Southern Harm

by Travis Casey

  "No. This was a last-minute thing—" Oscar jerked his head toward Stacey. "—for Governor Davenport's daughter."

  The maître d' fiddled with his bow tie. "I am sorry, Monsieur, but we are fully booked."

  Oscar reached into his inside suit pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took out a twenty-dollar bill, laying it on the podium in front of him. "Sorry, did I say Davenport? I meant Jackson. Andrew Jackson." He winked.

  Pierre cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, sir, but we are fully booked."

  Oscar peeked in his wallet again and pulled out a fifty. "Sorry. I meant a reservation for Grant. Ulysses S. Grant."

  Pierre smiled and bowed his head. "Of course, sir." Before Oscar could grab the twenty back, Pierre scooped up both bills and shoved them in his pocket. "One moment." He scooted out from behind the podium and walked around an opaque screen, strategically placed to shield the seating area from guests' eyes until they rounded the corner to the splendor of the dining room.

  Oscar wandered back to Stacey. "It'll just be a moment."

  She smiled.

  Oscar was slightly peeved. He was already down seventy-five bucks, and they hadn't even seen a menu. So much for the Davenport name.

  The maître d' returned and showed them to a table next to the kitchen door. As Pierre seated them, waiters whizzed by, creating a breeze with their haste, as the chef shouted obscenities at incompetent staff. The door swung back and forth like in a saloon at closing time.

  Oscar wasn't very happy about the spot, but he couldn't keep handing out presidential pictures trying to find Pierre's pricing plan for an A-list table. He wondered if the poor seating would induce Stacey into an explosion. To his surprise, she didn't mention it.

  The waiter handed them each a leather-bound menu. "May I get you a drink?"

  Stacey didn't hesitate. "Yes, please. I'll have a vodka gimlet."

  "Very well, madam." He turned his attention to Oscar. "And for you, sir?"

  "A Kentucky bourbon. Straight up."

  "Very good, sir." Pierre Junior marched off.

  Stacey smoothed the white table cloth with her hands. "This is nice, isn't it, Oscar? Thanks for bringing me here."

  He opened his arms, receiving her gratitude. "Not at all. I'm full of great ideas. Tomorrow night I'll have my private jet fly us to Paris, and we'll dine at the Eiffel Tower."

  She leaned in, resting her chin and her fist. "That won't be necessary, but thanks for the offer."

  They ordered fancy steaks with fancy prices, which came with radishes cut to look like little flowers. At least as he choked on the price, he could look at the plate and think cute.

  "So how 'Kentucky' are you and your family?" Stacey asked before taking a bite of steak.

  "My grandfather reckons if you're great-grandfather isn't from Kentucky, you're not a local. So I'm a local, from my mom's side, but my dad's an interloper. He's only been here twenty-seven years. There's a funny story about that, when he was in the navy—"

  Stacey's eyes went big, and her jaw dropped. Her look went past Oscar and his story.

  Oscar turned in his seat.

  Louie Gomez stood behind him.

  "Hello, Oscar." His voice carried a low grumble. He flicked his fingertips off his eyebrow, saluting Stacey. "Ma'am."

  Stacey gripped her steak knife, her knuckles turning white under the pressure. "Evening."

  Louie's heavy hand fell on Oscar's shoulder as he leaned down. "I heard you were down at Cub Run today. Any developments you care to share with me?"

  Oscar jerked around, causing Louie's hand to slide from his shoulder. "I sent word that I'd call you Monday. That hasn't changed. Now if you would be so kind as to leave me and my date in peace, I'll have a bottle of Chardonnay sent over to your table. You are a 'white' man, right?"

  Louie cupped his hand while he whispered in Oscar's ear. "You don't want to mess with me, Oscar. Call me Monday at noon, and you'll find out why." Louie stood upright. "I'll look forward to your call. As for the wine, may I request a 1999 Rioja? I have a thing for Spanish reds. I'm not sure why that is, I can't quite put my thumb on it. Or is that 'finger'? I can never remember. I guess if you didn't have any thumbs, it would have to be a finger, wouldn't it?" He laughed. "Oh well, it doesn't matter." He slapped Oscar's back. "Monday, Oscar." He nodded in Stacey's direction, turned, and walked over to his table.

  Stacey clutched her knife even tighter and pointed it at Oscar. "I thought you said you didn't know him."

  "Huey? That was Huey Lomez. I told you about him. Why? Do you know him?"

  She slammed her knife on the table, rattling the plates. "That was freaking Louie Gomez."

  Oscar gave a dismissive wave. "No … that was Huey."

  "Huey, Louie, Dopey, Grumpy …" She pointed her long, thin finger at him. "I don't care who you think he is, Oscar. I'm telling you now, dump him and stay as far away as you can. I'm going to lock him up before I leave Kentucky. And if you're mixed up with him, you'll be going down with him."

  "What do you mean, you're going to lock him up?"

  "Gomez's name keeps cropping up in the DA's office. We know he's tied to a lot of dirty dealings, some of it may even be political. And maybe he's even—" She stopped and shook her head. "Let's just say he's a nasty piece of work. And what was all that crap about thumbs and fingers? Was that some kind of code to do with your henchman, Mr. No-Thumbs?"

  "What? In the first place, I don't have any henchmen. Secondly, who the hell is this Louie Gomez? That was Huey Lomez."

  "Right. Should I tell my father he wasted all that money sending me to college and educating me because I'm a total idiot? You think I'm going to buy this line of crap you're feeding me?"

  The silence grew awkward as they stared at each other. Oscar turned his attention to his steak and cut a piece.

  The waiter approached the table. "Is everything to your satisfaction?" he asked.

  Stacey grabbed the napkin from her lap and dabbed her lips. "Would you send a bottle of wine over to that man?" She pointed at Louie's table, then waved her hand and shook her head. "On second thought, make it a bottle of champagne, the best the house has to offer, and put it on the Big O's bill." She focused on Oscar. "Isn't that right, Oscar?"

  Stacey and the waiter stared at him, awaiting his reply.

  He closed his eyes and shuddered an affirmative nod. When his eyes opened, there were smiles all 'round.

  "Very well, Monsieur. Shall I send a message with it?"

  Stacey nodded. "Yes. 'Dear Huey, I am turning over a new leaf and will be working nine to five while you're serving ten to twenty. Leave me alone and goodbye. Love, Oscar.' "

  The waiter's eyes darted between them.

  "That is what you wanted to say, isn't it, Oscar?"

  Oscar hoped Louie could take a joke. He'd have to straighten things out with him later, but his first priority was keeping Stacey sweet.

  Her eyebrows peaked as she waited for his reply. "Well?"

  Oscar looked at the waiter. "Leave off the 'love.' Just sign it 'From Oscar.' "

  Chapter 16

  The back of the limo was muted from the strained atmosphere. Stacey was lost in her own thoughts—trying to figure out how she was going to prove Louie Gomez was a heinous villain who needed locking up. Yet paralleling those thoughts was puzzlement as to why Oscar was connected to such a lowlife.

  Oscar sat in his own cocoon of despair. Despite spending over two hundred and fifty dollars on dinner, and another hundred on champagne for Louie Gomez to choke on, her quietness suggested the night was over—without any physical gratitude for a lovely evening or help winning a championship golf trophy, or any plan of how to win the governor over.

  As they arrived at the mansion, Oscar searched for something to say. "Any chance of a nightcap?" It wasn't brilliant, but he made a stab at it.

  "Still hoping to get me plastered so you can—"

  "I didn't mean it like that."

  "Let me ask you something." She propped herself
forward, resting her elbow on the armrest between them. "Did you like your time in jail?"

  Hadn't he shown an appropriate amount of appreciation already? Obviously not. Did her ego need constant feeding? Obviously, it did. "Thank you, again," he exhaled. "Thank you for rescuing me before Timmy John made me his prison sex slave."

  "Don't be an ass, Oscar. I'm asking—did you like it enough to want to spend another stretch in there? Only this time, in the big house, not some sissy county jail. Not to mention, I might be the one putting you in there, not getting you out. Accidentally or not."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Don't give me that Huey, Bluey, Blowjob bullshit. You know damn well who he is and I'm telling you, he's bad news." She reached over and clutched his hand as her voice softened. "I like you, and I'd like to see you again, but I can't date a guy who's mixed up with Louie Gomez. Whatever you got going on with him, stop it now. Please."

  Dating her? Up yours, Mr. MVP and Emmitt the Cop. That was a welcome enlightenment, and he would have liked nothing better than to heed her advice—if only he could. "Don't worry. There's nothing going on. You won't have to bust me, I promise."

  He closed in for a kiss, but the armrest put a barrier between them.

  "Let's take things slow, okay?" Stacey said.

  "Sure, but we should at least have a kiss, you know, give it the tingle test."

  "The tingle test?"

  Oscar nodded. "I gotta be honest with you, Stacey. If we kiss, and I don't get serious tingles, I'm outta here."

  "What about Gomez?"

  "No, he doesn't give me tingles."

  A smile broke her defense. "I mean, are you going to quit seeing—"

  Oscar reached over and held her by the face. He moved forward until their lips met. Her sensual touch sent magic through his spine. Their tongues touched, rocketing Oscar's level of excitement and sending tingles through his core.

  She slowly closed her mouth and backed away from the kiss.

  "Did I pass the test?" She asked.

  "If that was a pop quiz, then you most definitely passed."

  Stacey covered her mouth and giggled. "We'll pick up on this later, but I better go. Thanks for a lovely day and a great dinner. Oh, and bring Daddy's suit back next time you're around."

  "When should I come around again?"

  "How about Monday night? Then you can tell me how Gomez took it when you broke up with him." She hopped out of the limo.

  Before he could collect his thoughts or say anything, she was gone.

  Oscar got out of the limousine and moved into the Escalade. He rested his head against the steering wheel. His dad quoting Walter Scott popped into his head: Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.

  He started the truck and headed back to Louisville.

  ***

  Oscar scanned his office, the spare bedroom in his condo. He stared at the North Carolina University clock hanging on the wall. He bought it a few years before when he realized the NC logo could stand for Novak-Chambers. The clock showed straight-up high noon. Time to call Louie Gomez. All through the morning, Oscar mentally ran through different ideas about what he might say but hadn't settled on a particular story yet.

  He punched in Louie's number and a sharp "Hello" passed through the line.

  "Louie Gomez, please," he requested.

  "You got him."

  "Louie, it's Oscar. How's tricks?"

  "Oscar, so good of you to call. Oh, the champagne was a nice touch, but it sounds like you're going to break my heart. Don't you love me anymore?"

  "Ignore the note, Louie. That was just a little joke." Oscar offered a comforting chuckle, hoping Louie would join in. He didn't.

  Louie's voice turned tough. "I'll tell you what the joke is: you sending Johnny No-Brains around here to rough me up. Stupid. Just plain stupid. You've upped the stakes, Oscar boy. In one week, if I don't have that land, the next time you see Johnny he'll be in a pine box. In two weeks, that old coot Roscoe will be six feet under."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I'm saying, every week you delay the process of me gaining access to Harris State Park is another week you'll have a funeral to attend. Now get it done."

  Click.

  Oscar stared at the dead receiver. The pit of his stomach rumbled, and he wished it was only hunger beckoning, but it was much deeper than that.

  Rapid pounding on the front door brought him back to the room. Nervousness gripped him. It couldn't have been Louie already. But maybe his thugs were lying in wait to teach him a lesson. He grabbed the baseball bat from the corner behind the door, then peered through the peephole. It was Johnny banging on the door.

  As Oscar unlatched the door, Johnny barged in, breathing hard.

  "I'm gonna kill 'im, Boss. I swear to God, I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch." Johnny frantically paced around the room. "Look!" He thrust his bandaged hand toward Oscar's face.

  "What happened?" Oscar tried to stay calm for Johnny's sake, but he was putting two and two together.

  Johnny marched back and forth, breathing erratically, his face incandescent with rage.

  "Johnny, what happened?"

  "I went to Louie's place to give him your message. He said I'd better pray you get it sorted out or you'd be sorry. I told him, 'I'll show you sorry.' "

  "Sorry how?"

  "I pulled my gun and shoved it under his big, fat nose. I told 'im if he didn't shut his face, he wouldn't have to worry about ever blowing his nose again, 'cause I was gonna blow the fuckin' thing off. You shoulda seen 'im, Boss. He was scared."

  Oscar closed his eyes as a moment of despair draped him like a wet blanket. "What happened after you threatened to blow the snot out of him?"

  "One of his goons snuck up and gave me a karate chop, and I dropped the gun."

  "Then?"

  He held up his bandaged hand. "That son of a bitch chopped my finger off." Johnny's index finger was missing. "I'm gonna kill 'im."

  Oscar's face creased with anger. "I told you to get rid of that gun."

  Johnny stormed around the condo, arms flailing. "Then they tied me up and kept me there overnight, then they drove me over here just before noon and dropped me off. Just now. Louie wanted me here at a minute past twelve. I'm gonna kill 'im, Boss. So help me God."

  Oscar drew a recomposing breath. "Calm down, Johnny. Nobody's going to kill anybody." He felt sorry for Johnny, and he had to take some responsibility for him being mutilated again, but to offer him too much sympathy would simply encourage Johnny to settle the score. "I'll deal with Louie Gomez. You stay well clear of him. Got it?"

  "Give me five minutes with 'im, Boss, just five minutes." He held up the four fingers of his more complete hand.

  "No, Johnny. You leave him to me. And that's not a request."

  Johnny kicked the footstool and headed for the door, mumbling, "He's gonna get it."

  "Johnny," Oscar shouted. "Stay away from Gomez."

  The door closed behind him.

  Oscar sighed. "Shit."

  Despite a yearning for copious amounts of whiskey, Oscar wanted to see Stacey even more than getting drunk, so he put on a pot of coffee. With a freshly brewed cup of java, he stood at the window looking at the river. Dumping Louie in the swift currents would solve a lot of problems, but Oscar wasn't a killer. But then again, desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Oscar felt the web weaving tighter.

  Chapter 17

  Oscar pulled up to the governor's mansion wearing white slacks and a powder-blue shirt. He hoped the shirt would bring out the blueness of his eyes and melt Stacey into submission for whims and fantasies. Whether it was for personal satisfaction or political gain was a blurred line even to him.

  He held the governor's suit over his shoulder in a dry-cleaning bag.

  Conrad peeled back the door, letting Oscar in.

  As if on cue, Stacey came down the hall toward him. She wore a pink tracksu
it but didn't give the impression that she'd been working out, as she appeared composed and relaxed.

  Her smile was warm. Nothing more. He would have liked a licking of the lips, exhibiting her desire for him. He'd have to work harder to get her to that level. He held himself in check. That amount of desire exceeded the political favor category. A handshake would have been nice. No, upgrade that to a peck on the cheek.

  "Oh good, you brought Daddy's suit back."

  Oscar held it up by the hanger with one finger. "All cleaned and pressed and back where it belongs."

  Stacey looked to the butler. "Conrad, would you be so kind as to take Daddy's suit and hang it in his closet for me?"

  "Of course, Miss Davenport."

  "And lose the bag."

  "Certainly." Conrad took the suit from Oscar and disappeared.

  She took Oscar's hand and led him in the other direction. "Let's go upstairs, where we can talk."

  They entered the lavish setting of the private living room. French antiques decorated the room, ruined by a sixty-four-inch plasma-screen TV that dominated one wall. It would be great for watching football games, or the news if one's self was being shown, but it downgraded the elegance of the room. Oscar reminded himself this was the private part of the house, so it wasn't his tax dollars paying for the gross juxtaposition of fine art with an ego-enhancing TV.

  Stacey led him to an uncomfortable-looking Louis XIV couch and guided him to sit down.

  "So, did you talk to Louie Gomez?" She asked.

  "Yeah. I took your advice and quit associating with that Huey guy and went straight to Louie himself."

  "Good. And did he enjoy the champagne?"

  "Yes, yes he did. He mentioned it." Oscar leaned back and stretched his arms in both directions. "So, tell me more about this gangsta. What is it you got against Louie Gomez anyway? Specifically."

  "He's a criminal, that's what. It's bad enough being a criminal in the criminal world, but he's branching out into politics too. I'm pretty sure certain political figures are using Gomez's services. And that's not good." She held her hand up, cutting herself off. "I can't say too much, but I think I can put him away for a long time if some of the things I'm looking into pan out. That's another reason for you to ditch him. He's not going to be around much longer if things go my way."