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

by Hal M. Harrison

  He had just made the drive down from Baton Rouge, checked into the Holiday Inn and came straight to — what was the name of the place?

  Bellemont never could remember. In fact, he wasn’t sure the place had a name. If it did, it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t here because of its catchy name, its convenient location or charming atmosphere. The booth’s upholstery was ripped, the floor was slimy and slippery and Bellemont seemed to remember that the rest rooms didn’t even have running water, just long urinal troughs filled with ice. That had been a new concept to him on his first visit.

  “Hey, dawlin’. How’s about a brew?”

  Or the service.

  The waitress, if you could call her that, was almost dressed in a black bikini, with a black leather cap cocked awkwardly on her lipstick red hair. She was a big woman. Big. She tightrope walked on spiked heels. A large tattoo of a — something — rested on her left boob.

  He needed something stronger than a beer.

  “Bourbon and Seven. A lot of bourbon. A little seven.”

  “I’ll make you a bourbon and a three and a half, babe.” She howled with laughter at her own joke and ambled to the bar. It was an ample amble.

  Bellemont turned his attention to the featured dancer on the narrow “stage.” It was more like simply an extension to the bar. A row of cheap red, green and yellow pin-spots, flanked by a pair of high intensity outdoor floodlights illuminated the area immediately surrounding a worn pole stretching from the ceiling to floor at the center of the “stage.” A very thin black woman wearing a gold sequined G-string circled the worn performance area, her hands awkwardly caressing the pole. She smiled at Bellemont, revealing a large gap in her front teeth.

  He smiled back and looked around the club. Only two other men were in the audience, and they were huddled closely together in a dark corner by the jukebox.

  The dancers probably won’t get many tips from those guys, Bellemont thought.

  He looked back to the featured attraction, who was working hard for the attention of the only potentially profitable patron in the house.

  A tattoo was on her left buttock.

  Bellemont always looked for their tattoos. It had turned into somewhat of a game — like finding the bunny hidden on the cover of Playboy. Every working woman in the club had a tattoo.

  He knew it was a biker’s strip joint. Every girl had a biker boyfriend, and each was branded with the tattoo of her man.

  Which made the club all the more interesting to Bellemont. He knew that he was lusting after women who had biker boyfriends — tough-guys with Harleys, who didn’t give a damn what their women did, as long as they made enough money to cover the insurance premiums for their precious hogs.

  Dr. Henry Bellemont, a man who was carrying quite a bit of cash with him at the moment, and a man who stood to make quite a bit more money within the next twenty-four hours, liked his little biker strip-joint.

  Sure, the women weren’t the “model” quality that you’d find at the big, flashy “cabarets,” but Bellemont knew that his hard-earned dollars would go much farther here.

  Much farther.

  The Hat Woman returned with his drink, accompanied by a bleached blonde co-worker in a dingy, white lace negligee. Not pretty, but not offensive.

  “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

  Bellemont knew the routine well. He had been here often. He sometimes wondered why he rarely saw the same girls in the club. Same door-man. Different girls. Harley men must change women as often as they change their oil. Every three months or three-thousand miles.

  “Sure, grab a seat,” he offered.

  “Wanna buy the lady a drink?” Hat Woman was waiting patiently for the preliminaries to be completed.

  “Sure. Whatever she wants.” Bellemont was here to spend money.

  “Hey, are ya’ll having a party over here?” This one was short with sandy-hair, wearing a fluorescent lime-green bikini under an unbuttoned men’s white cotton shirt.

  Must be two-for-one night, Bellemont thought.

  “Party’s just starting,” Bellemont said between slugs of his stout drink. He slid over in the booth, conveniently closer to the blonde, who took the opportunity to casually place her hand in his lap.

  Yes, he would get his money’s worth tonight.

  Ashton Brocata’s key-card unlocked the interior doors with one swipe through the security slot. It was nearly midnight, but Sloan wore his usual business best. If seen, he would look like the anxious young advertising exec, returning to the office for that forgotten marketing plan that needed a late night review in order to meet some pressing deadline. All part of the plan.

  Niles Sloan looked at the notes and the crude, hastily drawn map given to him by a strongly medicated Brocata from his hospital bed.

  He hadn’t even seen the security guard upon his entrance. For a moment Sloan thought it strange, but then quickly dismissed the concern. He took the elevator up to the Brocata and Associates offices.

  The offices were dark and quiet. So far, Sloan had seen no one, just as expected. He referred to Brocata’s penciled map, then walked past the lobby, towards the bookkeeping office.

  The small office was neater than he had expected. Brocata had said that Sloan would find the office in disarray, with piles of documents everywhere, even in the collating trays of the copier, just as they had been left when Brocata and LeVasseur made their hasty retreat.

  Had LeVasseur already returned to gather the evidence?

  The computer was still on, it’s screen saver blinking away. Sloan moved to the copier. Three small piles of papers sat on the top of the machine. Was this the mess that Brocata remembered?

  Not much of a mess, he thought.

  Niles Sloan leafed through the papers. They were, indeed, related to the Tropical Treasures billing, as well as a few records detailing the “consulting fees” to Bellemont, all just as Brocata had said.

  He reasoned that Brocata’s recollection must have been clouded by the pain killers.

  Sloan once again referred to his notes. Brocata detailed the exact location and names of each file that must be destroyed. The list even contained instructions for deleting the corresponding master computer files, complete with security passwords.

  He took off his coat, carefully draping it over a chair to prevent wrinkling. He would shred the paper documents first, then handle the destruction of the computer files. Sloan began removing files from the wall of metal cabinets, placing the folders in neat stacks by the pile of photocopied papers.

  Once all the necessary documents were assembled, he again checked his notes. A paper shredder was located in the corner of Brocata’s office. Sloan picked up the stack of copied documents and balanced as many files as he could in his arms, making his way down the hall to the corner office.

  For some reason, the offices seemed slightly brighter now. His eyes must be adjusting to the low-level light.

  He walked into Brocata’s office and found the shredder just where Brocata had indicated. Sloan picked up the first stack of photocopied documents and fed them into the shredder. The machine whined to life, reducing the incriminating documents into thin, unintelligible ribbons.

  Sloan thought he heard a thump coming from down the hall, and turned away from the shredder to re-direct his hearing. All he could make out was the whine of the small machine devouring the hand-fed sheets of paper.

  Must be his nerves.

  He returned his attention to the task at hand, attempting to speed the progress with more efficient motion.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Sloan felt a spark of fear jump from tip to tail of his spine.

  He turned to face a door-full of plain-clothes police — and a security guard, pistol drawn.

  “Police. Please step away from the shredder, Mr. Sloan.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The slam of a metal door down the hall woke him up the next morning. Bellemont didn’t open his eyes, but could hear a man in the next room
suffering from a brutal, early morning coughing fit. After what seemed an interminable amount of time clearing the phlegm from his draining sinuses, a shower started running.

  Bellemont sat up in the bed with a start.

  What time is it?

  He struggled to clear the cloud from his brain and focus on the small clock radio on the nightstand. He felt the usual early morning pounding in his head as his still alcohol-enriched blood struggled through constricted veins.

  7:30!

  With a rushed shower and favorable traffic, he could still make the hour’s drive back to Baton Rouge in time for the nine o’clock commission vote.

  It’s payday!

  Bellemont pulled the stained sheets back and got out of bed. For a moment he stood there, remembering the night before. The fetid scent of the two women lingered in the room.

  What had the night cost him, total? With all the drinks, four hundred bucks, maybe?

  Before the end of the day, there would be plenty more where that came from. He wouldn’t even bother to check-out.

  Bellemont promised himself a return visit tonight.

  He turned on the television, to drown out any further rude noises that might come from the neighboring room and headed to the bathroom.

  As Bellemont began running his shower, the television slowly came to life, the blank screen fading into a head and shoulders shot of a chipper local news anchor, previewing the day’s top headlines.

  “Governor Max Clayton has been implicated in a scheme to influence the licensing of the new land-based casino here in New Orleans. According to reports from the Associated Press, the scheme involves the governor, his long-time associate Ashton Brocata, as well as at least one state gaming commissioner. Authorities say that charges of racketeering and bribery are pending as the late-breaking investigation unfolds. And in what authorities are saying may be a related matter, the investigation has been re-opened into the mysterious death of a Moss Point man...”

  Bellemont heard only the droning, unintelligible sound of the anchor’s voice as he soaked his throbbing head under the warming spray of the shower.

  The committee room hadn’t been this full since the scandal-filled ‘70s, when even national media gave special attention to Louisiana’s entertaining political process.

  Trent Moreau, state senator from Jefferson Parish and head of the Senate Judiciary B Committee on gambling, as well as chairman of the State Gaming Commission, stood in the small adjoining office and opened the door slightly to check the crowd. He had arrived at his capitol office before dawn, avoiding the nuisance of endless media interviews. Moreau hadn’t even read the paper this morning. He knew the commission’s upcoming action would be the top news story in the state. Moreau just wanted to get the vote over with and return to more mundane matters of state government — like taxes and welfare.

  He looked at his watch. The meeting was to have begun ten minutes ago. All of the commissioners were in attendance for the all-important vote — except Dr. Henry Bellemont.

  “Come on, Bob. Let’s get this show on the road.” The chairman had been suddenly approached by the impatient and always direct Randall Winston, general counsel to the commission. “It’s a damn circus out there, with all the cameras and crap. I’ve been dodging them all morning. What the hell are we waiting for?”

  Moreau closed the door.

  “Bellemont. We’re waiting for Bellemont.”

  “Oh, hell. I’d forgotten about him. Hell, let’s start without him.”

  A young, legislative aide came through the open door on the opposite side of the room. He was in his early twenties, obviously an intern from LSU, wearing a suit at least two sizes too large. His modern hair-cut featured a two-inch, closely-cropped semi-circle from temple to temple, with longer hair abruptly jutting above.

  “Sir, Dr. Bellemont just called,” the aide said between hurried breaths, his eyes darting nervously. A clump of his palm-tree haircut fell into his eyes. Randall Winston had been unable to take his eyes off the young man’s head. The senior attorney finally shook his head and walked away.

  “He called from his cellphone,” the intern continued, smoothing back the frond of hair. “He says he’s stuck in traffic, but should be here in about ten minutes.”

  The chairman nodded.

  “We’ll wait.”

  Sherry picked up Rob at the Hampton Inn. His Explorer had been fished out of the Atchafalaya late last night and promptly towed to a more suitable final resting place.

  “Did you hear the news this morning?” she asked between bites of a blueberry muffin. Sherry swapped the muffin from hand to hand as control of the steering wheel dictated. Rob only feared her driving precision when her hands totally left the wheel to reach for her Styrofoam cup of coffee perched on the small car’s console.

  “Yeah. All the stations got the story, didn’t they?” Rob’s hands were in his lap, since he had made a quick tour of the breakfast shelf before her arrival. He should have offered to drive.

  “It even made ‘Good Morning America!’” She paused for a moment. “But, I usually listen to the radio.” She glanced at Rob and smiled.

  “Just keep your eyes on the road.”

  “Oh, so now you’re giving me safe driving tips? The man who single handedly shut down Highway One?” When she laughed, she almost dropped the blueberry muffin. Her rescue maneuver caused the car to swerve out of their lane for a moment.

  “Ooops.” Sherry shrugged then sucked an errant crumb from her thumb. “So, what do you think will happen with the commission vote this morning?”

  “I don’t know how they can go through with it — but, who knows?” He looked out the window. The state capital loomed to the right, visible through the sour yellow morning haze.

  Sherry finished the muffin and turned on the radio. The announcer’s voice filled the import’s small interior.

  “...Sloan was arrested late last night at the offices of the Baton Rouge advertising firm of Brocata and Associates. Investigators found the governor’s top aide attempting to destroy files related to the Tropical Treasures advertising account. Copies of those files had apparently already been turned over to the district attorney’s office earlier in the evening by cooperative insiders. Authorities have charged Niles Sloan with obstruction of justice. Sloan’s boss, Governor Max Clayton has been unavailable for comment.

  “Meanwhile, agency-head Ashton Brocata remains in stable condition at Our Lady of the Lake hospital. Brocata faces charges of kidnapping, in addition to allegations of involvement in what the district attorney is now characterizing as a ‘wide-ranging’ scheme to rig the licensing of the new land-based casino in New Orleans. This unusual development is just the latest in a series of bizarre circumstances surrounding the pending licensing vote, scheduled to occur this hour, by the State Gaming Commission. With a recap of what’s happened so far, we have this report...”

  He turned the radio off.

  Dr. Henry Bellemont suddenly slowed his car, which had been speeding down I-10 north, on the outskirts of the Baton Rouge city limits.

  After nearly an hour of driving with silence, he had turned on the radio and finally heard the news.

  There was no rush now.

  The line of traffic that he had left behind just moments ago, now loomed large in his rearview mirror. People began honking and passing him in the right lane. Bellemont could see their enraged, red faces shouting obscenities as they drove by his decelerating car.

  He didn’t care. He couldn’t care about anything now.

  It was all over.

  Somehow, the whole plan had just fallen apart.

  He couldn’t go to the commission meeting now. There would be no vote. He would not meet Brocata at the agency for his final payment.

  Bellemont’s foot was completely off the accelerator now. His whole body was limp. Sweat beaded within the strands of his oily, thin gray hair. The blood had drained from his face, and his complexion was even chalkier than normal.

>   Without checking his mirror, Bellemont aimed the car, now moving at a near crawl, across two lanes of traffic to the far right shoulder, oblivious to the rising sound of squealing tires and wailing horns. He pulled the car close to the freeway guardrail, the highway now elevated over a grassy bog.

  For a few moments he sat staring straight ahead as the traffic rushed by, rocking the car in short waves of crosswinds. Finally, he blinked, reached over to the glove compartment and retrieved his ancient, rarely fired Ruger.

  Leaving the car running, Bellemont opened the door and got out of the car. A truck passed within inches of the open door.

  Careful. Don’t want to kill yourself, do you?

  He laughed.

  His white shirt, soaked with perspiration, stuck to his back. The rolls of fat strained against the fabric of the too-small shirt, and he unbuttoned the collar, which felt as if it might choke him.

  He loosened his tie, then took it completely off.

  Blood stains are hard to get out. Hell, that’s my best tie.

  He threw the tie to the ground. It snaked away from the highway, driven by the passing thrust of an eighteen-wheeler.

  He walked around to the passenger side of the car, then leaned against the guardrail, looking down to the ground some thirty feet below.

  The uncut grass was long and greener than anything he had ever seen before. It swayed back and forth in the wind. He could hear crickets — and a frog — their voices faint, but distinctive, amid the harsh highway din.

  After a moment, Dr. Henry Bellemont suddenly stood straight up and placed the four-and-a-half-inch barrel of the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The commission meeting had begun. Chairman Moreau would wait no longer, as much from the persistent urging of the impatient Randall Winston as from his own irritability from Bellemont’s tardiness.

  If the professor’s absence affected the vote’s outcome, then so be it.