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

by Hal M. Harrison

  “...radio stations can be very dangerous, what with all that high-voltage electricity and all.”

  Clayton’s aide had left through the opposite door, down the main hall. Angela creeped back to the side exit and gently nudged it open. Once outside, she ran toward her car parked near the front gate, tears filling her eyes as she heard Sloan’s voice, mocking, sinister and threatening:

  “...radio stations can be very dangerous...”

  She ran faster.

  “...all that high-voltage electricity...”

  Angela fumbled with her keys, unlocked the car’s door and fell to the driver’s seat.

  “...You don’t have to worry...”

  Her hands strangled the steering wheel as tears fell from her cheeks. She twisted the ignition key.

  “...it’s been taken care of.”

  She leaned her head to the steering wheel, cradled it against the back of her hands and cried.

  ELEVEN

  Listeners had been calling in reports of downed tree limbs, power outages and flooded backroads all morning. Rob had pages of notes and a half-full cup of cold coffee in his hand as he left the KLOM studio and headed for his office. As usual, he checked with Emma for early morning phone messages.

  She was sitting at the front desk, reading Working Woman magazine, while eating a strawberry and cream-cheese croissant with a Diet Coke.

  He took his messages and with great self-restraint avoided commenting on the irony of Emma’s reading selection.

  Among the messages was another call from Sherry LeVasseur. As always, it got top priority.

  “Brocata and Associates. Sherry LeVasseur.” She answered the call to her direct line in one ring.

  “Hey, Sherry. It’s Rob.”

  “Hi.” Her voice lacked its usual sparkle. “Did you hear about Clarence?”

  “Yeah, I talked to him yesterday when we were in the middle of those storms. He says he’s on to some big story. He told you?” Since Menard had been looking into why Tropical Treasures kept having billing problems with radio and television stations, Rob was surprised he would mention his investigation to the riverboat’s ad agency media buyer.

  Sherry was silent for a moment. Rob heard her sigh and struggle to find her voice.

  “Sherry, what’s wrong?”

  “Clarence is dead.”

  Now the silence was Rob’s. His mind raced to recall their last conversation. The sound of Clarence’s boisterous voice through the crackling phone line during the thunderstorm. “Whooo boy! Get under the desk, a big blow’s comin’!” That body-trembling laugh, seasoned with the Cajun accent. His last words to Rob: “I thought it was getting dark a little early...I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Finally, Rob managed a reply.

  “What happened?”

  “They found him at his transmitter. Apparently the storms knocked his station off the air and he was trying to get it fixed. He was electrocuted.”

  Rob pictured the KAGN transmitter shack, much like his own, in the middle of nowhere, an isolated wasteland prone to lightning strikes — surrounded by snakes and high voltage electricity.

  “What big story?” Sherry sounded confused.

  “Huh?” Rob was still imagining the horror of electrocution.

  “You said Clarence was going to break some big story.”

  Menard hadn’t told her after all.

  “Oh, you know Clarence. Always into something.” Strangely, Rob felt relief that now he wouldn’t have to become embroiled in Menard’s foray into investigative journalism. Sour guilt swept over him for feeling that relief.

  “When’s the funeral?” He tried to change the subject.

  “Saturday. I can’t go...” Sherry’s sounded shaken beyond sadness. There was something else in her voice, but Rob couldn’t determine the underlying emotion. “There’s a lot going on here.” Her voice had darkened.

  “Anything I can do?” Rob sincerely wanted to help her.

  “No. It just doesn’t make sense —”

  “What doesn’t make sense?”

  “The Red File — it just doesn’t make sense —”

  “What’s the Red File?”

  “Huh? Oh, uh — never mind.” She paused for a moment, as if to gather her thoughts. “Did you get those invoices in the mail for me?”

  “Oh yeah, you should have them by now.” Rob found it hard to talk about such mundane business matters.

  “OK, great. Look, I’ve got to go. Sorry to have to break the news about Clarence to you.” Rob still detected an edge to her voice.

  “Sherry, is there something else wrong?”

  Another pause indicated that there certainly was.

  “Things are just not right — here.”

  “Does it have anything to do with the Tropical Treasures account?” Rob asked the question, but didn’t really want to know the answer.

  Another long pause.

  “How did you know about that?” Her voice reflected genuine surprise.

  “Well, I know you’ve been chasing these duplicate invoices, and all.” He tried to downplay the matter.

  “No, there’s more to it. I can’t talk about it right now.”

  Rob decided, against his better judgment, to probe a little farther.

  “Sherry, Clarence thought the billing problems with Tropical Treasures weren’t unintentional.” He tried to put the suspicion into the most benign terms possible.

  She didn’t respond.

  “He said he was going to check with some contacts in Baton Rouge to see what was really up,” he continued. “He called me yesterday and told me that he was on to some ‘big story’ and was going to share it with me.”

  “Clarence told you all of this yesterday?”

  “Late yesterday, while the storms were hitting here. I didn’t have much time to give it any more thought.”

  “He told you all this, and then was found dead this morning?” Sherry’s voice was tightening with desperation.

  Rob felt a twinge in his gut.

  “What are you saying, Sherry?”

  “Rob, I’m scared.”

  The words pierced his heart.

  “Look, we can’t talk now,” she continued. He heard her shuffle some papers as she spoke, apparently attempting to appear busy for any onlookers.

  There was a long pause before she spoke again. Rob noticed her voice was choking with emotion.

  “I’ll call you later.”

  She hung up.

  As Sherry hung up her phone, across the crowded advertising agency common area, and behind the now closed oaken door to his office, Ashton Brocata answered his private line.

  “Ashton, it’s Max.”

  Brocata was proud to be on a first-name basis with the governor.

  “Hey, I hear you had one hell of a poker game at the mansion the other night.” Ashton and his buddies loved to share stories among themselves of the governor’s escapades. “How come I wasn’t invited?”

  “Hell, Ash. You know you have a standing invitation to the mansion. You didn’t miss much.”

  Ashton and the governor shared insidious laughs.

  “Look, Ashton. Is everything all set up with our boy?” Clayton got down to business quickly. Brocata heard noise in the background. The governor was calling from a cell phone, not the mansion. This was an important call. “Has another nice, fat consultant fee been handed out yet?”

  “Almost. We’re wrapping up the details now, and should get it to him sometime this weekend.”

  “Well, let’s not cut it too close. I want everything taken care of in plenty of time. I want the results guaranteed.”

  “Max, we’ve been through this drill before. We know what to do, and we know what’s at stake,” Ashton’s voice was confident.

  “Have you had any unusual inquiries — into, you know — agency business?” The governor’s tone was cautious.

  “What do you mean, Max, ‘agency business’?”

  “Oh, we’ve had some guy poki
ng around, asking questions about the riverboat, and all.”

  “What does he know?”

  “Hell, he doesn’t know anything, now. I had Niles and the boys take care of it.”

  Brocata understood. He was anxious to allay any concerns the governor might have.

  “Look, we’re air-tight over here. No questions — nothing. Just business as usual.” Brocata couldn’t conceal the edge to his voice.

  There was silence for a moment, and then the governor laughed.

  “All right. I knew everything was under control, but hell, there’s nothing else for me to do around here but give other folks grief!” Clayton’s voice offered reassurance.

  “Why don’t you just quit worrying, and line yourself up another poker game?” Brocata couldn’t hide his relief.

  They shared another laugh, and after promising to “get together for lunch” the phone conversation ended.

  Ashton Brocata swiveled his deep leather chair around and punched the intercom to the secretary/receptionist up front.

  “Get Bellemont on the line for me, would you?”

  The governor hung up the phone and returned to the booth where his aide, Niles Sloan, was waiting. They were in the corner of the Tiger’s Tail, a very dark, very low-profile bar on Airline Drive.

  “Let’s follow up on this, and make sure Bellemont’s in line. I don’t want any more ‘complications’.”

  Sloan nodded and rose to leave.

  “I’ll speak to him personally, so that there’s no misunderstanding.”

  Wednesday morning, after leaving the governor’s mansion, Angela Currier called her boss, the sales manager of Port Allen Living, and begged off work, complaining of a sudden and intense case of the flu. She locked the door to her apartment and threw herself into bed, crying in the darkened room, shades drawn from the daylight.

  Angela didn’t bother to call in sick again the following day. She was sick. Sick with fear and disgust. Frightened and confused by what she had overheard at the mansion.

  Finally, late Thursday afternoon, Angela couldn’t cry anymore. And she couldn’t sleep anymore. She awakened to a gentle rain tapping against the skylight window over her bedroom.

  Lying in bed — restless, thoughtful, alone — Angela tried to rationalize what she had overheard.

  Maybe it was all harmless politics. She had probably blown everything out of proportion. Clayton couldn’t have meant anything sinister.

  It was just politics, that’s all.

  Angela forced herself to get out of bed, made her way to the small kitchen, poured a glass of orange juice and slathered butter on two pieces of toast. Breakfast at 5 p.m.

  I’ve sure got my life in order.

  The toast and orange juice were filling, but she needed something for her nerves. She poured a glass of white wine and turned on the television.

  Happy Hour.

  After a while, the wine steadied her nerves. She looked at the phone.

  If I call him, maybe I’ll find out it was all nothing.

  But, how could she ask? What would she say? No. She wouldn’t bring it up. She just wanted to talk to him. Arrange a meeting. If they could meet face to face, maybe she could tell him what she had heard. There was probably a simple explanation.

  They would laugh it off. Just politics, that’s all.

  She picked up her phone, tapping in the private number he had given her during her visit to his office.

  “Clayton.” He answered the phone within two rings. His voice was hard, business like.

  “It’s me.” Her voice was soft. She felt a flutter in her stomach.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Angela.” He couldn’t have forgotten already! The flutter in her gut grew. She took another sip of wine. Her hands were shaking.

  “Oh, yes. Good to hear from you.” Angela could tell from the tone of his voice that he was not sincere, and not even trying to be.

  “You said you would call me.”

  “Yes, well, it’s been busy around here.”

  He wasn’t alone. Angela could hear the edge to his voice. His wife must be in the room.

  “I need to see you.” Her voice was weak. She practically whispered the words, afraid of being overheard.

  “Not anytime soon, I’m afraid.”

  “I need to talk to you, Max,” she pleaded.

  “No. I’m sorry. But, I’ll have my secretary get in touch with you for an appointment, young man. Maybe next month.” Clayton was definitely trying to get her off the phone, as soon as possible.

  “But, Max —”

  She heard the line disconnect. Angela threw her cell on a cushion and fell back on the couch.

  Her mind was numb. The television was still on, so she channel-surfed for a while, finally landing on a mindless sit-com re-run. Perfect.

  It was followed by another. She never laughed. Just stared.

  At six, the local news came on, but Angela was now barely awake, the wineglass, her third, once again nearly empty, gently clasped by her finger tips, her arm dangling off the sofa. Her eyes were half-closed. The strain of recent events softened by the alcohol and cushioned by the warm cocoon of her small apartment. The voices of the news anchors faded into the background as her eyes grew heavier.

  “An unusual death in Moss Point silences the voice of a popular Cajun radio broadcaster...”

  The wine glass toppled to the floor, her eyes opened instantly.

  “Clarence Menard, owner and popular on-air personality of KAGN radio was found dead last night at the transmitter of his radio station in Moss Point.”

  Cajun radio station owner. She sat up, now totally awake.

  “Menard was apparently electrocuted while attempting repairs to the station which had gone off the air following heavy thunderstorm activity...”

  ...radio stations can be very dangerous, what with all that high-voltage electricity...

  Angela Currier would miss another day’s work, hidden within the locked confines of her darkened apartment, alone and afraid.

  A day later, on late Friday afternoon, Angela awoke and again attempted to summon the courage to face reality. It would be a long weekend.

  She took a long, hot shower. It helped clear her mind. She checked the clock on her dresser, and finished dressing in time to once again watch the local evening news.

  Maybe there would be further details on the Cajun broadcaster’s death.

  There was not. The news in Baton Rouge rarely concerned itself with follow-up stories, especially on topics other than state politics. The gruesome death in Moss Point had warranted coverage on the capitol city’s television stations only because of its sensational nature. Two minutes on a broadcaster’s electrocution in a neighboring rural parish were plenty. Now, the broadcast news focused on more important issues: political corruption, the never-ending antics of the Louisiana legislature and the usual “We’re on Your Side” human-interest stories for ratings and license-renewal files.

  Angela was about to turn the television off as the news-team promoted upcoming segments on sports and weather, but her finger froze on the remote’s ‘off’ button as a political reporter appeared on-screen to billboard another story, as well.

  Governor Max Clayton was hosting a huge fundraiser at the Centroplex later in the evening. The female reporter had made an attempt at wearing tasteful formalwear, but instead looked hot and uncomfortable in an ill-fitting silver gown. She was standing at the front entrance of the huge civic hall as guests began filing inside. Perspiration beaded on her forehead as she forced a smile and attempted to ignore the evening’s thick humidity. No doubt she would make another attempt to appear relaxed and glamorous once she moved her coverage inside.

  Angela turned the set off and returned to her walk-in closet. If the governor wouldn’t talk to her on the phone, certainly he couldn’t ignore her in person.

  TWELVE

  Clarence Menard’s death dashed Sherry LeVasseur into a state of shock. It became difficul
t to concentrate on her day-to-day duties at the advertising agency, but she knew she had to work harder to display a facade of normalcy. She didn’t know what was going on, or who was to blame, but Sherry tried to become more sensitive to her surroundings, closely observing the people she worked with. And the agency’s clients, as well. Everyone was now the subject of her suspicion. Especially Ashton Brocata. Sherry knew the Red File had been on his desk — but how it all fit together with Clarence Menard’s death, she hadn’t a clue.

  As Sherry struggled to focus on the paperwork scattered on her desk, Brocata suddenly emerged from his office. She spotted him instantly heading towards her desk. Sherry’s breathing froze. She could only hope Brocata was on his way to someone else’s work area.

  He wasn’t.

  “Here’s your ticket to the fundraiser tonight,” he said, pausing in front of her desk only long enough to toss the ticket into her in-basket.

  “Fundraiser?”

  “The governor’s gala,” Brocata answered over his shoulder as he paced purposefully to the account executive’s area. “Dress up. No later than seven o’clock.”

  “Right.” Sherry had honestly forgotten Governor Clayton’s black-tie fundraiser, a tedious annual affair that Brocata insisted all agency employees attend. Everyone except for the art department, of course. A big turnout for the governor was mandatory, but no jeans and T-shirts with New Age messages were welcomed, hence the invitation bypassed most of the creative department.

  Sherry LeVasseur tossed the paperwork aside and picked up her purse.

  If she had to attend the thing, at least she’d buy a new dress to wear. And then claim the expense for reimbursement.

  Tiny drops of water dripped from Governor Max Clayton’s nose in full view of the throngs of people sauntering by. His cheeks seemed to droop slightly and were, in fact, beginning to melt away, though no one seemed to notice.

  The ice sculpture was composed of fifty-six gallons of distilled spring water transported directly from Mountain View, Arkansas, and took four painstaking hours of carving to create. It now served as a fitting — although melting — egocentric centerpiece to the champagne fountain, heading the long table of hors d'oeuvres placed squarely in the middle of the spacious banquet room of the Baton Rouge Centroplex.