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

by Hal M. Harrison

  “Does it have an address with the name?” Sherry added.

  “4355 Lakeside,” Rob read aloud, moving the page closer to get a better look. Then he added: “— Natchitoches!”

  “It is her!” Sherry nearly shrieked the words. “And Ashton Brocata and Governor Clayton have been friends since grade school! They grew up together!”

  “So, the governor owns stock in the corporation applying for the casino — and his old pal Ashton helps to make sure that corporation gets the license.”

  “— and I bet we can find another connection to Brocata on the ownership list. Maybe his wife, his sister’s married name, a cousin — whatever. And if we check Tropical Treasures ownership, we’ll probably find more of the same!” Sherry’s voice was rushed and excited. Then she stopped abruptly. “Rob, the woman at the party that made a scene with Clayton knew something. Just like Clarence. They knew — and now they’re dead.”

  They had finally made the deadly connection — one that went all the way to the top of state government.

  This story was probably even bigger than Clarence Menard had thought.

  Ashton Brocata got off the elevator.

  Damn! The light’s on again in bookkeeping! Is that someone talking? Who would be working late tonight?

  Brocata started walking to the office. He heard a female voice.

  “...And I bet we can find another connection to Brocata on the ownership list. Maybe his wife, his sister’s married name, a cousin — whatever. And if we check Tropical Treasures ownership, we’ll probably find more of the same!”

  It was LeVasseur. And she knew too much.

  Brocata moved closed, but in a moment the voices were drowned out by a louder, more piercing sound from down the hall.

  A cellphone ringing. From his office.

  It was his phone.

  The governor might be trying to reach him!

  Sherry heard the cellphone ringing from somewhere down hall.

  “It must be Brocata’s!” she whispered.

  “What?” Rob could barely hear her over the road noise.

  “Brocata’s cellphone! It must be his! It’s ringing in his office!”

  “So what?”

  “If he’s left it here, he’ll realize it sooner or later! He carries that thing with him all the time! That means he might be on his way back to the office right now!”

  Brocata retrieved the phone from his desk, pressed “Send” to answer the call and whispered, “Hang on.”

  He walked back down to bookkeeping.

  “...He carries that thing with him all the time! That means he might be on his way back to the office right now!”

  He stepped through the door.

  Sherry LeVasseur looked up. Her face drained to a sickly white, made even more pale by the harsh fluorescent lights in the small office.

  “I’m already here, LeVasseur.”

  THIRTY

  Sherry LeVasseur had never seen Ashton Brocata’s face display such rage — though he was smiling.

  “Sherry! Are you there? Are you OK?” Rob was still on the phone. Her throat was suddenly tight and sore. No words would come.

  Brocata slowly walked towards her. She noticed that the copier and the printer were now quiet. The only sound she could hear was her own breathing and her heart pounding in her chest.

  Ashton Brocata was still smiling as he held the cellphone in his left hand and raised his right hand above her. Her muscles were frozen. She wouldn’t even be able to duck from the blow.

  Rob pulled his SUV off to the side of the road. He thought he had heard another voice in the background. A male voice?

  “Sherry! Are you there? Are you OK?” he yelled into the phone.

  All he could hear was her breathing.

  Then there was a rushing sound and a sudden clatter. The line was dead.

  Rob lowered the phone from his ear, stunned. What was going on? She said she had heard Brocata’s cell phone ringing. He would be back for it sooner or later. It must have been sooner! Brocata must have found her in the agency! Or, maybe Rob had just been disconnected. He pressed “Send” on his phone, re-connecting her number. It was busy.

  He had to turn around. He had to get back to Baton Rouge.

  He looked into his rearview mirror, preparing to make a U-turn.

  Rob Baldwin felt all of the air leave his body. He was instantly seized with fear.

  The dark-colored sedan that had been following him since he’d left Moss Point was now directly behind him, less than fifty yards away.

  It too, had pulled over on the side of the road.

  Instead of hitting Sherry, Brocata grabbed the phone from her hand and in one swift continuous motion, threw the phone against the back wall of the office. It cracked and tumbled to the floor.

  “Hello?” Brocata was calmly answering his phone. He stood next to Sherry, who still sat trembling in her chair.

  “What’s going on? Where are you?” the voice asked.

  “I’m at the agency. Handling a little situation that’s developed.” He looked down at Sherry. She had never seen his eyes as sinister. “What’s up Max?”

  Sherry knew the call was from the Governor.

  “I’ve been trying to call you. We’ve got a guy named Rob Baldwin stirring things up in Moss Point,” Clayton said.

  “Rob Baldwin? Never heard of him.” Brocata looked at Sherry. He saw her face turn from a chalky white to a flushed red. She must know the name.

  “He’s with a radio station in Magnolia, of all places! But don’t worry, I’m having him taken care of, as we speak. He and his little radio station won’t be a problem.”

  Sherry tried to get up from the chair, but Brocata grabbed her with a vice-like grip that shot pain through her shoulder, and shoved her back down.

  “Well, I’ve got someone here complicating things, as well.” Brocata stepped over to the copier and thumbed through the sorted pages. He lifted the long paper that had spewed from the computer printer. “Looks like she’s been going through some pretty interesting files here. She must be assisting Mr. Baldwin with his little project.”

  “Look, Ash,” the governor’s voice was stern. “Everything will be over with in the morning. We just need to keep these ‘complications’ from getting out of hand. I’ve taken care of Baldwin. Can you handle the complication there?”

  “Oh, yes. No problem here. I’ll keep a close eye on this lady all night.” Brocata brushed back an errant strand of hair from Sherry’s quivering face. He had never touched her before. His voice was ominous and lascivious.

  A tear rolled town her cheek as she tried desperately to stop trembling. She wanted to be brave.

  “That’s right, Ash,” the governor chuckled. “Have a little fun. You deserve it. And after tomorrow’s vote we’ll have even more to celebrate.”

  “I think I will, Max. I think I will.”

  Ashton Brocata punched off cell and put it in his coat pocket. He looked down at Sherry LeVasseur then swung the chair she was sitting in around so that she faced him. Her head was only as high as his waist. She turned to face away.

  “So, you’ve been a bad girl, huh? Going through the agency files, finding out things that you shouldn’t have, huh, LeVasseur?” Brocata unbuttoned his suit coat, grabbed her chin and wrenched her head around as he stepped closer. “Sherry. I’ll call you Sherry, because now we’re gonna be close friends. Intimate friends.”

  She was unable to stop the tears now, but made no sound. She closed her eyes.

  “You know, Sherry, I have a policy not to — how, would you say — become involved with employees. It’s a policy I take very seriously. Even with very attractive young ladies that work for me.” His words were taunting and came slowly.

  “Never a hint of impropriety. Never on a first-name basis. Always very proper.” Brocata bent down closer to her face, rubbing against her leg as he squatted before her chair. His grip on her jaw tightened.

  “But, I can be quite different
with someone who’s not an employee, Sherry. And you’re not an employee. Not anymore, my dear. You’re fired. Or, shall I say, terminated. Released from employment, effective immediately.”

  His face was now inches away from hers.

  “So — now that I’m not your boss anymore, and you’re not my employee, how about we try to get to know each other a little better?”

  Brocata put his right hand on her leg.

  “The governor says that I should keep you busy allllll night.” His right hand was moving higher, she tried to resist, but his left-hand grip on her jaw tightened even more. It felt as if it would fracture.

  Is my imagination just getting the best of me? Rob wondered.

  But, the dark sedan was still sitting on the side of the road. It must have pulled over onto the shoulder at the same time Rob had. Now it was still there, unmoving. Waiting.

  OK. Think. If they’ve been following me, why aren’t they coming after me, now that I’ve stopped?

  He thought about the abrupt end to his conversation with Sherry. She must be in trouble. He had to get back to Baton Rouge. Now.

  Rob steered his idling Explorer back onto the highway.

  The sedan pulled off the shoulder and back onto the pavement as well.

  Damn. I’m not imagining this. They are following me.

  Rob had no idea why he thought of ‘they’ instead of ‘he’ or ‘her.’ But, the threat was real, regardless.

  He slowly sped up.

  The sedan increased its speed to pace his.

  I’ve got to turn around and head south.

  Up ahead, an abandoned convenience store provided a wide, empty parking lot. He gradually slowed down. The sedan slowed.

  Just as he was almost past the old store’s parking lot, Rob floored his SUV, and violently steered it to a hard right, into the gravel lot. As his truck made a wide, spinning arc, dust and rocks spewed from its rear. He initiated a full-speed U-turn and in seconds, was back on the highway, heading in the opposite direction.

  The surprise tactic had worked. The sedan jammed on its brakes as it passed the lot. The car slammed into reverse, backed down the highway and spun into the lot. A cloud of dust waved over the front end of the sedan, but in less than a second the car reappeared from the cloud, heading out of the lot and back onto the highway, traveling south.

  Chasing Rob.

  He pushed the Explorer for all it was worth. There was very little traffic on the highway and the truck flew over the pavement. The KAGN tower sped by to his left. The sedan was gaining on him. In minutes, he would be back in Moss Point. He could stop at the sheriff’s department and get help.

  No! That’s where he had last stopped! Someone there must have tipped his appearance at the Sheriff’s Department to whomever was now pursuing him! The sheriff? The deputy? Who?

  He couldn’t call or stop by the Sheriff’s Department for help. Someone there must be in the Governor’s pocket. He’d have to shake the pursuit on his own, and get to Sherry in Baton Rouge!

  The sedan was still gaining.

  The Moss Point city limits sign whooshed by. Ahead was the tiny town’s only traffic light.

  It was red.

  A log truck was turning onto the main highway from the access road to Rob’s right.

  A pickup truck loaded with firewood was approaching the intersection from the left.

  An old man on a bicycle was sitting at the intersection in the oncoming lane.

  The dark sedan was now on his tail. Rob could see two men in the front seat of the car. The man in the passenger seat was lifting something up to eye level.

  A rifle!

  Rob floored the accelerator.

  And closed his eyes.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The driver of the log truck was the first to see the impending over-use of the intersection. He began blowing his air-horn non-stop, until he saw the hopelessness of the situation and aborted his turn onto the highway with a sharp right turn. The cab of the truck jack-knifed in front of the trailer loaded with logs. One of the rusted chains wrapped around the giant bundle of pines snapped.

  The driver of the pickup truck saw the logs starting to fall and performed his own emergency right-turn maneuver.

  The old-man on the bicycle also surveyed the deteriorating traffic situation. His blood-shot eyes bugged nearly out of his head. He jumped off the bike with a spryness that belied his years, waving his hands wildly up in the air, his gray-whiskered face contorted in a wide-mouthed scream that couldn’t be vocalized.

  Rob’s Explorer careened through a small gap in the chaos.

  The giant logs rolled from the truck, flattened the bicycle, then landed in the bed of the pickup truck hauling firewood, smashing its rear bed and crushing its suspension.

  The driver hauling the firewood was unhurt — but now had a great deal more wood in the back of his truck than he needed.

  Blue smoke billowed from the front brakes of the dark sedan as it screamed to a skidding halt to avoid a collision with the row of logs that now blocked the intersection.

  Rob finally opened his eyes and looked in his rearview mirror. He could see the log truck, it’s load tossed about the road like giant match sticks and the cab of a pickup jutting out from two large logs. He wondered what had happened to the old man on the bicycle.

  Out of Rob’s view, the daft old man was standing at the opposite corner of the intersection laughing at his neighbor, whose truck was now overloaded with firewood. The old man hadn’t yet realized that he had relieved himself in his pants from all the excitement.

  The scene rapidly retreated in Rob’s rear-view mirror. He allowed himself a sigh of relief and slowed the SUV down to a marginally legal speed. He still had to get to Sherry in Baton Rouge, but he wanted to get there alive.

  Rob loosened his grip on the steering wheel and wondered how long it would be before the Clay Parish Sheriff’s Department arrived on the scene at the intersection. What would happen to the person, or persons in the dark sedan? Would they be released immediately and come after Rob, after reporting a description of his truck?

  He knew that if the governor had a contact in or near the Clay Parish Sheriff’s department, it was likely similar contacts could spread to any number of law enforcement agencies: other sheriff departments, local police — the state police. It would take a miracle to get back to Baton Rouge alive. Or, to get back to Baton Rouge while Sherry was alive.

  He was still at least a half-hour away, even at these speeds.

  Just as he was realizing the hopelessness of his situation, he glanced again into the rearview mirror.

  The dark sedan was chasing him again.

  He pressed the truck’s accelerator back down to the floor. The highway was now narrow and elevated, bordered on both sides by the Atchafalaya swamp. Thick cypress stumps jutted out from the muddy gumbo of water. There would be no side-roads, no intersections, no abandoned parking lots to perform some tricky escape maneuver.

  The car was gaining on him, now faster than ever.

  An eighteen-wheeler approached in the on-coming lane.

  The back of his neck prickled with the thought of a rifle being aimed.

  Rob pulled the Explorer into the opposite lane, in line for a head-on collision. He checked his rearview mirror. The sedan stayed in its lane, obviously confused by his sudden, suicidal ploy.

  The tractor-trailer rig began blowing its horn.

  It was turning out to be a bad day to be a trucker in south Louisiana.

  This was a game of “chicken” between a two-ton Explorer and a twenty-ton Kenworth. No contest. Eighteen-wheelers had Honda Civics for breakfast. An Explorer would just be a hearty snack.

  The sedan maintained its chase, but allowed Rob to widen his lead. Obviously the driver of the chase vehicle felt no need to get caught in the gruesome aftermath of a wreck caused by Baldwin the Kamikaze.

  Rob’s thoughts reflected his desperation.

  The trucker will pull out of the way at the
last minute. He has to! He’ll think I’m some suicidal maniac and he’ll pull into the other lane to get out of my way! Maybe he’ll force those bastards off the road and into the swamp, or at least slow them down…

  It was not the best plan, but it was the only one he could think of.

  Once again, Rob clenched the steering wheel with all his might. The plastic felt warm and unusually flimsy, as though it would split apart in his hands. The eighteen-wheeler was unswerving in its direct path towards him.

  At least the impact will mean instantaneous death.

  The tractor-trailer driver couldn’t believe it. Some nut in an Explorer was going to commit suicide in a head-on collision with his $150,000 custom-painted Kenworth! The impact would launch the trailer behind him on a wild, twisting course, most likely into the snake-infested swamp. What kind of a nut was in that four-wheeler?

  The moment of impact was only seconds away. Rob prepared himself. His last thoughts would be of Abby and Valerie.

  And Sherry.

  In the last moment, Rob involuntarily altered his course slightly to the left.

  At the same moment, the eighteen-wheeler realized that the Explorer was not going to back down and twisted his wheel to the left.

  The Explorer’s front right quarter-panel was sheared off by the impact with the Kenworth. The tractor barely slowed as it continued its path into the opposite lane. Rob’s half-severed truck spun full-circle and became airborne before landing, upside down, partially submerged in the shallow fringe of the Atchafalaya swamp.

  The driver and passenger in the dark-sedan watched in horror as the collision unfolded ahead. They saw the Kenworth make a last minute course-correction as it hit the Explorer. The eighteen-wheeler was now in the opposite lane.

  Their lane.

  The eighteen-wheeler was on a direct-impact route with the sedan.

  The scene developed as if it were in slow motion, but the driver’s reaction was also frozen in a thick molasses of time.

  He slammed on the brakes and furiously steered to the right. It would be the swamp or the truck.