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

by Hal M. Harrison

  “Yes?” She had no idea how to react to this information.

  “I was wondering if I could speak to someone — who’s uh, managing the station now.”

  “This is Muriel, Clarence’s wife.”

  Rob realized in that instant that he had never met Clarence’s wife and hadn’t spoken to her at the funeral.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry about your husband. Clarence and I would talk on a regular basis. I thought of him as a good friend, even though I only saw him on occasion — conferences and conventions — things like that.” He was still blurting out the words.

  “Yes, I heard him mention your name,” she said softly. “He liked you a lot. You said you were at the funeral?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he answered. “I didn’t get a chance to speak to you, there was so many people —”

  “I was hoping I just hadn’t forgotten speaking to you,” her voice was still flat. “I probably wouldn’t have remembered talking to you, anyway. Everything’s such a mess.”

  Rob hated to continue, but knew he’d have to get to the point soon.

  “I know this isn’t a good time, but there’s something I need to ask, Mrs. Menard.” He was speaking slower now, trying to soothe his voice.

  “Sure. What can I do for you?” She tried to brighten her tone, as if everything was OK.

  “Are you running the station now?”

  “Well, we’re just trying to get things in order around here. You know Clarence pretty much ran things by himself. Oh, we’ve got a couple of part-timers around here and Janice knows how to get the billing done and all —”

  Janice must have been Clarence’s office manager, Rob guessed.

  “I don’t know anything about this radio business, you know.” Muriel Menard’s voice sounded helpless and more than just a little bit frightened.

  “Yes ma’am,” Rob answered. “Maybe I can help you a little and you can help me, too.”

  “What do you mean?” Her voice had actually brightened ever so slightly.

  “Clarence called me a while back and said he had a file he was going to send me. It was a real important file, at least that’s what he said. I don’t know what’s in it, and he never got around to sending it to me.”

  “I see.” Her voice was confused again.

  “Well, I’d just like to come up there, help you get things organized if you want, and maybe I can find the file that he was going to send me.”

  “I... I don’t know.” Rob was hitting her with a lot all at once. He knew that she must be overwhelmed with everything that was happening.

  “Well, maybe you’ll come across something with my name on it. If so, I’d appreciate it if you would just give me a call, or just mail it to me.” Rob decided not to push. The woman was going through a rough time and he didn’t want to add to her anxiety. He would just have to find out by himself what Clarence learned. Or, just forget the whole thing and go home.

  “Well, you know, it sure would help to have someone around here who really knew the radio business,” she said cautiously. “You know, just kind of point me in the right direction. Answer some of my questions.”

  “Yes ma’am, I’d be happy to,” Rob said. Maybe it would be all right after all.

  “I’m so lost.” Muriel Menard’s voice sounded distant and vulnerable.

  Rob had to help her, whether he found the information Clarence had gathered, or not.

  “Mrs. Menard, I’m in Baton Rouge. I can be there in about an hour,” Rob offered.

  “Fine. Fine!” Muriel Menard was feeling more comfortable with the idea. “You come on up to the station, give an old lady a little advice and maybe we’ll even find whatever it was Clarence wanted you to have. There’s stuff all over the place that I don’t know what to do with.”

  Rob promised that he would leave soon and said good-bye.

  He stared at his cellphone. He had to call Sherry. He couldn’t leave things the way they were, and most of all, he had to let her know that he was on his way to Moss Point to see if he could find the information that Clarence had gathered. He dialed her direct line number at the office.

  “This is Sherry.” Her voice lacked its usual sparkle.

  “Hey, Sherry. It’s Rob.”

  “Oh, hi.” She tried to sound happy, but her tone was decidedly downcast.

  “I’ll be heading up to Moss Point shortly. I just wanted to let you know. If I find out anything important, I’ll call you on my way back to Magnolia.”

  “Good. That’s fine.” He knew that she wouldn’t be able to say much while at the office, but her awkwardness went beyond the fear of discovery. “I’m going to stay after work and finish the work we started.”

  He knew what she meant. She had to compile whatever evidence was available, before it was destroyed — and with the Gaming Commission taking its vote tomorrow morning, the evidence had to be gathered immediately.

  “Right. With what you can put together, and if I have any luck at all, we may be able to get the evidence to the authorities and put an end to it all.” Rob tried to sound encouraging.

  “I’ve got an idea on how I may be able to get that last bit of information, as well,” Sherry said carefully. “— About the professor’s retirement plan.”

  Rob wanted to ask for details, but knew they had risked too much in their conversation already. How did she plan on gaining access to the agency’s most secure financial files? If she could manage it, the information on the payoffs to Bellemont would certainly help build a circumstantial case.

  “Sherry, about last night —” Rob started.

  “Oh, let’s not talk about that.” Her voice was tender. “I’m going to make some changes. Changes long overdue.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve been thinking about everything. I think it’s time to get back to the classroom. After tomorrow, I don’t believe I’ll have any choice, anyway.”

  “I just didn’t want to leave things in a bad way, Sherry.”

  “Everything’s fine. Really.” Her words couldn’t muster the necessary conviction.

  There wasn’t much else to say.

  So, they said good-bye.

  By the time he packed and checked-out, the noon-time Baton Rouge traffic was at its peak. An accident on the Mississippi River Bridge delayed his departure even more, as traffic crawled up the ramp to the bridge.

  Rob saw a helicopter hovering over the westbound ramp, then spin around and begin darting back and forth, to and from the business district. Every now and then the helicopter seemed to target a particular vehicle and chase it for a few moments.

  That aerial maneuver looked very familiar.

  Rocky LeBlanc. It had to be.

  Rob turned up the Explorer’s radio. It was still on “scan.” After a minute or so, he heard the familiar voice:

  “...backed up from the westbound ramp of the bridge all the way to the I-12 split. Looks like you can expect at least a twenty-minute delay. I’m Rocky LeBlanc, Skywatch Traffic.”

  Rocky’s voice brought back memories of his KEXI days. At the time, Rocky had just retired from the service, a Gulf War vet that had flown choppers in the war. Rocky was hired as an airborne traffic reporter for the station, a first for the station, and KEXI radio had promoted it shamelessly: “K-E-X-I’s EXCLUSIVE ‘Eye in the Sky’ Traffic Scan — LIVE!” Rob had been very impressed with the new station service, and with Rocky LeBlanc. LeBlanc had been Rob’s first encounter with a true renegade. He was an absolute wild-man.

  Rob remembered that the station had eventually fired LeBlanc for continually performing a maneuver he called, “The Phantom Fly-by.”

  LeBlanc had taken him up one afternoon, and Rob had experienced the maneuver first hand.

  Everything would be normal, until LeBlanc would shout, “Bogey!”

  “Bogeys,” it turned out, were young women in sporty cars.

  Rocky would launch the helicopter into what seemed to be a death-dive, then pull up at the last moment, and match the car’s pace. LeBlanc would be
yelling and whistling the whole time, as if the female “target” could hear him. They would, indeed, realize his presence in due course, as the chopper would ease closer and closer to the car.

  When finally, the “bogey” did notice LeBlanc’s aerial presence, he would wave, smile and give a “thumbs up.” Then he would hold up a beat-up cardboard sign with his home phone number.

  LeBlanc saw it as a harmless game. Motorists viewed it as a frightening assault. KEXI’s management deemed it a dangerous nuisance.

  Apparently, 20 years — and no telling how many stations later — Baton Rouge “bogies” were still experiencing “The Phantom Fly-by.”

  “What are you doing for lunch?” Melanie asked.

  “Oh, I’m just going to nibble on some snacks at my desk,” Sherry answered. A few fellow employees were hanging around the agency’s break room, preparing for lunch. It was a perfect opportunity to try out her little strategy. “I’m really behind in my work.”

  “Well, you know what they say about ‘all work and no play,’ right, Tricia?” Melanie playfully nudged her best friend and bookkeeping co-worker. Sherry was well aware that Melanie and Tricia certainly didn’t deprive themselves of any opportunity to ‘play.’ Melanie was divorced, with a five-year-old son. Tricia was an intern, soon to graduate from LSU. Together, they knew where every happy-hour and free hors d’oeuvre buffet was in Baton Rouge.

  “Well, I was going to go get a salad around the corner, but I’m out of cash.” Sherry was slowly reeling out the bait.

  “You want to borrow five bucks, darlin’?” Melanie’s offer was made half-heartedly. Five dollars would go a long way at Huey’s Bar.

  “No, thanks,” Sherry replied. “I went down to the ATM in the lobby to get a little cash — but I couldn’t remember my PIN!” She overstated the last part of the sentence, as if to say: Dumb, me! Forgot my personal identification number — duh!

  “I have mine written on the back of my bank card,” Tricia offered. She didn’t graduate at the top of her class. Not even at LSU.

  “Oh, honey! You shouldn’t do that,” warned Melanie. “Girl, if somebody gets that card, they could clean out your account!”

  Sherry waited. She was close.

  “I’ve got to come up with a system to remember the number,” she baited.

  “Maybe I’ll write it down in my wallet.” Tricia was still trying to sort out a workable solution for her new quandary.

  “I use my little Jacob’s birthdate as my code number,” Melanie offered.

  Sherry jerked her rod and reeled in her prize-winning catch.

  “Come on, doll.” Melanie tapped Tricia on the shoulder. “Let’s get over to The Chimes. We don’t wanna miss the power-lunch crowd of eligible executives!” They headed out of the office and were gone.

  So. She used her son’s birthdate for her pass-code to an automatic teller machine. It was a start.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Those same traffic delays reported by “Sky-Watch” traffic reporter/pilot/bogey chaser Rocky LeBlanc made Rob Baldwin’s trip from Baton Rouge to Moss Point take nearly an hour and a half, rather than just forty-five minutes.

  The KAGN studio was located in the center of the small town’s business district, in a small, oddly shaped building that Rob would later learn had originally been a jewelry store. The main on-air studio was situated in a small area at the front of the painted white-brick building, in what used to be a storefront window display. Clarence Menard had personally designed the studio layout, so that when he had been on the air, he could see — and be seen — by Moss Point pedestrians and Main Street motorists.

  Rob was met anxiously but graciously by Muriel Menard and Janice Coutee, the office manager. Two other part-time employees — high school kids — were the only others at the station. Muriel showed Rob around, even though he had seen the station at least twice before on previous visits with Clarence. It was a small operation, even smaller than Rob’s, but a profitable radio station. The reception area was cramped and narrow, a design sacrifice to allow for the display studio around the corner. There were two small offices, another medium-sized office, which had been Clarence’s, and a small break room. The largest office in the building was actually a spacious storage room. Boxes and shelves were neatly arranged in alphabetical order, holding old albums, 45 RPM singles and racks of compact discs. Clarence Menard had obviously availed himself of an ample selection of collectible tunes from his record store.

  The station used the same computerized automation equipment as KLOM, so Rob was immediately able to answer some of Muriel’s most pressing questions.

  He showed the high school-aged employees some of the basic operations of the system — simple but important tasks that apparently Clarence had chosen to always handle himself.

  Rob soon learned that KAGN was about to find itself in a musical “twilight zone.” Clarence had programmed the station’s music through last Friday, and without updates the system would keep repeating the same music rotation over and over every 48 hours. Rob demonstrated to the ‘staff’ how to revise and update the system.

  Muriel Menard was relieved. She thought she had started to sense a disturbingly familiar pattern developing in the station’s format.

  Meanwhile, Janice, the station’s office manager, couldn’t locate some sales orders Clarence had promised to turn in. Anxious clients had begun calling, asking what had happened to their advertising schedules. Rob sorted through some notes he found on Clarence’s cluttered metal desk, wrote some copy for clients he had never heard of, and even recorded the commercials. The clients were happy. Muriel Menard and Janice Coutee were ecstatic.

  “You’ve saved us all,” Muriel gushed, upon the resolution of the last crisis of the day. It was nearly 5 p.m. and the station was operating smoothly, for now. Commercials were airing. Different music was playing.

  “Well, you were a godsend,” Janice admitted.

  “Oh, I do this stuff all the time,” Rob modestly admitted. He sat down, put his feet up on Janice’s desk and rubbed his face wearily.

  “You haven’t had a chance to find what you were looking for, have you?” Muriel asked softly.

  “Oh, that.” Rob had actually forgotten about his real troubles for a while and now tried to downplay the matter. He truly felt sorry for what these ladies were going to go through; running the station by themselves. “I’m sure if it were important enough, Clarence would have made arrangements for someone to get it — in case of an emergency.”

  “What are you all talking about?” Janice asked. She was leaning against her desk, arms folded, a pencil behind her ear.

  “Clarence told Rob he had an important file that he was going to send to him, but never did,” Muriel answered.

  “A file?” Janice’s eyes were searching the walls in thought. “A file,” she repeated.

  “Do you know something about it?” Rob pulled his feet off the desk and sat up.

  “Clarence gave me this last week.” Janice crossed behind her desk and pulled open the center drawer. She held up a USB flash drive. The portable data storage device, also known as a memory stick, would fit into a port on a computer and allow access to stored information.

  “He said to remind him to ‘send this out tomorrow.’ That was Wednesday afternoon. Of course, the storms hit and he was running around here like crazy. Then he had to go to the transmitter...” Her voice trailed off. She looked at Muriel, whose face had gathered more lines of stress.

  “He gave you a flash drive? Did he say what it was about?” Rob stood up. Janice handed him the small, plastic device.

  “No. He was in such a hurry, he said we would handle it the next morning. I just didn’t know what to do with it.” Janice looked worried, as if she had done something wrong.

  “Oh, it may be nothing,” Rob said, even though he hoped it was something. “Do you mind if I use the computer in his office?”

  “You go right ahead.” Muriel was picking up her coat and purse. “But, if yo
u don’t mind, I’m going to call it a day.” She looked tired and her face reflected a vulnerability — as if her emotions were about to get the best of her. She had been reminded of her husband and his last day alive. Rob realized that it had probably just occurred to her that she was going to an empty home.

  “I’d like to go, too, if you don’t mind, Muriel,” Janice said meekly.

  “Oh sure, honey. You go ahead. Rob will be fine — won’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you don’t mind me being here alone.”

  “Are you kidding? You know more about this place than I do,” Muriel Menard said wearily. “I have half a mind to just give you the place.” She looked around the tiny, old office, almost in disgust.

  “No, that’s O.K.,” Rob answered with a chuckle. “I’ve got my hands full up in Magnolia.”

  “Well, just lock the door when you leave, honey,” she said, heading to the door. Muriel turned back to face Rob as she held open the door. “Thank you so much for all your help. I hope you find what you were looking for.”

  “Thank you. Ya’ll call me if you need any more help.”

  Rob stood in the office for a moment after they left.

  It was a sad radio station without the larger-than-life presence of Clarence Menard. He wondered how long it would take before Muriel sold the station, unable to deal with the constant reminders of her husband.

  The station was quiet, except for the distant sound of the air monitors which were on low volume, in the studio.

  Everywhere he looked were reminders of Clarence Menard. A framed gold-plated single of “The Cajun Crunk,” prominently displayed on the wall. A photograph of Clarence, front row, smiling broadly, at the ribbon cutting of a new car dealership. Another photograph of Clarence with his arm around Ryan Seacrest, apparently at an event in Hollywood. A young Britney Spears in Clarence’s record shop signing autographs, a large KAGN banner in the background. Muriel Menard would have a hard time working here day after day — if she tried for long.

  It was even hard for Rob, and he had known Clarence for just four years.