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

by Hal M. Harrison

  The resemblance borne by the ice sculpture to the governor himself was actually quite stunning.

  Clayton’s actually a bit colder than that, though.

  Niles Sloan circled the ice art twice and smiled at his own amusing thought.

  He scanned the interior of the banquet room.

  Not a bad crowd.

  I wonder how many actually paid to be here?

  The governor’s aide knew that a good fundraiser not only made money, but also made an appearance of making lots of money. A proper number of invited, non-paying shills were always necessary. And free media passes, too. Anyone with the vaguest connection to media would be allowed in for gratuitously as well. The better to spread the news of Clayton’s ever-growing support and popularity.

  Sloan smoothed down the waist pockets to his suit coat, clasped his hands behind his back and continued trolling the room.

  Angela Currier spotted Sloan as he approached her position near the champagne fountain, a post she had maintained for nearly a solid hour, ever since her arrival. The champagne was cold, of an inexpensive but not altogether distasteful vintage — and free.

  It served quite adequately to soothe her raw nerves.

  As Sloan approached, she nonchalantly, if not quite gracefully, moved out of his sight, behind a small group of grazers assailing a large display of cold vegetables and dip.

  She watched him prowl the ice sculpture, smirk in a self-satisfied manner and move on.

  Confident he hadn’t spotted her, Angela Currier returned to her former position by the champagne fountain, refilling her plastic glass under another tiny stream, buoying her courage for the confrontation ahead. Her left arm folded across her chest, her hand, tightly clasping a tiny purse, was tucked under her right elbow, helping to steady her drinking arm. The drink was never more than inches from her lips. Her hips jutted to the side as she worked to steady a slight sway.

  Angela Currier squinted to focus as she surveyed the crowd.

  Where was the bastard?

  The ivory cocktail gown was an elegant crepe with satin trim, with a taunting side slit and satin French cuffs. It had been on sale, so Sherry bought earrings, too. Two-inch antiqued gold-tone grape cluster earrings with faux pearl drops.

  And t-strap shoes.

  Maybe she’d pay for the shoes, though. Maybe not.

  Regardless, she was here. Representing the agency to the best of her (expense account’s) ability.

  Now, let’s get this show on the road. These shoes are killing me.

  Sherry searched the room for Brocata.

  Let him see the outfit he’ll pay for, do a little small talk, smile a bit, and I’ll be on my way.

  After a moment she spotted Brocata, with Governor Max Clayton, all smiles — slapping each other on the back, at the opposite end of the room, eagerly making their way through the admiring crowd. It was always amazing how convivial people could be after a belly full of boiled shrimp and booze. That’s what made these fundraisers so successful — and profitable.

  Sherry pressed through the throng, slowly making her way towards the eye of the social hurricane.

  When she was within speaking distance, her presence immediately caught the always-roving eye of the governor.

  “Well, hello there!” Clayton boomed.

  Brocata turned to see who had garnered the governor’s enthusiastic greeting, and did an unconcealed double take.

  Get your money’s worth, darlin’. Sherry couldn’t remember a time when Brocata had looked at her in quite this way. His eyes lingered. The flesh on the back of her neck prickled.

  “LeVasseur!” At least he hadn’t broken protocol.

  “Ash! You know this vision?” The governor’s smile was cranked up to high intensity. “Introduce us!”

  Sherry noticed a small, older woman behind the governor, being elbowed by the crowd of well-wishers and struggling to stay within arm’s length.

  “Max, this is Sherry LeVasseur,” Brocata’s right hand swept towards her in a motion of introduction. “She’s our senior media buyer at the agency.”

  “Ahh, one of yours, eh?” Clayton’s smile melted into a lurid grin. “Ash, you old goat! No wonder you like to work late at the office.” He jabbed his elbow into Brocata’s ribs. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Sherry.”

  “Nice to meet you, Governor,” she replied. Sherry bit her lip, realizing she had just inadvertently rolled her eyes in aversion to Clayton’s overt come-on. A flush of embarrassment warmed her face.

  “You’ll have to excuse Max, LeVasseur.” Brocata sensed the perceived impropriety and was anxious to defuse the moment. “He’s always been a bit of a wolf.”

  “Huh? Oh, sure.” Clayton was momentarily confused by Brocata’s maneuver, thinking no woman was immune to his charms, but quickly followed Ashton’s lead. “Me? Hell, I’m harmless! Ashton and I grew up together, even chased the same women, most of the time.”

  Now Brocata was feeling the discomfort of Clayton’s brashness.

  The governor continued his awkward attempt to right the listing ship. “But, that was a long time ago, right Ash? Before we met our darlin’ brides.” With that, Clayton turned and grabbed the frail woman that had been trying so hard to maintain her position at his side. He had to actually step back a few paces to retrieve her from within the assembled throng. She never smiled, but rather seemed distracted, confused, irritated and perhaps in some pain — maybe from his firm grip on her stick-like arm. “Yeah. We’re just a couple of harmless old farts now.”

  Perhaps the governor had knocked back a few drinks of his own before tonight’s festivities, Sherry thought.

  Before the governor could do more harm, Brocata wrapped his arm around Clayton and firmly nudged him on through the crowd. It had become obvious that he would need to keep Clayton moving tonight to avoid disaster.

  The swarm moved away, leaving Sherry thankfully behind, looking for the nearest exit. Her duties were done.

  She turned, and nearly plowed down Mrs. Clayton, who had also been left in the governor’s backwash.

  “Oh, pardon me! Mrs. Clayton?” Sherry regretted nearly knocking the frail woman to the floor.

  “Huh? Oh, yes. Mrs. Clayton. The governor’s long forgotten wife,” she replied with her disgust unhidden. “Call me June.”

  “June, sure. Are you O.K.? I’m sorry —”

  “Oh, no problem, child. I’m used to being stepped on.” June Clayton’s voice warbled with an Old South drawl, an affectation expected from any Southern woman of “substance,” regardless of its actual authenticity. “I do need a drink, though.” Her severe makeup was creased and smudged but her old-fashioned bouffant hair remained molded perfectly in place.

  “Here, let me join you,” Sherry gently led June Clayton to the nearest portable bar. It looked as if the First Lady of Louisiana needed something a little stiffer than champagne.

  Sherry’s hunch was right.

  “Scotch, with a just a splash of soda, son,” June directed the college-aged bartender behind the small stand. She turned to Sherry as she waited. “Where are you from, dear?”

  “Well, here. Grew up right here in Baton Rouge. I work for Ashton Brocata.”

  “You don’t say.” June Clayton rolled her eyes as she heard Brocata’s name. She took a long gulp from the freshly poured drink. When she came up for air, she added: “What was your name again, dear? Shelley what?”

  “Sherry. LeVasseur.” June’s face was stiffening and showed no response. “Sherry LeVasseur,” she repeated. Perhaps the governor and his wife had shared a few drinks before tonight’s function. Sherry began leading the woman away from the bar. Otherwise, it looked as though Clayton’s wife might decide to stay parked there all night. At that moment, Sherry also became aware of a slight commotion across the room, near the governor. She glanced in his direction, but a throng of supporters obscured her view. She turned back to face June Clayton, who was taking another healthy sip of scotch.

  “LeVasseu
r,” June repeated slowly. “You know, there are some LeVasseurs back in my home town, Natchitoches. Is that where you’re from, honey?”

  Sherry could tell this would be a slow-developing conversation. She needed to find an escape. The commotion near the governor was increasing in volume. Maybe she could use it as an excuse.

  “No, ma’am. I’m from here in Baton Rouge.” Sherry repeated, then turned. “I wonder what’s going on over there?” Across the room, she could see a woman practically shouting at Max Clayton. Ashton Brocata and others nearby were backing away in apparent embarrassment. Clayton was forcing a smile, trying to calm the woman and minimize the disruption.

  “Where?” June Clayton glanced over Sherry’s shoulder, squinting to focus her eyes. “Oh. Looks like the bastard has his hands full again.” She sniffed in disgust, then took another drink from her nearly empty glass.

  “Not from Natchitoches, huh?” she asked as she licked her lips and studied the now empty glass.

  “No, ma’am. I think I have some cousins there, though.”

  “Well, I’m sure they know me,” the governor’s wife proclaimed. “Next time you see them; you ask them if they know June Ferrer. Ferrer. That’s my maiden name.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will. I’m sure they know you.” Sherry took advantage of the opening. “I had better see what’s going on over there. Maybe Ashton needs my help.”

  “Max is the one that needs help, honey,” June sniggered. “You go ahead. I’m fine. I just think I’ll help myself to another drink, though.”

  Sherry nodded, then moved to the commotion. Clayton had taken the angry young woman by the arm and was leading her to a corner for a more private discussion. As Sherry approached, she could hear their words.

  “I don’t give a damn about your little fundraiser!” It was now obvious that the young woman had also been over-served at the bar.

  “Now listen, Angela…” The governor was still coaxing, though his tone was becoming more insistent.

  “Don’t patronize me! You know all about that man in Moss Point. You’re responsible! I know it!”

  With that Clayton became visibly shaken. His face contorted with scarcely suppressed rage.

  “You shut up, now. I mean it!” His voice was deep and sinister, but hushed. His eyes darted to see who might hear their conversation. Clayton had moved the woman into a far corner, and now only Sherry was within earshot. When the governor saw her approaching, he glared an unspoken warning to stay away. Sherry froze in front of two metal double doors leading to a side exit.

  “What will you do? Have me killed, too?” The woman Clayton had called Angela spewed the words through swelling tears, then yanked her arm from his grasp and slapped the governor’s startled face, turned, and ran through the doors beside Sherry.

  Clayton rubbed his crimson cheek, then shot another icy glance toward Sherry. After a moment, he turned and walked toward his now subdued admirers.

  “Well, I guess I won’t be counting on her vote!”

  The crowd laughed. This was the governor they knew and loved. Unflappable. Smiling, and with a rascal’s wink, delivering a nudge in the ribs to Ashton. A cad to be admired.

  Obviously they hadn’t heard as much of the conversation as Sherry.

  She bolted through the doors, chasing after Angela.

  “Wait! Miss, wait!”

  Angela slumped against the concrete wall of the service corridor, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Are you O.K.?” Sherry asked as she trotted up to Angela’s side.

  “Sure. I’m great.” Her sarcastic words were muffled and slurred. Sherry’s initial impression of the young woman’s inebriation was confirmed.

  “What was all of that about? What were you saying to Clayton?”

  Angela looked directly at Sherry for the first time. Her frightened, dazed eyes searched Sherry’s face, trying frantically to decide if this stranger deserved to be trusted. For a moment, she didn’t speak.

  “You don’t want to know.” Angela Currier’s words were choked through tears.

  Niles Sloan had been attempting to pick some of the deepest pockets in the room. It was a fundraiser, after all. When the commotion began, he had nonchalantly worked himself back across the room.

  I try to shake loose some serious money from these tireless boors, and he makes a scene with some drunken slut.

  Niles recognized the woman from his early morning meeting with the governor. He saw her run for the exit, with Sherry LeVasseur not far behind. He allowed Clayton enough time to stage a recovery from the embarrassment, then subtly pulled him aside.

  “What the hell was she doing here?” Sloan hissed through a forced smile.

  “Relax, Sloan. Everything’s under control.” The governor’s eyes darted across the sea of faces, confident that his flippant attitude had allayed any concerns in the crowd. “Look around. Nobody’s giving it another thought.”

  “That was that Currier woman from the newspaper, wasn’t it? The woman at the mansion the other morning?”

  “Yeah. Angela Currier,” the governor nodded. “But she’s not with a real newspaper. She’s with Port Allen Living, for Christ’s sake.”

  “And who was the woman chasing after her?”

  “What woman?” Clayton’s eyes cut down to Sloan’s level.

  Niles Sloan rolled his eyes and sighed.

  “Come on. Let’s make sure everything’s under control,” Sloan said as he nodded toward the double doors of the exit.

  They smiled and nodded as they casually made their way to the exit. They opened the double doors and found Angela Currier and Sherry LeVasseur huddled not far down the corridor.

  The two women had been engaged in a quietly intense conversation, but looked up the instant Clayton and Sloan entered the corridor.

  Angela’s eyes were red with tears and her face tightened even more upon seeing the two men at the end of the hall. After a moment, she shot a helpless glance at Sherry, then pushed away and ran farther down the hall toward the exit to the parking lot.

  Sherry saw Angela Currier bolt through an exit that led outside, run across the lot and disappear into a maze of vehicles. Clayton and Sloan were still standing down the hall, silently surveying the scene.

  Sherry turned on her heel, and without a word, walked past the two men and back through the double doors to the reception hall beyond. She needed a drink before she left.

  “Good evening, Governor,” Sherry said as she passed.

  “Who was that?” Sloan asked.

  “One of Brocata’s girls. LeVasseur, I think.”

  “We’ll have to keep an eye on her.”

  “She doesn’t know anything.”Governor Max Clayton opened his coat pocket, retrieving a large cigar from the inside breast pocket. “The Currier woman may be another story, though.”

  Clayton unwrapped the cigar, took a large wooden match from his side coat pocket, striking it on the unfinished concrete wall of the service corridor. He rolled the cigar inside his lips, took a long puff, then turned to Sloan.

  “Looks like you have another ‘complication’ to attend to.”

  THIRTEEN

  It had been much too pretty a Saturday for a funeral. The storms that had rolled through the state Wednesday had preceded the first cold front of the season. Thursday had been cloudy, but cooler, and Friday saw brilliant, clear blue skies, low humidity and even cooler temperatures. Saturday morning had been just as spectacular. Rob Baldwin often thought that Louisiana had too few days like this.

  Everything — the leaves on the trees, the grass, the sky — looked radiant, with rich, sparkling colors that nearly stunned the senses. Rob could hear what seemed to be an inordinate amount of noise from birds and crickets, as if they were awakening now in full voice after being dormant during the sweltering summer.

  Funerals should only be held during overcast, gray days, Rob thought. Not days when the world seemed so alive and so beautiful.

  Clarence Menard had as many friends a
s he had family and Menard’s family tree was deeply rooted and well branched. The funeral had been the event of the year in the little Cajun town of Moss Point. The traffic jam presented a challenge of huge proportions for the tiny police department. Every available officer, paid and volunteer, was on duty — directing traffic through the town’s only intersection, and then escorting the funeral procession from Moss Point First Baptist Church to the cemetery on the outskirts of town. Two cars in the procession had broken down on the side of the road, slowing the proceedings even more. Helpful neighbors and relatives stopped to add water to the bone-dry radiators that scalded unsuspecting bare hands before spitting steam and carcinogens.

  Rob drove alone from the cemetery after the services, having paid his respects to the people he knew, nodding with an understanding half-smile to grieving strangers. Highway One would lead him back to Marksville, where he would get on I-49 for the two-hour drive home to Magnolia.

  For the first time since driving down before dawn this morning, Rob turned on the radio. He scanned the dial to KAGN’s frequency, but found only the white-noise static of the empty airwaves. No one was left in town to run the station. Everyone’s been at the funeral, Rob thought. Clarence wouldn’t have liked that.

  Rob wondered what would happen to the station without Clarence’s nurturing. It was hard to find people that cared for small market radio stations these days. Most college graduates were looking for more glamorous careers in television or online, and were not enamored in the least at the thought of running a radio station. KAGN would probably end up being another forgotten frequency, left behind to rot in the technological backwaters. Another casualty in the battle for the consumer’s attention fought by the internet, smartphone apps and streaming video.

  For most of the day, Rob had been strangely upbeat. Maybe it had been the gorgeous weather, or his forced detachment from the circumstances that surrounded him. But now, depression was starting to set in. The loss of Menard. The tenuous state of his industry. The sound of fear in Sherry’s voice. It was all compounding his sense of helplessness.