The Kingfish Commission: A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder. (Kingfish Corruption Series Book 1)

by Hal M. Harrison

  The phone rang again.

  Bellemont, grabbed it and threw it across the room — on the same flight-path as the alarm clock before it.

  "I'm not taking any calls right now, thank you very much."

  Bellemont laughed, a wheezy laugh, ripened from years of smoke-filled bars and bourbon. He fell back on the sheets and closed his eyes for a moment. Hell, now he couldn't go back to sleep. He needed to pee — and maybe puke.

  He got up and staggered to the bathroom.

  Unfortunately, Dr. Henry Bellemont had not yet remembered to clean up the tiny bits of plastic, cogs, springs and broken glass from the previously airborne alarm clock, a fact he was reminded of only after stepping on the cold — and now sharp — bathroom floor.

  It was going to be another lousy day.

  EIGHT

  Chicken cordon-bleu. He should have known. Civic luncheons and banquets were the great scourge on the national fowl population. And why should this meeting of the Port Allen Kiwanis at a hotel-in-decline be any different? Governor Max Clayton was used to these pathetic little civic gatherings. They were a price to pay for an elected official, especially for such ‘a man of the people’ as himself, he thought.

  Clayton sauntered from the buffet-line and into the adjoining banquet room. His lizard-skin cowboy boots made him a full two inches taller than his flat-footed six foot two. Add the cowboy hat that he rarely removed, and the Governor stood as a flamboyant and imposing figure. He looked like he should be the governor of Texas, not Louisiana. In fact, his father had been an itinerant preacher in south Texas before suddenly moving to Duson, Louisiana in 1952, the year his only son, Max, was born. The reason Preacher Clayton had left Wharton, Texas — reportedly with little advance notice to his fledgling congregation — had never been fully revealed, but Governor Clayton loved to remind audiences filled with potential voters that he was the "son of a preacher-man" and a life-long resident of "Loozeyanna" — as if as much by choice, as divine authority.

  Clayton scanned the room as he sat at the head table. The Port Allen Kiwanis club was the usual gathering of stooped, paunchy, white-haired business men and retirees. Almost. The governor was surprised to spot a woman or two.

  "I see your membership requirements have broadened a bit," Clayton whispered to the Kiwanian host seated to his immediate left. They had been introduced just moments ago, but, as usual, the governor had already forgotten the little man's name.

  "What? Oh — yes, sir," the Kiwanian said, a generous bite of chicken cordon-bleu slurring his reply. "Kiwanis International encouraged us to abide by their open membership rules."

  "Well, I must say, some of your new members look to be quite an asset." The governor had his eye on a young lady in a dark blue business suit who was smiling and occasionally chuckling at a fellow Kiwanian's no-doubt wearisome conversation. She was obviously feigning interest to be polite. Her auburn, shoulder-length hair framed an engaging smile and sparkling, hazel eyes. Clayton tried to catch Business Girl's eye.

  The Kiwanian rose from his seat, dabbing his mouth with his napkin as he approached the podium. Clayton moved the vegetables around on his plate, pretending to enjoy the bargain buffet. “Gentlemen. Oh, and ladies, of course.” The Kiwanian cleared his throat. “If we could stand for the Pledge.”

  Chairs groaned, forks and knives rattled on plates as the civic leaders stood. The Kiwanian led the assembled in the Pledge of Allegiance, a disjointed but sincerely recited prayer — and an off-key group rendition of "God Bless America."

  “Now, we have some announcements before we get to our distinguished guest,” the Kiwanian said as he smiled and nodded in Clayton’s direction. Clayton flashed the appropriate number of teeth in response.

  “As you all know; our annual pancake breakfast is only two weeks away...”

  After what seemed an interminable pitch for the organization’s quaint fundraiser, the governor was introduced.

  Clayton's speech was the usual.

  Louisiana was “on course for a firm economic recovery” that would provide “a prosperous standard of living for generations to come.” The governor had "charted a prudent course of fiscal responsibility that would ensure a secure future for us all."

  He could do these speeches in his sleep. The governor's gray temples shining under the broad brim of his cowboy hat (he had put it back on to complete the image for his speech), his confident smile and down-home demeanor, had wooed voters for more than three decades — ever since his successful bid to be the youngest-ever member of the Calhoun Parish school board, at the age of twenty-three.

  The governor gave his speech while simultaneously planning his forthcoming night's recreation.

  Let's see, the boys'll be over to the Mansion for some poker — as usual — and, oh yes, the Mansion is mine alone tonight!

  The First Lady of Loozeyanna, June Ferrer Clayton, was to spend the night in New Orleans attending a Louisiana Historical Preservation Society banquet. Of course, the governor had sent his regrets on missing the gala event – unfortunate scheduling conflicts — but, the First Lady loved to attend such functions, and frankly enjoyed the occasion of not having to share the spotlight with the governor. Max knew this, and encouraged her solo road-trips to such ‘lady’ functions. Theirs was strictly a marriage of appearances. The First Lady gave the right supporting image for the governor, and — though she didn’t even know it — was quite instrumental in making Clayton a good deal of money.

  Tonight, the Mansion was his.

  Clayton made frequent eye contact with Business Girl during his stock speech. While his mind was on more important topics — like poker with the boys — he knew his "inspired" oration should be captivating and motivational to these star-struck Kiwanians, however, he noticed Business Girl checking her watch frequently, with a less than impressed frown on her face.

  That's OK, the governor thought. I'm up to a challenge today. I'll call your bluff. I need a charming guest for the game tonight, and you'll do just fine.

  Finally, Clayton finished his speech, swaggered back to his seat at the head table and shoved back his plate of uneaten chicken, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his face cradled against the knuckles of his clasped hands. A thoughtful pose, exuding confidence and warmth. He searched the room for Business Girl, whose glance finally met his. She smiled. The governor's return smile was accompanied by a friendly wink and a nod. She blushed, checked her watch again, then attentively faced the Head Kiwanian, who had returned to the podium.

  The Kiwanians finished up their important civic tasks at hand — another reminder was issued about the all-important upcoming pancake breakfast and the need to sell more tickets — there was a briefly muttered closing prayer and finally the official dismissal.

  The governor began working the crowd, shaking every available hand, receiving the generous slaps on the back, and posing for the requisite photo opportunity, all the while making his way toward Business Girl, who was quickly heading to the door.

  He was a master at negotiating the tight traffic patterns of adoring crowds. Without so much as offending one well-wisher or stepping on a single toe, the governor glided to the bottleneck of Kiwanians at the door, well ahead of Business Girl, and continued shaking hands at the impromptu receiving line.

  As Business Girl approached, he body-blocked the extraneous Kiwanians and positioned himself in the door at the exact moment of her arrival. Without missing a step, his pace matched hers.

  "Afternoon, ma'am,” the Guvner of Loozeyanna was dripping sweetness. "Thanks for coming out today."

  "Sure. Great speech." Business Girl's cutting hazel eyes gave away her white lie.

  They made their way through the door and out into the adjoining dining room, as the remaining diners, non-Kiwanians, gawked and nodded their approval at the Governor's presence.

  "Max Clayton." The Governor made the unnecessary self-introduction so as to not lose the moment's brief connection. Besides, he needed her name.

>   "Angela Currier." She slowed half a step.

  "Well, Mrs. Currier, what do you do here in Port Allen?" The governor was testing marital status, none too subtly.

  "Ms. Currier, or just Angela. I'm not married — anymore." She saw through the governor's transparent ploy, but had decided to play along.

  "Oh, yes well, Ms. Currier, then." The governor was smooth — and patient.

  "I work for Port Allen Living."

  "A newspaper? I thought the local paper was the Press-Journal?" One thing Clayton knew was the media. From every small town semi-weekly to every local cable-access talk show, the governor knew his state media, so his surprise and curiosity at finding an unknown opinion outlet was genuine.

  "It's a lifestyle monthly." Angela Currier stopped and faced the governor as the Kiwanians smiled and shuffled by. "We don't do much on politics."

  "Oh, I see. A lifestyle monthly." The governor repeated the publication's focus and decided, with some relief, that his knowledge of the relevant statewide media was still accurate. "So, you're a writer?"

  "No, I'm in ad sales. In fact, I'm about to be late for an appointment with a client." She looked at her watch again, and started walking — this time even faster.

  Clayton was only a half-step behind in response. He was agile for a man claiming to be “sixty-ish” whose main form of recreation was poker. And women.

  "Uh, Ms. Currier, maybe I should learn more about your publication. You know, governors have lifestyles, too."

  Angela Currier laughed. She apparently enjoyed the hunt as much as the hunter.

  "Well, governor, I'll certainly be glad to send you some information."

  "Fine, fine. That would be fine." The governor had once again equaled her pace, as they headed out the front door of the hotel and into the steaming heat of the humidity-baked parking lot. "I don't suppose I could impose upon you to bring me the information about your fine publication — could I?"

  They were already halfway through the parking lot. She stopped again and faced the governor. The hunter and the prey. Or, was it the prey and the hunter?

  "Bring you the information?" Her eyes twinkled.

  "Well, yes. How about you drop by the Mansion?"

  "The Mansion, Governor?"

  "Sure, you can explain all about your fine lifestyle publication, and who knows, maybe you can write a feature article on me — and my drab, little lifestyle."

  "I sell ads, Governor. I'm not a writer."

  "OK, well maybe you can sell me something." Clayton practically purred the words.

  "I don't think I have anything you would want, Mr. Governor." She was smiling and Clayton knew the hunt was almost over.

  "Oh, you never know. How about eight o'clock tonight?"

  "Tonight?" She feigned surprise.

  "Eight o'clock," he repeated. It was the governor's turn to move, and now. He made his way to the town car which was pulling up, as if summoned by some unseen, secret command.

  "See you then, Ms. Currier." He bounded into the back seat, and the car sped from the parking lot of the Port Allen Riverside Inn.

  Angela Currier stood in the melting parking lot, staring at the town car as it sped away. She had a bad feeling about this hastily arranged rendezvous. A twinge of regret shot through the pit of her stomach. She had promised herself to start being more careful. To fight the loneliness in more wholesome ways.

  Casual affairs could be so... dangerous.

  NINE

  The state capital in Baton Rouge is a monument honoring the ostentatious. It comes as no surprise to the politically savvy that the project was conceived and implemented by the Huey Long administration. The state-house stands as a fittingly garish tribute to “The Kingfish.”

  Forty-nine steps of Minnesota granite lead past the giant free-standing lime-stone sculptures of The Pioneers and The Patriots, which frame the two-story entrance to the palatial Memorial Hall, a lobby adorned in seven kinds of marble, with floors of polished lava from Mount Vesuvius.

  Niles Sloan walked past the large bronze relief map of the state of Louisiana imbedded into the floor of Memorial Hall and stepped into one of the old, ornate elevators, for the brief lift to the second floor. It took only a moment to find the giant conference room where the Louisiana State Gaming Commission was holding its public hearing. Only a few spectators, probably reporters, sat in the audience. A long, mahogany panel, built on an elevated platform, filled one end of the room. Seven men and two women sat behind nameplates and microphones. The scene resembled a congressional hearing in Washington, and most of the participants, if asked, would deem the proceedings to be at least as consequential as anything Washington could deliberate.

  As the governor’s top aide, as well as State Party Chairman, Sloan’s job was to make sure Governor Clayton’s — and the Party’s — interests were protected. Sometimes those interests even dealt with matters of the state. Not this time.

  “Now, we could sit here and argue the details until we’re all old and gray — or at least older and grayer — but ladies and gentlemen, it’s simply time to move on.”

  It was the plain-spoken Randall Winston — general counsel to the Commission. His raspy and time-worn voice echoed through the cavernous room. Sloan wondered just how old Winston could be. It seemed as if the ancient attorney had always been involved in the endless legal entanglements in and around Baton Rouge, surely for at least twice as long as Niles Sloan had been alive.

  “Well, I think we all agree that it’s time to move on, but I’m just trying to make sure we cover all the bases.”

  Sloan didn’t notice who was speaking now, his attention was elsewhere. He had become quite adept at ignoring the incessant droning of political posturing, but never missed the rare instance when something important was uttered — or, that even rarer occasion when something was decided on, or an action taken.

  Sloan was searching for the rumpled familiarity of Dr. Henry Bellemont. He was quite sure that he wouldn’t hear the LSU professor of economics and commission member uttering an opinion, and wanted to catch Bellemont’s attention, before the meeting adjourned and everyone headed for the nearest exit.

  As Niles Sloan had expected, Bellemont was slumped indifferently over a legal pad — a pad barren of notes, no doubt. Bellemont had pushed the conference table microphone in front of him off to the side, well out of his way. The microphone could have been inoperative for months, but no one would ever find out if Bellemont had his way. His job was to show up at the meetings, vote when necessary — and leave the opining to others.

  Sloan slinked to one of the flimsy metal audience chairs facing the committee’s long table. He unbuttoned his charcoal gray suit coat to sit, revealing mottled suspenders with silver clasps. Now, he would look more intense, more business-like — and most importantly, less wrinkled. As he sat, he intentionally scooted the chair back a bit on the marble floor, causing a deep scraping noise. As he had hoped, the abrupt sound broke the ever-so-momentary silence, and Sloan garnered the attention of the panel, and most importantly, Bellemont.

  A couple of the commissioners nodded their respects to Niles Sloan, Chief Aide to the Governor, and resumed their droning. Dr. Henry Bellemont sat up, nodding deeply to Sloan.

  Contact made.

  “Well, then. If there’s nothing else, let’s set a date for our next meeting.” It was the chairman, taking control of the meeting at last.

  So, progress was being made, thought Sloan. Good. These hearings had gone on long enough. The commission was long overdue to award the license to what would be the largest land-based casino in the world. Set to open in New Orleans, the firms bidding for the lucrative rights would receive a long-term lease, with extremely favorable terms, to the Old New Orleans Mint and prime land adjacent to the French Quarter, as well as a lucrative gambling franchise in the Big Easy.

  Sloan took inventory of the pending votes, reviewing each commissioner one by one. It was humorous, he thought, how each commissioner thought his vot
e was so important, so carefully considered, so surprising to the world. Actually, the votes were never a surprise. It was Sloan’s job to make sure of that. One by one he studied each face and counted the potential — the inevitable — votes. Good. Things were stacking up just as planned. Once again, there would be no surprises.

  He caught the eye of Bellemont again. There would be no need to talk to him today. The vote was a week away at most, and at the very least, days away. But it was important to let Bellemont, and the other commissioners as well, know that Sloan was there. He was watching.

  Protecting the Governor’s interest, that’s all.

  After listening to a few more minutes of political posturing, Niles Sloan smoothed back his closely cropped, perfectly styled, stringy blonde hair — carefully fastened the two buttons to his double-breasted suit, and strutted out of the room.

  On this particular night in Louisiana, the gambling hotspot was not the Tropical Treasures, or any other river or land-based casino — it was the Governor’s mansion.

  Two Louisiana state troopers in full uniform, assigned to mansion security, sat in the front gate office slapping poker cards on a flimsy table and boldly raising bets in half-dollar increments.

  But the high stakes action was inside the mansion.

  In the State Living Room, Governor Max Clayton poured another round of Maker’s Mark for the assembled players: The Lieutenant Governor (a political position in Louisiana whose sole purpose seemed to be little more than play poker and entertain the governor), a member of the governor’s PR team (a position of much greater importance), a couple of life-long cronies, and a visiting state senator (it was always wise to enhance legislative relations).

  It was early, nearly eight, but the game had been underway for quite some time, and promised to extend well into the early morning hours. Mrs. Governor was not in town to insist that the boys call it a night at a decent hour.

  Clayton drew a deep drag on his gigantic cigar, another universal staple of poker games, followed by a long swill of small-batch Kentucky straight bourbon, grabbed a neat pile of chips from his already ample stack, and raised. The governor was a ruthless and talented poker player.