by Travis Casey
SOUTHERN
HARM
***
Travis Casey
SOUTHERN HARM
Written by Travis Casey
All rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of a brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, please contact
Travis Casey at traviscasey.com
***
Chapter 1
A brass echo hung in the air at Elton Park as the bugle blew "Call to Post." Oscar Novak-Chambers stood in line at one of the betting windows with two packed, plain brown envelopes bulging the inside pockets of his Ralph Lauren camel hair sports jacket. His height allowed him to look over the majority of the other racegoers by a couple of inches. He lifted the edge of his driving glove and glanced at the black face of his Movado—the gold hands showed five minutes before midday.
He inhaled. Horse dung aside, he liked the earthy scent of the race track. It smelled of money. The foyers around the betting windows were filled with hopeful faces. The others could hope all they wanted; Oscar was onto a sure thing. In a little over ninety minutes, he'd be a millionaire—again. And his dad would never know he had been broke—again.
He tutted to himself as the man in front of him put ten bucks on Jenny's Lamb—loser. Oscar wouldn't turn over in bed for ten bucks. Once the guy got his betting slip and cleared off, Oscar stepped up to the window and brushed some dirt off the chipped wooden counter with the back of his hand. He reached into his left inside pocket and took out a brown envelope. He placed it on the counter. He pulled an identical one from his right-hand pocket and put it on top of the first envelope. He kept a protective hand on top of his stake as he studied the illuminated betting board.
Blue Lightning – 19/2
He flashed his movie star smile at the clerk and announced his intention with conviction. "One hundred thousand dollars on Blue Lightning in the one-thirty. To win." His refined accent held the slightest edge of a southern drawl.
"You wanna put a hundred grand on Blue Lighting? To win?" The clerk shook his head. "Come on, Oscar, get a grip. Last time you were here, you dropped forty-thousand on a no-hoper."
Oscar flicked his collar-length brown hair and sharpened his tone. "Let me see if I have this right. I have a degree in sports psychology earned from the university of this fine state. My family has horse-racing roots going back to my great-great-grandfather. And I stand before you with one hundred thousand dollars in cold, hard cash, wanting to place a bet based on my research and vast knowledge of the horse-racing industry. And if that's not enough, I'm just plain lucky. Yet you wish to offer me unsolicited advice." Oscar patted the envelopes while staring at the older man. "You're a clerk, Thomas. It's your job to take the money without offering psychoanalysis. If you want a career in therapy, buy yourself a leather couch and a man-sized box of Kleenex."
Thomas shrugged. "Suit yourself, but I don't think your grandfather would be too impressed watching you throw it away on long shots after all the money your parents spent to educate you. And what's sports psychology got to do with horse racing anyway? Mister Ed ain't racin'."
Oscar nudged the envelopes toward him. "Just take the money, Thomas."
"And that's exactly what I'm doing—just takin' it."
Thomas counted the money and returned a betting slip to Oscar without them exchanging another word. One thing Oscar hated about coming from a well-known horse-racing family was that everybody in town wanted to know your business. And since Oscar spent a lot of time at the track, and equally as much time at the betting window, people like Thomas considered themselves part of the family and felt entitled to butt in whenever they felt like it.
Oscar scooped up the ticket and slid it into his top pocket. He tugged the lapels of his jacket and walked away, heading for the private seating area across from the start/finish line. As he ambled along the walkway, an attractive redhead made eye contact with him and offered a subtle pucker of the lips.
He hesitated. Should he stop? Invite her to join him? The thought was fleeting. He winked, dipped his chin, and kept moving.
He didn't bring a date with him on this occasion knowing he was going to collect a substantial payout after the race. The redhead—with her long glued-on nails, artificially enhanced boobs, and fake tan—had gold digger written all over her. Certain situations required foresight to keep any woman from getting her matrimonial claws into him and taking him to the altar. How could he get rid of a woman who'd witnessed him win a million dollars?
He settled into the red flip-down seat and fished into his navy and white striped canvas bag, pulling out a box of Cracker Jacks and a pair of binoculars. He wasn't as comfortable as he would have been in the family's private box at Donnington Park, but he had to go where the money was—and on this afternoon, it was at Elton. He'd got the tip from one of the most knowledgeable sources in the business.
He watched the first few races with little interest, content to dig into his box of Cracker Jacks and smiling when he pulled out the surprise novelty from within the pack—a toy horseshoe. He kissed it. "Yep, this is going be my lucky day."
Oscar twisted in his seat as the horses were led to the starting gate for the half-past-one race. His heart rate picked up an extra beat with each step the horses took toward the line that would turn his fortunes around. When Blue Lightning crossed the finish line, he'd be out of trouble and able to get back on schedule with building the polo ground near Cub Run—a project his father entrusted him with over ten months ago.
He pressed the binoculars to his eyes as the horses pranced into their respective stalls. Nervous tension seeped into his bloodstream.
A few seconds after the last horse was put into place, a bell rang. The flapping of the metal gates reverberated around the park as the stalls opened, releasing the horses. Heavy hooves pounded the dirt as the thoroughbreds bolted down the racetrack. The racegoers cheered their chosen horse to victory.
The voice over the PA system crackled. "Down the backstretch, it's Blue Lightning, followed by Widow's Child and Peabody, in a three-horse race."
Oscar's grip on the binoculars tightened as he followed the pack on the far side of the track. "Come on, Blue Lightning," he urged, gritting his teeth.
As the horses rounded the final turn and galloped into the homestretch, Blue Lightning held a narrow lead.
Oscar pressed his foot against the concrete floor as if he had control over Blue Lightning through an accelerator. He became light-headed as a surge of adrenaline rushed through his body, creating a comforting state of dizziness. A million dollars would knock anyone off their feet—even an ex-millionaire simply recovering his losses.
He watched through the binoculars as Widow's Child gained on Blue Lightning. He jerked the glasses down to see how much farther it was to the finish line. "Just a little more, Lightning. Come on."
"It's Blue Lightning and Widow's Child, neck and neck, pulling away from Peabody," the announcer hollered.
Oscar sprung to his feet. "Come on, Blue Lightning!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.
Inches separated the two stallions leading the pack. With a sudden jerk, Widow's Child veered hard left—straight into Blue Lightning. The leading horse bounced off the inside wooden railing and back into Widow's Child. The loud pop of cracking wood and bones sent an air of horror around the park before both horses crashed to the ground, sending the jockeys in their colorful silks flying through the air and onto the track. The thud of the horses' masses rumbled the seats
of Elton Park. The crowd gasped as the thoroughbreds lay in a jumbled mess, kicking their powerful legs to untangle themselves without success.
A woman screamed. A child cried. Oscar looked on, horrified.
"And it's Peabody!" the announcer declared.
The jockeys made it to their feet and brushed themselves off, staring at the horses lying on the track.
A static rumble of voices settled over the park as spectators discussed the disaster amongst themselves. Emergency staff collected around the fallen horses. Canvas screens were erected to shield the activity from gore-seekers.
Oscar took the betting slip from his pocket and stared at what could have been. A queasy feeling rocked his stomach.
He mopped his brow with his jacket sleeve and looked at his future again before tearing the ticket into shreds and watching them flutter to the floor.
A million dollars in dreams and one hundred thousand in cash—gone—in under two minutes.
Life as he knew it: suspended at best, but quite possibly over altogether.
Chapter 2
Electronic beeps ricocheted off the concrete walls as Oscar pressed the button, locking his truck in the parking garage of his condo building. He made his way to the elevator and rode it to the top floor.
As soon as he got through the door, he marched to the kitchen and poured himself a large bourbon. He kicked off his shoes and took his drink into the living room, his feet sinking into the plush white carpet. He stood at the picture window overlooking the river and part of the city. He'd only been there a few months and loved the view of the swift currents of the mighty Ohio River as it rushed past his building on the other side of the street.
He was brought up on a ranch outside Louisville but was better suited to life in the city. He liked the razzmatazz at his fingertips and the sin at his feet in the streets below.
He enjoyed the slow burn of the grain alcohol sliding down his throat and into the pit of his stomach, working to quash the anxiety of losing another mountain of cash.
"Hello, Oscar," a voice whispered from the corner of the room.
Oscar wheeled around, dropping his glass and soiling the white carpet with the copper liquid.
He stood with his fists clenched. His eyes darted in every direction, searching for the voice and the person behind it. His gaze rested on a man sitting in his red leather chair in the corner.
"Holy shit!" Oscar exclaimed, lowering his cocked fists. "What are you doing here?"
A sharply dressed man in his late forties sat in Oscar's four-thousand-dollar armchair looking relaxed. He held a black cane with one hand in the middle of the shaft, bouncing the silver-ball handle off the palm of his other hand. A thin mustache lined his lip. His fedora was pulled down to one side, resting on his eyebrow. He smiled. "If I gave you a fright, good. It means I haven't lost my touch."
"How the hell did you get in here?"
"I'm a man of many resources. You should know that by now, Oscar."
"Of course you are. So, let me rephrase. What the hell are you doing here?"
Louie Gomez stood up, increasing the force of the smacks from the handle of the cane into his palm. "You owe me some money."
"You can't be serious. The race just finished a few hours ago."
Louie jabbed the end of his cane into Oscar's chest, pushing him back and pinning him against the wall. "You agreed to pay me back one-twenty after the race. As you mentioned, the race is over." Louie pushed the cane into Oscar's chest. "Where's my money?"
"Those were your terms, not mine." Oscar pushed the cane away from his torso. "Don't worry—I'll get you the money. I just need a little more time."
The end of the cane flashed in the light as the silver-ball handle struck Oscar on the side of his face, dropping him to the floor.
He lay on his back, holding his throbbing cheek.
Louie's eyes narrowed. "I don't give a rat's ass who designed the payment plan. All I know is you agreed to it, and it's time to pay up." He pushed the end of the cane into Oscar's throat. "One hundred and twenty grand, Chambers. Now."
Oscar grabbed the cane, holding back the force from puncturing his larynx. "Look, Louie, there was a problem. The race was fixed. Blue Lightning lost."
Louie smirked. "You don't say."
Oscar knew Louie wasn't kidding when he said he was a man of many resources, but there was something in his voice he couldn't put his finger on. What surprised him even more was how fast Louie had shown up to collect the money. Why muddied his mind.
"Let's start over, shall we?" Louie said.
Oscar accepted Louie's extended hand and, with a grunt, was hoisted up from the floor.
"You spilled your drink, Oscar. I'll tell you what … why don't you go to the kitchen and pour us both a glass of Kentucky's finest, and we'll sit down and have a little chat." Louie pointed to the couch in the center of the room. "Perhaps there is a way to resolve this situation without you winding up with a disabled-parking badge."
He spoke with such grace, Oscar sometimes forgot how ruthless Louie could be. He was well-known on the streets of Louisville for his viciousness, but Oscar thought he had landed on the other side of that brutality. A little over a year ago, Louie and Oscar sat at the same poker table. Oscar lost big to a local thug in that game. When he didn't have the thirty grand in cash to pay up, the hooligan pulled a gun and demanded immediate payment—or else. Louie fronted Oscar the money, saving his life. Oscar got a win on a horse three days later and paid the loan back with five grand interest, which he thought was fair. He also thought that transaction had elevated them into a harmonious relationship, but that cane across the face confirmed that Louie didn't have a softer side.
He should have heeded his gut instinct and respected Louie's reputation for savagery, but he was desperate. He needed lots of money fast and had the hottest tip in town, that Blue Lightning was a certainty to win.
Oscar went to the kitchen cupboard, reached past the bottle of Jim Beam and grabbed the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve. He returned to the living room with two crystal tumblers and the $140 bottle of bourbon.
Louie's face lit up when he saw the label. "Oh, Oscar, you do treat your guests well—even the uninvited ones. Pappy Van Winkle. What a delight!"
"Why not have the best, right?"
He poured the drinks and handed Louie a glass. After giving it a swirl and a swig, Louie let out a pleasurable moan of approval. "Wonderful, just wonderful."
Oscar hoped his choice of whiskey would let him escape the encounter with all his teeth intact.
Louie looked around the condo, bemused by the various horse-racing trophies, along with a few golfing awards and one for bowling. "A man of many talents, I see. In addition to your sparkling athleticism, word has it you're building a polo ground near Harris State Park."
"South of Cub Run, yeah."
"That sounds like a magnificent project to me. It's just what this state needs—some refinement in the world of sport. How's it going?"
"Great. I got big plans—" Oscar stopped and exhaled heavily. "It's just … it's running over budget, and I need to replenish some working capital. That's what Lightning was for. I needed that win." Oscar tried on his begging-puppy look, a tactic he used on women with great success. Whether it would work on Louisville's most-notorious gangster remained to be seen. The bastard probably kicked dogs. "Just give me some more time, Louie. Once the polo ground is up and running, it'll make a fortune."
"I like your optimism, but I like things to be a little more concrete—or even metallic." The corner of his mouth turned up into a sly grin.
"Come again?"
Louie wiggled himself deeper into the white couch. "Harris State Park has a fascinating history. I have it on good authority there is something of significant interest on that land, but it belongs to the state. However, it does border your property. I want access to that piece of the park, and you're going to help me get it." He pulled out a silver case designed to house five cigars fr
om his inside suit pocket. He opened the case and offered Oscar one.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't smoke in here."
"Appreciation is overrated." Louie pulled out a Zippo lighter and ignited a flame with a flick of the wheel, lighting the cigar. Smoke drifted from his mouth as he eyed Oscar.
Oscar pushed himself off the couch and went to the kitchen, returning with a chipped saucer as a makeshift ashtray.
He resettled in his seat, pissed that Louie had no respect for his wishes or his house. "And how do you expect me to help you?"
"You and your family have a history of good relationships with the governor's office. Don't think it's gone unnoticed. I would think you could talk his Lordship into granting you a new zoning outline for your polo ground that would include a section of the state park. You would then sublet the land to me for a small nominal fee—say, nothing—but it would go toward clearing your debt. And you would give me unlimited access to that section of the park. I believe what I'm looking for is within a few acres of your property line."
"Wait a minute, you're not suggesting—"
"That's right, I'm not suggesting. I'm demanding. My area of interest adjoins your polo ground, a.k.a. Oscar's backyard. You simply need to extend your property line a tad."
"Why don't you just go get whatever it is you want now?"
"Because if it is where I think it is, it's on state property. And anything on state property belongs to the state. It needs to be found under private ownership."
"Let me get this straight. You want me to go to the governor of Kentucky and ask for two or three acres of a state park because you want … what is it you want?"
"That's not your concern."
"Oh, right. So, I'm supposed to finesse the governor, and I don't even know why or for what?"
Louie flicked ash on the saucer. "I've been in business a long time, Oscar. Rule number one is trust no one. What you don't know can't be used against me. Let's just say helping me helps you live a long, uncrippled life."