by Travis Casey
Oscar sipped his brandy before answering. "That was Governor Davenport's idea. He wants us to go in as the favorites."
"Why?" He shifted in his seat, puffing on his cigar. "I mean, if a man is going to place a bet, and if he reckons you and Stella are gonna win, he'd want long odds, not the favorite."
"It's Stacey."
He waved his hand around angrily, focusing on Oscar. "What gives, boy?"
Oscar knew his dad was the best bullshit artist around, but even he didn't try to snow Roscoe. "Look, Granddad, it's complicated. It's best if you don't know anything or get involved."
Roscoe pushed himself into the back of the chair. "Fine. Favorites, huh?" Roscoe got lost behind a cloud of smoke. "I'm gonna make a phone call first thing in the morning and put ten grand on you and Sophie. To win. Then, with the winnings, maybe I'll take your grandma on that Caribbean cruise she's been yearning for."
"Oh, Granddad," Oscar groaned. "Don't do that."
He shook his head. "Nope. My mind's made up. Golf is a game of such uncertainty, it's best to back the favorite. At least you'll know you got some support in your corner. And if it's good enough for the governor, it's good enough for Roscoe Novak."
The dumplings somersaulted in Oscar's stomach. He changed the subject, talking about the progress of the horses they had in the stables instead. While Oscar carried on with excitement about their colt, Dreams Come True, Roscoe slipped another drink in his glass.
"No, Granddad, really, I can't."
"Don't be such a sissy."
"Sissy or not," Oscar said as he stood up, "I have to go. Thanks for supper and—"
Roscoe shooed him with the back of his hand. "Yadda, yadda … Go on then. Leave me to drink on my own."
Oscar flashed his movie star smile. "I need to get my rest to make you a bucket load of money tomorrow, right?"
Roscoe grinned. "That's right, boy. Remember what they said in the movie, 'Be the ball.' " He raised his glass in a cheer. "Good luck to you and Stephanie. There's a steak dinner in it for you if you bring home the gold medal."
He left Roscoe and said goodbye to his grandmother.
He left at about nine-thirty, leaving himself enough time to get a good night's sleep before the tournament, but he knew he wouldn't sleep well—if at all.
***
He sped along in his truck, thinking about what was in store for him the following day. Win or lose, somebody was going to be happy, and somebody was going to be seriously pissed off. And if the governor thought Oscar could control the outcome of a golf tournament with Racy Stacey, Miss Thirty-Six-Handicap-Shit-Golfer, by his side, he was living in cloud-cuckoo-land.
He was nearly back to the condo when an animal of some kind darted in front of him. Something small and hairy. A Shih Tzu perhaps. He jerked the wheel hard right, and the truck careened into the curb, but he managed to save the animal's life.
After offering a quick prayer that it didn't scuff the rims of the truck, he straightened out and got back on the road. He breathed a sigh of relief, then looked in the rearview mirror and saw flashing blue lights.
Oscar pulled over and waited, watching in the side mirror.
A policeman got out of his car and slipped on a Smokey Bear hat. He walked with a swagger toward the truck. His hand hovered over his holstered pistol. He stood next to the truck and shined a flashlight in Oscar's eyes. "Can I see your license and registration?"
Oscar offered a preemptive explanation. "It was a dog, Officer. Didn't you see it?"
"Nope. Didn't see no dog. Just saw you weaving all over the road. License and registration. I ain't askin' again."
Oscar always kept a hundred-dollar bill stuck to the back of his license for when he would get pulled over for speeding. He handed over the license and the discreetly concealed money to the officer.
The cop turned the license over and studied the cash.
Oscar's heart raced. This was the point when cops usually peeled off the cash, handed back the license, and said Have a nice evening.
The cop backed away a couple of feet. "Step out of the vehicle."
Oscar's head slumped before he followed the instruction. He climbed out of the truck and stood toe-to-toe with the cop.
"Have you been drinking tonight?"
"No, sir."
The cop cast his head back and exaggerated some sniffs. "You sure about that?"
Oscar drew a deep breath. "Okay, I had a little one. With my granddad, Roscoe Novak. You might know him."
The cop stared at him, unimpressed with Oscar's name-dropping—or the bribe. "Hold both arms straight out to your sides, fully extended, and I want you to stand on one leg for ten seconds."
Oscar held his arms out. As he raised one leg, he had a distinct wobble.
"You look a bit unsteady there, cowboy."
Oscar dropped his arms and leg and focused on the cop. "I could still rope a horse. Look, Officer, I have an important day tomorrow. I'm playing golf with the governor's daughter."
The cop raised his eyebrows. "Did you say the governor's daughter? Stacey Davenport?"
"Yes, that would be her. My good friend Stacey Dav—"
The officer's eyes drew tight. "I don't think you'll be playing golf with Miss Davenport tomorrow."
"Officer, I'm serious. You can't do this."
The cop took a step forward, the brim of his hat touching Oscar's eyebrows. "Did you just say, 'I can't do this'?"
"No, what I meant was—"
"Mr. Novak-Chambers," the policeman barked. "I'm arresting you on suspicion of driving while under the influence of alcohol."
"No, seriously, you don't understand," Oscar protested.
"I'm afraid you don't understand, Mr. Escalade." He thrust his finger into Oscar's chest. "Drunk driving is an offense in this state. A serious offense. However, it's your lucky night, because I'm a little more lenient with bribery." The cop held the hundred-dollar bill up, then slipped it into his pocket. "Because I'm in a good mood, we'll forget about that one. But driving under the influence? I have a duty to take you off the streets."
"Officer, can't we work something out?" Oscar pleaded.
"Yep."
The cop grabbed Oscar by the shoulders, turned him around, and searched him, then pulled out a pair of handcuffs and slapped the cold steel around his wrists. "Work this out. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you …"
Chapter 9
Oscar's knees rubbed against the metal plate protecting the policeman from the incarcerated person—him. He peered through the metal grate above the seat, watching as they weaved to the Louisville Metro Corrections Facility.
It didn't take long to get to the jail, where the cop breathalyzed him. The machine read 0.06—0.02 under the limit. Oscar was about to punch the air in victory.
The cop shook the device. "Humph," he grunted. "Dang thing must be busted. It doesn't matter. You failed the roadside test and I'm going with my gut on this one, and my gut says you're drunk."
"Come on, Officer, you can't be serious. There was a damn dog in the road. I'm not drunk." He shook his finger at the machine. "That thing just confirmed it."
The officer stepped closer, breathing cinnamon-saturated breath on him. "I said … the dang machine is busted—and so are you. And guess what, cowboy? I got the final say."
The arresting officer took Oscar to be photographed and fingerprinted, then led to the holding cell.
They walked toward the iron bars of the cell at the end of the corridor, passing through a hallway lined with solid steel doors with slots for viewing prisoners and passing food trays through. He didn't want to end up behind one of those doors. They were reserved for the longer-term guests of the county.
Oscar and the cop stood in front of the steel cage door. The policeman shouted to a colleague sitting in a glass booth a few feet down the hall. "Open it up, George. I got us another resident for the night."
Oscar jerked his arm out of the cop's grasp. "
For the night? Hey, I haven't had my phone call yet."
"You will when I get to it."
Heavy clicking disengaged the locks and the barred door slid open. The cop nudged Oscar in, locking him on the "bad guy" side.
The air reeked of stale urine, which Oscar figured out came from his straggly cellmate crashed out on the bench.
Oscar paced the cell to still his anxiety. He recalled how the governor insisted he have a drink with him during their first meeting despite Oscar telling him he was driving. That implied that the governor would help with problems and situations of this nature. Having a whiskey with the governor or a few brandies with one of the governor's biggest donors might be viewed as pretty much the same thing. He hoped. Davenport could be his ticket out of the hellhole, assuming he was willing to forgive him for sketchy racing tips. The next question was: Did he want to get out? Once released, he'd have to haul ass to Cincinnati to lose a golf tournament by a preset margin—a nearly impossible task.
Another cop came to check on Oscar and his imprisoned companion.
"Excuse me, Officer," Oscar called out. "I should be allowed one phone call, but I haven't had it yet."
The cop pushed his cowboy hat back, showing off his high forehead. "Well, you ain't gonna be very popular if you go callin' folks at two in the morning. I reckon we should just keep your pickled ass in here till Monday morning to give you plenty of time to sober up. In the meantime, why don't you just git some shut-eye and quit your bellyachin'."
Oscar slipped his hands through the bars, presenting a prayer clasp while reading the officer's name tag. "Please, Officer Griffin, I wasn't over the limit, but never mind that. I have to get out of here. I have a very important day ahead."
"Reckon you should have thought about that before you went gettin' all shitfaced."
Oscar's prayer grasp tightened into fists of rage. "I know my rights, and I want my phone call. Now."
"Well, la-di-da." The cop turned and shouted toward the room where other officers sat talking about the arrests they made that night. "Hey, Emmitt, did you know you busted a law graduate? The boy here knows his rights and wants a phone call. Too bad he's too stupid to know it's against the law to operate a motor vehicle after downin' a snout full of booze."
Laughter echoed from down the hallway.
The cop turned back and faced Oscar. "Okay, big shot. I'm gonna give you your phone call, but if you don't get an answer, too bad. You ain't gettin' a second one. Now, you sure you don't want to leave it till the morning when folks will most likely be up and willing to talk to your dumb ass?"
"No, sir. I want to make it now." It grated on Oscar to call him sir, but he figured a bit of fake respect wouldn't hurt.
Griffin shrugged. "Suit yourself." He called to the man in the glass booth to open the door.
The door made melodic clicks, then slid open for Oscar to step to the free side. The cop led him into the room where the other cops sat with their coffee. Oscar stood next to a desk, staring at the phone.
"Who you gonna call?" Griffin asked.
Oscar looked at Griffin. "The governor," he stated with authority.
Griffin whistled. "The governor." He held an open hand toward the phone. "Go right ahead, boy. This oughta be interesting. You don't mind if we listen in, do you? I've never spoken to the governor myself, not directly, so I'd like to see how it's done." He pushed the phone closer to him.
Oscar shifted his stance. "Umm, I don't suppose you have his number, do you?"
The cops broke into a chorus of laughter.
Griffin smirked. "You mean to tell me you wanna call the governor in the middle of the night, but don't even have his phone number?" He shook his head. "It sounds to me like you might not know the man too well. I mean, if you're willing to call the most important man in Kentucky at two in the morning, I thought fer sure you'd have his number memorized."
All the cops laughed again.
"He's on speed dial on my phone that you confiscated, so no, I don't have it memorized."
"Well, in that case." Griffin pointed to the cop eating a jam donut—the same one who busted Oscar. "Emmitt. Would you mind going down to lock up and gettin' Mr. Big Shot's phone so he can speed dial the governor?"
Emmitt sucked some jam off his fingers. "Sure thing, Sarge."
Oscar's chest tightened. "On second thought, Officer Griffin, maybe I'll call my grandfather instead. He doesn't sleep well, so he may be up."
Griffin crossed his arms. "Now why don't that surprise me?"
He picked up the phone and called his grandfather.
As the phone rang without answer, Oscar's hopes dwindled. It was finally answered on the twelfth ring.
"Somebody better be dead," the gruff voice growled.
"Granddad, it's me, Oscar. We shouldn't have gone to the parlor—" When he noticed all the cops staring at him, he halted his confession. "—I shouldn't have had that cough syrup you gave me. It showed up as if I'd been drinking. I'm in jail and need to get out for the golf tournament in the morning." He looked around and made eye contact with all the policemen in the room, then raised his voice. "You know, the one I'm playing in with the governor's daughter." He spoke louder. "Stacey Davenport. The governor's daughter."
"Don't shout, boy. I'm not deaf," Roscoe snapped. "How much is bail?"
"They want to keep me here till Monday morning. I think you may need to call Governor Davenport for me."
The cops looked on with interest.
There was a lot of grumbling and dagnabbits on the other end before Roscoe spoke again. "Right, well, it would be rude to call him before five. It's about an hour and a half to Cincinnati. Will that be enough time?"
"Yeah, Granddad. Thanks." He hung up and grinned at the policemen in the room. "Right, gentlemen, the governor should be calling shortly after five." He stretched and feigned a yawn. "Wake me up when he calls."
After Griffin escorted him back to the cell, he laid on the bench waiting to be summoned for his release. He hoped.
***
Oscar signed the release forms at seventeen minutes past six and walked out of jail a free man. He sucked in the fresh air as he headed toward the waiting limo provided by the governor. The chauffeur stood by the back door and opened it as he approached. He didn't look back, but hoped the cops were watching.
He stepped into the spacious comfort of the plush limousine. Stacey sat in the back looking agitated but presented a cute sight in a short pleated white skirt and a turquoise Izod top. She held a matching visor in her hand.
"So," she greeted him in a harsh tone, "my golfing partner goes out and gets trashed the night before a big tournament and has to use my father's political powers to get his sorry butt out of the slammer to make it to the golf course on time. You know, Oscar, this isn't a very good start to our relationship." She wore a scowl a diva would've been proud of.
He could have gone the aggressive route—swearing the cops set him up and devised bogus meter readings, and swearing blind to sue the crap out of them—but his analytical mind persuaded him it may not be wise to threaten to sue the government when you're with the government's daughter. Instead, he went for the sheepish, remorseful approach. "I know, and I'm sorry. I wasn't really drunk, but that's beside the point. I owe your father a debt of gratitude."
"Forget him, it's me you owe."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know the officer who arrested you?"
Oscar nodded.
"That was Emmitt. He's got a thing for me. Our paths crossed a few times, and he's made it clear that if I ever give him the nod, then he'd, well, like, have dinner with me—and whatever else." She blew her breath up, fluttering her bangs. "When Dad called the police station, it was Emmitt who had to drop the charges, but he was being an ass and wouldn't back down with Daddy. So I spoke to him. He said you kept bragging about how you were playing golf with me today."
"I wouldn't call it brag—"
She jabbed Oscar in the chest. "And I had to promi
se him a date to get your baboon butt out of jail. God!" In a fluid sweep, she tucked her hair behind her ears.
"I'm sorry—"
"I feel like such a whore. Prostituting myself in the hopes that you can play a decent game of golf. I'm not a morning person, Oscar, so I don't appreciate getting woken up to speak to a hormonal cop and having to come to the rescue of some drunken delinquent I don't even know." She pointed her long, dainty finger in his face. "You better hope we win this thing or you're going to be sorry I ever got you out of jail." Her eyes, as pretty as they were, held a demonic glare beneath their emerald irises.
Guilt pricked his conscience, even though he was technically innocent. Her anger was misdirected, but he needed to keep her upbeat to play the kind of golf they needed to stay in contention. He cast his gaze at the black carpet of the limo floor.
"I apologize unreservedly. I can see I put you in an awkward position, and I'm sorry. I regret my actions and I'll do my best today." He nearly choked. Being insincere to women wasn't new to him, but his reasons for falseness were usually motived by lust.
She patted his knee. "Thank you, Oscar. That's very big of you to admit your mistakes and shortcomings to try and make amends. I accept your apology and hope we can put this behind us. Now let's go kick some butt." She smiled.
He hoped he wouldn't have to apologize to her too often.
They stopped at Oscar's condo so he could shower, change, and grab his golf gear. He returned a little while later and hopped in the backseat. Stacey was focused on her cell phone. While the driver stowed the clubs, Oscar settled into the seat, sinking into it like a living room couch. He took a deep breath, enjoying the pleasant aroma of the car's leather mixed with Stacey's perfume. Much better than inhaling the piss scent of the jail cell.
A few seconds later, the trunk closed with a quiet thump, and the driver slid into the front seat. "All set, Miss Davenport?"
"Yes, Preston. Cincinnati if you please."
