay. For the second time in as many days, he thought of Anita Fannin.

  He threw the newspapers back on the table. They slid off the small surface and fell to the floor.

  Rob Baldwin carefully guided his Explorer into a small space in darkened rear Parrain’s parking lot. By the time he had called Abby and finished dressing, then driven to the restaurant, it was ten minutes past seven. He was late, but the conversation with his wife had been worth it. Abby had said she missed him, and her voice was once again soft with affection. Rob had also had a long talk with Valerie, who missed her Daddy and had to tell him all that they had done this weekend. It had started with a movie — the plot of which she related in great detail — and had included a visit with her Aunt Lindy. She and Mommy had then gone to church, “really enjoyed” a buffet lunch at The Landing restaurant, and then spent the afternoon driving to and from the mall in Alexandria — where they had walked and shopped for hours.

  The phone call left Rob refreshed and upbeat. He would enjoy a quick and innocent meal with Ms. LeVasseur and then get to bed early. He’d stop in Moss Point to look through Clarence’s files on the way home and would be back with his family before the sun set on what should be a sunny and cool Monday. He wanted things to get back to normal.

  Rob crossed the parking lot and saw Sherry’s sporty Nissan parked near the door. He wondered how long she had been waiting, but decided not to worry about it.

  She was waiting at the bar.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Rob apologized as he sat on the stool beside her.

  “No problem.” Sherry grinned. Rob tried not to notice that she looked even better than last night and seemed to have recovered well from the stress of the afternoon. “There was a twenty-minute wait, anyway.”

  Rob looked around the rustic Cajun seafood restaurant and noticed that it was, indeed, busier than usual. He ordered a Diet Coke, which prompted a frown from the bartender and a giggle from Sherry.

  “Don’t trust yourself drinking with me, huh?” Her teasing smile made her face even more beautiful. Rob fiddled with the cocktail napkin and tried to think of something else.

  “Yeah, you’re dangerous. So is this little project we’re fooling with,” his words sounding colder than he had meant.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why don’t we just call the cops and tell them what we know? Let them handle it.” Rob wanted it all to end. He wanted to go home. Away from the danger. And the temptation.

  “Tell them what?” Sherry’s voice stiffened. “That I work for a crooked ad agency that’s over-billing a crooked client? When they start investigating that charge I’ll be fired — and then killed.”

  “What can we do to change anything?” Rob argued.

  “So — what? You want to go back to Magnolia and just leave me here?” Sherry’s voice was louder now and the bartender looked up for a moment from the cash register, where he was ringing up Rob’s Diet Coke. “Fine. Go back. I’ll be fine.” She took a long drink from her wine glass and looked away.

  “No, that’s not what I meant, Sherry. I — I just don’t want things to get out of hand. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.” Rob wasn’t sure which concern his words were addressing. The danger. Or the temptation.

  “All we have now are just some pieces of the puzzle,” Sherry said. “We don’t even know if they all fit together. Let’s see if you can discover anything up in Moss Point that helps all this make sense. If we get enough facts together, we’ll go to the police. I promise.”

  “OK. I just don’t want us to get involved with something we can’t handle,” he said, his voice softer. He dared to look into her eyes. The soft light surrounding the bar gave her crystal blue eyes added highlights. He couldn’t look away, and for a long moment they held their gazes silently.

  A buzzing rose from the top of the bar. The pager was vibrating rapidly, hopping up and down as if it were alive.

  “Our table’s ready,” Sherry said. “I’ll get it. Pay for your Coke and bring a real a drink. You need it.”

  Rob ordered an Eagle Rare on the rocks.

  They enjoyed another relaxing meal, enjoying each other’s company. Rob learned more about Sherry and her life outside of the ad agency. She had always wanted to teach, and in fact, had a master’s degree, but had gotten into the advertising business part-time during one summer vacation five years ago. The lure of more money had turned that part-time job into a full-time career. Now that she had paid off her student loans, had a small house and a sporty little car, she longed to return to the classroom.

  “I wanted to make more money, but it was more than that,” she admitted. “I was just out of school, single, teaching a bunch of lovely third graders and realized that someday I wanted some kids of my own. But, being a teacher, I only met the fathers of those lovely children — and an elementary coach or two. Not exactly my idea of the perfect man — a guy who comes home smelling like a gym.” Sherry�
��s laugh was infectious.

  “‘Hi, honey. What did you do today at work?’ ‘Oh, I taught those rug-rats the intricacies of climbing a vertical rope, dear. Can you rinse out my Nikes?’”

  Rob laughed at her deepened-voice impression of a coach.

  “So, I took the job at the agency one summer. I thought, ‘What a glamorous business. I’ll meet sophisticated, high-paid account executives, big-spending eligible advertisers — maybe even a model or two!’ No such luck. The A.E.’s drink too much and work all the time, scared of losing their jobs. The clients are usually about as old as my father. And the only model I’ve met was some geek who was dressed up in a crawfish costume we had made for an ad campaign. Not to mention the artists and copywriters. They’re on a whole other planet!”

  Rob let her do all the talking. He wasn’t sure what personal details of his life he wanted to reveal, anyway.

  “So, here I am,” she continued. “I spend all day talking on the phone to guys like you, who think I’m some knock ‘em dead red-head, and go home to my cute little house in a safe neighborhood and watch late-night TV with Ricky.”

  “Ricky?” Rob stopped chewing for a moment.

  “My cat,” she answered. “And to top it off, now I may lose my job, if not my life, trying to seek justice in an imperfect world.” She exaggerated her words while gesturing wildly and rolling her eyes, all to stress the ridiculousness of the situation. “Sherry LeVasseur, P.I. Hey, it was time for a career change, anyway.”

  “Once this is all over, you could go back to teaching,” Rob offered.

  “Yeah. Maybe marrying a coach is not so bad a deal after all,” she said in mock disgust. “Or, maybe I’ll go for an older man and marry the principal.”

  The evening progressed in a similar manner. Sherry ordered one or two more glasses of wine through the evening. Rob had another Eagle Rare, at least. The boudin balls and grilled oysters were tasty, abundant and filling and Rob was not cornered into disclosing a revealing personal history.

  Afterwards, he walked her to her car.

  “So, I just realized something.” She leaned against her car and looked up at him wistfully, her voice tinged with a soft raspiness from the alcohol.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “I didn’t learn very much about you, did I?” She leaned a little closer to him.

  “Oh — well, you know, there’s not much to learn.”

  “I’ll bet.” Her eyes continued to sparkle. They were still alert, yet had a lazy quality. A wisp of black hair was misplaced across her forehead. “Why don’t you follow me to my little clean-cut, middle-class neighborhood, and I’ll fix you a cup of coffee? De-caf if you like. And I’ll introduce you to my soul-mate, Ricky.”

  If he were the captain of a star-ship right now, someone would be yelling, ‘Shields up, captain!’ He laughed at his goofy thought.

  “What’s so funny?” She leaned back a little, in feigned despair.

  “Oh, nothing. I’d love to — have coffee.”

  “What are you driving?”

  “That Explorer over there,” he pointed.

  “Oh, a real man, in a real man’s vehicle,” she teased. “OK. Well, follow me, big fella.”

  “Don’t drive too fast,” Rob warned as he trotted to the truck. “I haven’t had much luck with the cops in this town!”

  She waved, slowly pulled out from the front of the restaurant, and just as carefully drove to the entrance of the parking lot, waiting for him to follow. As he pulled up behind her, she put on her blinker, signaling a right turn from the parking lot. Rob laughed.

  Then, she peeled out and was gone in a puff of blue tire smoke.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Sherry had obeyed most of the traffic signals as they raced through Baton Rouge, at speeds just below what would warrant a night in jail, if caught. Just when Rob was about to lose her, he would see her tail-lights brighten to signal braking, allowing him to get just within sight of her next turn.

  They finally arrived at her house, without loss of life or license.

  “I ought to make a citizen’s arrest, after that display of reckless driving, young lady.”

  “Go ahead, buster. I haven’t been frisked in a while,” Sherry laughed as she unlocked her front door. “And don’t forget the handcuffs, I could be dangerous.”

  Rob enjoyed the flirting, without guilt.

  Once inside, he introduced himself to Ricky, a nonchalant calico, while Sherry made coffee. Spiked with Kahlua Especial.

  He was sitting on a plush sofa in the small living room, telling an indifferent Ricky about his radio station, when Sherry returned with two coffee cups, brimming with the potent beverage. She offered one to Rob and set the other on the table in front of the sofa. She started an Alex Bugnon CD playing softly through a component system beside the television, and then returned to the sofa and curled up beside Rob.

  “Uhmmmm. Even better than Café Du Monde,” he said, after a cautious sip.

  “Not quite Community dark roast,” Sherry agreed. “But almost as strong.” She nudged closer to Rob. The room was small and warm, and Rob thought that it was getting even warmer. Had to be the coffee.

  “So, tell me all about Rob Baldwin,” she whispered, then leaned against him. Rob took another sip of the coffee. The rum certainly was warming the room, he thought again.

  “Well, I was born in a log cabin.” Rob was attempting to keep the moment light. “Cut wood to warm the cabin in the winter before school. Walked five miles in the snow, uphill, to return a library book. I make my own clothes and I don’t sweat a lot.”

  While he was talking, Sherry took a drink from her cup, then set it back down on the table. She leaned in even closer and drew her leg up, ever so slightly on his. He was still nervously rambling on, when she put her arms around his neck and brushed her lips against his. Not kissing — just slightly touching them together.

  “Of course, I’m not a smart man.” Now, he was so nervous he was doing a Forrest Gump impersonation. My God, what am I doing? he thought.

  Sherry put her left hand behind his head, and pulled his lips close once again. Rob felt her exhale a tiny, nervous breath before kissing him. She squeezed the back of his head, while her right hand moved up from his knee to his thigh. Her leg drifted higher up his. Rob felt a burning anticipation in his chest. His hands were still holding the coffee cup and he was twisted awkwardly toward her.

  When their lips parted, Rob set the cup down, turned and without a word, embraced her with an intensity fueled by the passion he had been denying.

  After a long kiss, he leaned back and looked at her. Sherry’s eyes were still closed, her wet lips traced a serene smile.

  Rob picked up his cup and emptied it with a long swallow. Her dress had drawn up even higher, revealing her exquisite legs. She opened her eyes and caught his admiring gaze.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked coyly.

  He still couldn’t say anything. He could feel his heart beating in his throat.

  She moved her hips, slightly changing position. It was more for Rob’s benefit than hers.

  “Come here,” she invited.

  She was magnificent. She was his if he wanted.

  But, she wasn’t his wife.

  “I’ve got to go.” His voice was hoarse and filled with emotion.

  She looked at him for a moment. A sadness washed over her face.

  “I understand,” she said after a long moment. Her voice was soft and completely without malice.

  Rob stood up and walked to the door. Sherry followed, running one hand through her hair. When he stood at the entrance, he turned and looked into her moist eyes.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  He bent over and kissed her softly on the cheek. She bit her lower lip and hugged his neck.

  Rob Baldwin drove for nearly two hours after leaving Sherry’s house. His radio was still on “Scan,” but again, he didn’t notice. He was just
driving: on and off the interstate, through the LSU campus, around neighborhoods — never really noticing where he was and without an ultimate destination.

  Sherry and Ricky watched late-night TV.

  Monday morning, Rob awoke wearing the same clothes from the night before. He had a vague memory of driving around for an hour or so, then stopping in at an all-night convenience store and buying a six-pack of Bud. Rob had returned to the Hampton Inn, bought a couple bags of chips from the vending machine down the hall, and proceeded to drink himself to the point of numbness. Now that numbness was in his head, along with a dull throb.

  He showered and dressed, then skipped the continental breakfast shelf downstairs for the all-you-care-to-eat breakfast bar at a nearby Denny’s. He was surprised to find that he had a voracious appetite. He rarely drank too much, and when he did, he never got sick. It drove Abby crazy that he could go to a party, drink all night and never suffer a violent hangover — but she could have two or three glasses of wine and feel sick nearly all of the next day.

  The bland institutional-recipe food even rid him of his headache.

  After returning to the room, he thought about calling Sherry, but didn’t know what he would say.

  He called Abby, instead. The conversation was quick, but pleasant. Things were busy at her office, but she was anxious for his return home tonight. He smiled as he hung up. Things would be back to normal.

  Rob scanned his phone contacts for the KAGN phone number. This was a call he dreaded to make. He had no idea what kind of shape the radio station would be in, so soon after Clarence Menard’s death, but he needed to make sure his visit would be welcome and that the family and remaining staff wouldn’t mind him looking around.

  “K-A-G-N,” the female voice was flat, unenthusiastic. No ‘good morning,’ no smile.

  “Hi, I’m Rob Baldwin, a friend of Clarence’s. I was at the funeral,” he said, rushing to get the words out and feeling foolish for his verbal clumsiness.