by Travis Casey
"Hi, Miss Davenport. I'm sorry to bother you, is your father around? I'm with a law enforcement officer and need to speak to the governor."
"Oh, for the love of Pete. You're not drunk again, are you?"
"No," he shouted, then softened his tone. "I mean, no. I just need the governor to clear a few things up for Officer Dewsbury."
"Emmitt?" She couldn't stop the squeal before it came out. "What the hell are you doing with Emmitt Dewsbury? Put him on the phone. I want to talk to him."
"No, you don't need to do that. Just let me speak to the governor."
Her hand throbbed as she gripped the phone tighter. "Put him on the goddamn phone, Oscar."
Emmitt's low growl came through the phone. "With whom am I speaking?"
"This is legal counsel Stacey Davenport." She went into a seductive purr. "Is this Emmitt?"
He cleared his throat. "Well, howdy, Stace. What can I do ya for?"
"Hi, Emmitt. Tell me, what has Mr. Novak-Chambers allegedly done?"
"He was trying to break into a truck. He says it's his, but he can't prove it."
"I see. What kind of truck is it?"
"It's a silver Cadillac Escalade pickup with fancy chrome wheels. Hang on a minute, Stace. This guy looks like he might be gettin' a hankering to run for it. I better put him in the back of the squad car."
The phone went silent, except for some rustling and male grunting in the background.
While on pause, Stacey wondered why Oscar felt he had to use up a favor from her dad for something as simple as this. As long as he hadn't been visiting a whore house, she'd convince Emmitt to let him go—again. It was exhilarating knowing how much power she had and could wield over two guys. They were hardly alpha, but Oscar was cute and fun in his own way. More bad boy than bad ass. He would owe her again for this one. Big time. Even more expensive than Roxy Rue's.
Emmitt came back on the phone. "Sorry, Stace, but this Oscar guy thinks he's bigger than the law. He resisted arrest, but I showed him who was boss." His tone reeked of swollen pride.
"You didn't hurt him, did you?"
"No more than what was needed. It's what we police officers call, 'reasonable force.' "
Stacey rolled her eyes. Emmitt had told her if he hadn't been a cop, he wanted to go on the professional wrestling circuit. He was one of those people who didn't think pro wrestling was fake. She assumed it was his attempt to impress her, but beating up Oscar would hardly make Emmitt He-Man in her eyes. "Where are you now?"
"The west end of Louisville."
"The west end of Louisville?" Forget the whores. If he was into drugs, she'd put him away for a long time, with some guy named Bruce in maximum security who hadn't had a cellmate in a long, long time. "Did you ask him what a rich white guy was doing in West Louisville?"
"Didn't figure I had to. He was outside Louie Gomez's warehouse, and Louie's blinds keep movin', so I take it we're being watched by Gomez himself."
"Louie Gomez? Are you sure?"
"Stace, I was there when we raided this warehouse last month, but we came up empty, remember? Hell, you know we're keepin' an eye on Gomez. You're the one who ordered it."
As if a switch of rage had been flipped, Stacey gritted her teeth and breathed heavily through her nose, unable to speak. The bastard! Besides getting involved with a notorious criminal, he freaking lied to her. His ass was gonna burn. She recomposed herself and turned professional.
"Lock him up, Officer Dewsbury, and throw away the freakin' key." She hit the End Call button.
Chapter 19
Oscar paced the familiar cell as his mind raced with questions. What the hell was wrong with Stacey? Emmitt was an idiot, but as soon as he finished talking to her, he got even meaner. Then he had the amusement of goading Oscar all the way to jail about calling the governor's office and them washing their hands of him, leaving him to rot in a urine-scented cement room. And he was supposed to be well connected.
Luckily for Oscar, Emmitt didn't count his call to Stacey as his one phone call. Perhaps he gave him another one to see if he'd be humiliated again. But Granddad Roscoe came through and posted bail, getting Oscar back out on the street.
The cops had his truck impounded, which was probably a stroke of good fortune. It cost four hundred dollars to get it out of the pound, but if it had been left in the Portland area of Louisville, Oscar may have never seen it again—at least not with wheels—and they cost a damn sight more than four hundred bucks.
Once he got back to the condo, he settled into the leather couch with a large bourbon, working up the courage to call Stacey. She was obviously pissed. She'd made that clear enough. He didn't usually drink in the middle of the afternoon, but then again—before he met the Davenports—he'd never been arrested.
He hit the call button, and it rang.
"Don't tell me they let you out already."
He didn't even get a Hello before she began chastising him. "Yes, Stacey, it is me, Oscar. Me? I'm fine, thanks for asking. And how are you? Lock up any monstrous criminals lately?"
"You know what, Oscar? You're lucky I'm even talking to you. I have—"
"You're not talking to me," he shouted. "You're snippin' and bitchin'—"
"You better stop it right there, buster, or you and I are never going to speak again."
The line went quiet. He breathed. She breathed. Their breaths huffed, but no words were exchanged. She was emotional, so logic wasn't a viable approach. Perhaps she wanted an apology. Women always did. But he needed to know what he did wrong first. There was nothing worse than offering an apology that turns into a confession for something the other person didn't even know about. "What did I do?"
"Don't play the innocent with me. What were you doing in West Louisville?"
"I got lost—"
"Don't give me that crap. You've lived in Louisville all your life. A lifelong resident does not just stumble into the ghetto without a death wish. Let's make this easy. Let's make it multiple choice. Are you: A, a drug baron; B, a pimp; or C, a liar and down there seeing Louie freaking Gomez?"
Her venom spat through the line. Pimp looked like the best confession. He had the Cadillac. "How about I take you to dinner tonight? We can talk about it then."
"You think a charm offensive can override your lying capacity?"
Yes was the correct answer, but she wasn't looking for him to be agreeable. "No, I just want to take the most gorgeous woman in Jefferson County to dinner. And who knows, once she hears my side of the story, she may even apologize for getting me thrown in the slammer."
"You got yourself put there." There was a long silence before Stacey spoke again. "Okay. I'll let you take me to dinner, and you can see how far groveling will get you. I want Roxy Rue's, and not that pokey table by the kitchen, like last time. Pick me up here at seven o'clock. And, Oscar …?"
"Yes?"
"I live in Franklin County."
Click.
***
When Oscar arrived to pick up Stacey, the governor unexpectedly met him in the hallway. "Oscar. How the heck are ya, son?"
His exuberant welcome surprised him. They shook hands.
"Governor. Always a pleasure to see you."
"So, you're out with Stacey again, eh? Things must be going well between you two, are they?"
"I hope I'm making a good impression on her."
Governor Davenport looked past him to the butler. "When Stacey comes down, tell her to wait here a minute while I have a word with Oscar, will you, Conrad?"
He nodded. "Yes, sir, of course."
The governor slung his arm over Oscar's shoulder and led him to the study. Oscar was mesmerized by a wall of books arranged on a built-in, floor-to-ceiling cherrywood bookcase. The governor pointed to two brown leather wingback chairs, facing one another with a chessboard in between. "Sit."
Davenport walked over to the bar and poured two whiskeys out of a crystal decanter. He handed Oscar one. The governor stared at him, and Oscar's chair felt like the ho
t seat.
Oscar raised his glass. "I don't think I should, Governor. Stacey gets upset—"
Interrupting him, Davenport waved his hand around, reached into his inside pocket, and pulled out a business card. "If you ever have any problems, call me direct. Here's my private number." He handed it to him.
Oscar studied it, wishing he had given it to him earlier, then slipped it into his pocket. "Thank you."
Davenport gave a wink and a nod. "I think you're good for Stacey. She's a career-driven woman, but she needs a distraction and an outlet. Something, or someone, to take her mind off the pressures of her job. You like to have fun, don't you, Oscar?"
"Yes, of course."
"Good. I thought so." The governor slipped a hand through his hair. "She's taking on too much. She's supposed to be a consultant helping the district attorney, which she does. But she needs to stay focused on bad guys. Real bad guys. Ones that have a tangible impact on innocent citizens—and my statistics. Why's she spending time chasing white-collar misdemeanors is beyond me."
Oscar's tried to put two and two together, but he was a long way from four. "I'm not sure I'm with you, sir."
The governor scooted to the edge of his seat. "She doesn't like crooked politicians, and I applaud her integrity. But some of my friends get things done by any means necessary, and they may receive certain benefits in return. She doesn't always understand the finer points of how the political system works. Although imperfect, some elements of government's sleight-of-hand have worked for generations—if not centuries."
"Oh," Oscar arrived at the number four. "You want her to target the bully in the playground, not the principal."
"Exactly." The governor's grip tightened around his glass. His tone grew in intensity. "She's working too hard, Oscar. I need you to get her to take it easy. Slow her down. She thinks all she needs is a cape and she's Wonder Woman."
"She's certainly tries." He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had cut into his flesh. "Are there any aspects in particular you want me to steer her away from?"
"The mayor and I are looking at some regeneration projects for the downtown Louisville area. Some of the backers are tied to online betting companies, operations that may fall into a gray area under Kentucky law. Some of his approaches are, let's say, a little unorthodox. Nothing immoral, just not anything we'd want a lot of publicity on—or for the DA's office to get involved in."
"Gotcha. Keep her focused on real criminals, right?"
"If the mayor can keep his plan on track without the DA's office derailing it, the Novak-Chambers family would see a lot of benefit in the form of new online betting laws. But we have to protect the secrecy of the setup. Does that make sense?"
"Perfectly. Where do I fit in?"
Davenport shifted in his seat. "You know this playground you want down at Harris State Park."
"I wouldn't have put it like that, but yes."
"You have my full backing if you can get Stacey involved one hundred percent. Give her a project. It might help take her mind off trying to fry innocent government officials who are simply trying to get things done expeditiously." He cocked his head to one side. "Are we connecting here, Oscar?"
"Yes, sir, I believe we are."
"Good." He gulped his whiskey and stood up. "You help me, Oscar, and you can count on the governor's office for whatever you need."
Oscar stood up with him. "That's good to know, Governor. I'll see what I can do."
Davenport wrapped his arm around Oscar's shoulder as they walked toward the door. "By the way, if you want to score points with Stacey, she loves soft-shell crab. It's her favorite. There's a place on Lincoln Avenue, Fredrico's. They have the best crab in the capital."
"Thank you, Governor. I'll try it."
"Good." He opened the door and delivered several hardy back slaps, then gave Oscar an exiting nudge before closing the door.
Stacey stood in the hallway in wait mode. She wore a sleeveless black dress that hugged her curves and stopped above her knees. Oscar took a moment admiring her shoes—it was ultra-sexy seeing her standing on spikes long enough to kill Dracula.
A gasp of admiration escaped his lips. "You look stunning."
"Thank you."
"Hey, how would you like some soft-shell crab? I got word Fredrico's just got a fresh shipment in. Sound good?"
"Really?" Her voice let out a sexy squeak of excitement. "That's my favorite."
"No kidding? Mine too." He turned and angled his arm.
She shimmied close to him and slid her arm through his as they headed for the door.
"Don't wait up, Conrad," she said as they passed by the butler. "Mr. Novak-Chambers is going to show me the time of my life."
***
Oscar was taken aback as they walked into Fredrico's. He thought the plastic tablecloths could be just the trigger needed to get Stacey to blow her gasket. Yet, she calmly stood by the door while he inquired about a table. The restaurant was empty except for a few staff milling about. The governor wanted Oscar to do him a favor and impress his daughter, but then sends them to a dump? He couldn't help but wonder if this was a payback.
The hostess took a couple of menus from the wooden rack and told them to follow her.
He ignored her and turned to Stacey. "Look, if you want to forget this place, it's okay. It doesn't look like your kind of scene. Besides, you look so fantastic, it would be a shame to waste it here. Let's head over to Roxy Rue's."
Stacey shook her head. "No, you got me in the mood for crab now. Don't be such a mama's boy. Where's your sense of adventure?"
Crumbs were scattered across the wooden floor, and the windows looked as though they hadn't seen a bottle of Windex in quite some time. The waitress had walked to the middle of the room before she noticed they weren't following her. She stopped, turned, and waited.
Stacey clip-clopped toward the hostess, who led them to a table by the window.
She laid the menus on the blue and white vinyl tablecloth. "Can I get y'all anything to drink?"
Oscar didn't wait around for her instruction, approval, guidance, or anything else. He exercised his privilege as the person paying the bill. Besides that, he was the man, and he was taking charge.
"Yes, the lady will have a large glass of Chardonnay, and I'll have a glass of milk."
The waitress wrote while she spoke. "You want chocolate or regular?"
It was embarrassing enough having to drink milk on a date. He didn't need the added humiliation of being asked if he wanted baby or big-boy flavor. "Plain milk will be fine, thank you."
"You want two-percent or whole?"
"Oh, for flip's sake," he mumbled, gritting his teeth. The waitress didn't give a damn about the wine but seemed to have great concern about which udder the milk may come from. "It doesn't matter."
"Suit yourself." She shrugged and walked off.
Stacey leaned in. "You surprise me. I thought you'd be a chocolate milk kind of guy. You know, dark, murky, unclear."
"Well, I ordered white—as in pure."
She perched her elbows on the table. "Okay, Mr. Pure, what the hell were you doing in West Louisville? And don't say 'helping out at the soup kitchen.' "
Oscar outlined one of the blue squares on the tablecloth with his finger. "Okay, this is difficult, with you being a former DA and all." He leveled his head and locked eyes with her. "I'm a pimp."
Her nostrils flared. "And that's supposed to be funny, is it? Prostituting young women for immoral pleasure. Getting them hooked on smack, then being smacked by sexual deviants to line your pockets with gold. You're one sick bastard."
Oscar's stomach tightened with the realization that his joke was misplaced and obviously a sore topic with her. "Okay, I'm not really a—"
Her open palm slammed the table, shaking the cutlery and making him jump from the unexpected jolt of anger. Her face was aglow with indignation. "What the front door were you doing in the ghetto?"
The pimp charade didn't go down too well,
so he thought better of telling her the cocaine trade was doing well.
The waitress arrived with the drinks, and they ordered soft shell crab to get rid of her.
Stacey took a serious hit of wine then stared at him. "I'm waiting …"
Chapter 20
It was times like this that Oscar wished he had stuck with dim-witted bimbos. Intelligent women didn't fall for snow jobs as easily. He took a glug of milk, wishing it was a shot of Jim Beam.
He focused on the condensation dripping down his glass. "You know that facility for the youngsters I talked about?"
"Uh-huh."
"And you know I said I had some backers for it?"
"Uh-huh."
"Louie Gomez is my backer." He looked her straight in the eyes, challenging her.
Her drumming fingers sounded rhythmic against the plastic cloth, like a death march. "Louie. Freaking. Gomez. The guy I'm trying to lock up, and you go jumping into bed with the scumbag. You're a sap, Oscar. Louie Gomez isn't just riding the crazy train, he's driving the damn thing." She leveled her finger at his face. "If you're lucky, I'll put you in the joint before Louie Gomez fits you with a pair of cement shoes. That's the only two ways this can possibly end." Her voice had the resignation of destiny. "Why do you need his money anyway?"
"It's smart business to use other people's money. Not to mention we both get generous tax write-offs this way."
"Oh, come on. Louie Gomez can't afford to pay a few more dollars in taxes to help other people who don't play freaking polo? Is that what you're telling me?"
"That, and he has a lot of good contacts."
"Yeah, cement contractors, I bet."
He reached across the table and clutched her hand. "There's more to it than that. If I don't cooperate with Louie, he might bump off Johnny No-Thumbs."
She pulled her hand from his, folding her arms under her small breasts. "Why's he gonna do that?"
"Johnny borrowed some money and never paid it back. Louie said he'd clear the debt if I made him a partner in the kids' program. You know, to raise his good-guy persona."
"Right, like that's ever going to happen. Besides all the crap you just fed me, you have to ask yourself—would the world be a better place without Johnny No-Thumbs?"