by Travis Casey
She released her bear hug.
"I know I made the winning putt today, but you were great out there, Oscar. Daddy hasn't said too much. I think he's still in shock."
"I bet he is," Oscar mumbled.
Stacey put her hands behind her back and looked at the blue carpet, twisting to and fro at the waist "Maybe you and I could go out sometime. You know, to celebrate. I've never won anything as prestigious as a golf tournament before. We could borrow Daddy's limo so we could have a driver and not have to worry about drinking and driving—not that that seems to worry you much anyway."
Oscar lowered his head, noticing her big toe peeking out from under her flared pants with precision painted pink nail polish. Cute. "What about Emmitt the Cop?"
"I'll deal with Emmitt the Cop. Do we have a date?"
Before he said yes, he had an angry father to deal with. Although a champion, he couldn't help but wonder if "The Man" could revoke his clemency and send him back to jail.
Given the current predicament, it would be great to have her on his side. She could be annoying. He had seen that trait from day one. But in those moments of victory, he found her enthusiasm to be exhilarating. Maybe she was bipolar or something. If he was going to date her, it should be out of attraction, not desperation. But he was in deep shit. He looked at her big toe, weighing up his options. He had always respected his grandfather's wisdom. The case for working on Stacey's approval was strengthening.
A firm hand landed on Oscar's shoulder. "Reliving your moments of glory in today's match, are you?" Governor Davenport stood next to him.
Oscar had to salvage what he could—and quick. "Can I speak with you a moment, sir?" he whispered.
Davenport cast Stacey a glance. "Would you excuse us, sweetheart?" He turned from his daughter as his grip on Oscar's shoulder tightened.
Once they found a quiet spot, they stopped and faced each other.
Oscar pretended to adjust the knot on his tie, but he was trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "Governor, I had a wonderful day with Stacey today. I'd like to ask your permission to date her."
A politician has a smile for all occasions. In this case, it looked to be intuitive. "Look, Chambers, don't think you're going to get around me by dating my daughter. I barely know you, but you've already cost me a bucket load of cash. Twice."
"Yes, both flukes, I can assure you, but let's not forget the bucket loads of cash my father and grandfather have donated to your cause."
"You mean before I met you? The Novak-Chambers family may be putting money into my campaigns, but you are taking it out of my pocket." People milled close to them, the voices infringing on their private conversation. Davenport nudged Oscar away from the crowd.
The governor looked around, confirming they were out of earshot of others. "I have some friends you don't want to meet, Oscar. You cross me one more time, and I may just arrange that meeting. Do you understand me?"
Oscar wiped a trace of sweat from his upper lip. "Yes, I do. But you have to admit, that was a lucky putt she made. She'd never do that again in a million years. It's not like I intentionally screwed you over."
Davenport's look of fury receded, replaced by one of fatherly pride. "I did tell you she was a damn-fine golfer, didn't I?"
Oscar gave a single nod of agreement. "Yes, sir, you did. To be honest with you, Governor, Stacey wanted to win the tournament, bad, and I got caught up in her excitement." He offered an apologetic shrug. "Sorry. It was your anger or hers."
The governor chuckled. "Well, I do like seeing my little girl happy, and she is that. But I'm not sure about your motives or where your loyalties lie."
"Just so you don't think I'm using her, she asked me if I'd go on a celebration date with her. I'm asking you out of respect, but it was her idea."
"And what do you want out of it?"
"Sir?"
"Oh, come on, Oscar, I'm not dense. Governor's daughter. Crime-fighting lawyer. A damn-good-looking woman. She has a lot to offer."
"Golf. You forgot she's a brilliant golfer. I'd like to play some more golf with her. That's my interest."
Davenport smirked. "Fine." He stepped in front of Oscar, squaring off like a boxer before a title fight. "Okay, Oscar, you have my permission—for now. But if you hurt her, you'll have me to answer to. And I'm heavy-handed in matters that concern Stacey. Much more so than with bullshit racing tips and golf tournaments. Are we understood?"
Oscar nodded. "Perfectly."
***
Oscar sat on the leather couch Sunday morning sipping coffee and admiring the golfing trophy on the mantelpiece. They each received one, and he wondered where she put hers. His took pride of place in the middle amongst horse-racing trophies.
Oscar got up to pour himself another cup of coffee when he noticed a small envelope had been slid under the door. He picked it up and opened it.
Congratulations on your win. I'm assuming the grand prize wasn't $120,000 so I'll be expecting a few acres of real estate very soon. Give my regards to the governor's daughter. Nicely played–to both of you.
Louie
A smiley face? What kind of gangster puts a smiley face on an I'm going to chop your legs off note?
Besides the trophy, as the professional, Oscar won three grand, but money wasn't the issue with Louie.
The phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Oh, hi. Oscar? It's me, Stacey. Stacey Davenport."
He grinned at the déjà vu of her timing. "Cincinnati Golf Champion Stacey Davenport? How's is the Wizard of the Greens?"
A giggle traveled through the line. "Fine, thank you. You know that hamper of food I won in the tournament?"
As the amateur, she was only allowed a prize, not cash.
Oscar nodded to himself. "Yes, it looked delicious."
"Yes, it does. I've been looking at what's in it, and there's some very nice things. The foie gras looks delightful, but some of the best items are close to their 'best before' date. Maybe that's why they were giving it as a prize. I hate to see food go to waste, and if it doesn't get eaten soon, it'll rot. And since we worked so hard to win, I should probably share it with you, since you kind of helped me—except for that last putt, of course. You weren't much help on that, and it was pretty much down to me, but I don't hold that against you. Anyway, I promised you a date."
An uncomfortable silence hung on the line. She sounded nervous, but Stacey didn't seem like a woman who would let her guard down easily. He didn't feel so threatened by this mood, and less likely to get a golf club upside his head—or up his ass.
He seized the moment. "That would be great. I have some land down near Cub Run where I'm building a polo ground. I need to go there on Saturday. Maybe you could come with me and we could stop somewhere and have a picnic. How would that suit you?"
"I'd like that."
"Great. How about I pick you up about eight o'clock Saturday morning?"
"Do we need Daddy's limo?"
"No, we'll take my truck."
There was a lengthy pause. He wondered what she was waiting for. He didn't expect her to yell Yes! at the top of her voice at his acceptance, but a semi-enthusiastic I look forward to it would have been nice.
"I hope this doesn't sound bitchy, but is that truck you drive clean?"
"How's that?"
"I mean, if it's a farm truck, I want to dress appropriately."
A wave of regret bolted through him. All this for some canned duck that was about to go bad. It was his turn to feel bitchy. "I can assure you there's no cow shit in it. It's a Cadillac. Is that acceptable?"
"Sure."
"Don't worry, Stacey. You can wear your Donna Karan's and Jimmy Choo's and you won't have to have them dry cleaned or sent to the Salvation Army when we get back."
"Don't get catty, Oscar, I'm just asking. It's a picnic, not a fashion show."
He remembered it would be in his best interest not to get sharp with her. "You're right. It's a clean truck, and I don't live on a farm
. Anyway … can I bring anything?"
"A blanket would be a good idea. Oh, and your charm."
Was she being sarcastic? He didn't know, but he'd best get used to biting his tongue around Stacey. That much he did know.
"Great. See you Saturday with a blanket and charm."
Chapter 13
Oscar pulled up in front of the governor's mansion on Saturday morning in his silver Escalade, ready and excited for their road trip to Cub Run. He'd wine and dine Racy Stacey, and she'd forget about ole Jett Boy and Emmitt the Cop. Not that that was his main motivation, just a bonus. In turn, the Governor would reward him for keeping his precious daughter happy. Or so he hoped.
He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. Hair? He patted the top of his head, suppressing a rogue hair sticking up. Check. Teeth? He pulled the visor down and gave himself a quick dental exam in the vanity mirror. No grit. Check. Mint? He popped one in his mouth. Check. A quick look around the inside of the truck. No cow shit. Check. He was satisfied things were polished and pristine. Him and the truck. He didn't want to give her cause to gripe.
Right on time, Stacey stepped out from between the stone pillars of the mansion. She looked stylish, wearing skinny jeans with black high-heel ankle boots and a black and silver blouse tied at midriff, leaving her pierced navel exposed.
Conrad trailed after her, balancing a food hamper in one hand and a picnic basket in the other.
Oscar stepped forward, extending his arms toward Conrad. "Let me help you with that." He took the food hamper from the butler and turned to put it in the bed of the truck.
Stacey peered in the back.
"Is it okay for Madame?" Oscar asked.
"Oui." She smiled and moved in, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
Conrad placed the basket in the back of the truck. "Will there be anything else, Miss Davenport?"
She looked at Oscar. "Did you bring a blanket?"
"Yep, and bags of charm."
"Good. That will be all, Conrad."
He dipped his head and left.
Oscar opened the passenger door and admired the view as she climbed in. He hopped in the driver's side, slid on his Ray Bans, and they headed to Cub Run.
A few miles into the journey, Stacey traced her finger over the top of the dashboard.
"Wow, not a speck. Do you always keep it like this, or is all this shine for my benefit?"
"Yes, you can eat off that," Oscar quipped, "but it might taste like Armor All. It's been cleaned just for you, your ladyship."
She gave an approving smile. "I'm impressed."
"Somehow you don't strike me as a person who impresses easily."
"No, I don't."
She pulled out her iPhone when it pinged and scrolled through the pages with her serious face on. After a subtle sigh, she put the phone back in the side pocket of her oversized bag.
"Everything okay?" Oscar asked.
"We'll see." She rummaged around in her purse and pulled out her sunglasses, slipping them over her eyes.
Oscar stole glances of her profile as they motored down the road. By her antics on the golf course, he reckoned she might be unhinged, but she certainly had been blessed with good looks. And by her chosen profession, she had brains to boot. "So, before you came here, you worked in the DA's office in LA?"
"Yep."
"Why did you want to become a prosecutor?"
"I passed the bar in Kentucky and went to work for Dean and Dean, the defense attorneys. They were big time, and all about getting the client acquitted—no matter what. They gave me a case, and the guy was guilty as sin—and I knew it. Oh, I got him off, and they gave me a bonus. But it made me feel sick. I knew then that I wanted to send bad people to jail, not give them a license to commit more crimes. So I decided to switch sides."
"Why LA?"
"I didn't want to stay in Kentucky and have to face the Deans from the other side of the courtroom." She held her arms in front of her and looked at the top of her forearms. "So I decided when I wasn't locking up bad guys, I'd work on my tan."
Oscar smiled. "But now you're a consultant?"
"Yes."
"How does that work?"
"I'm still licensed by the state of Kentucky to practice law, and I still get to lock up bad guys. And I don't have to carry the title as the 'Anti-Dean.' Now can we change the subject?"
Stacey peered out the window at the passing scenery.
"Do you get to wear a cape or anything?" His smile failed to break her solemnness.
"Can we talk about something else or not?"
"Sure. How about those Cubs?"
She turned toward him, raising her Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses to make unshielded eye contact. "I'm a Dodger's fan." She lowered her glasses.
Oscar shrugged. "Or not."
***
Clouds of dust rolled up the sides of the Cadillac as they drove down the dirt road to the polo ground. He parked in front of an idle JCB digger.
Oscar scanned the site, pleased with the progress that had been made since his last visit. He fixated on the southwest corner of the park. That was the land Louie Gomez wanted for his archaeological dig—or whatever the hell he wanted it for. Burying dead bodies, more like. Whatever he wanted it for, it was up to Oscar to come up with a viable reason why he needed to expand onto state-owned property.
"Wow. It's bigger than I thought," Stacey commented. "I thought polo grounds were usually just a field surrounded by tents with people eating strawberries, drinking champagne, and talking posh. This is more like an actual stadium."
"I'm breaking with tradition and going big. This will be the place to play polo. I hope to hold the National Championships here one day. I can't do that on a cow field with a bring-your-own-folding-chair policy."
He showed Stacey around the land and the nearly completed arena while explaining his plans. They eventually wound up in the corner that Louie Gomez wanted.
Oscar swept his arm over the landscape. "You know what? I hope to extend my property line to include this section of land one day."
Stacey's phone dinged. She pulled her iPhone from her pocket. "What for?" she asked absently as she studied her phone.
"I'm not sure yet. Maybe to expand the seating capacity, or for a larger training facility. This place just feels like it needs to be bigger."
"Damn," Stacey mumbled, slipping the phone back in her purse.
"Okay." Oscar faced her straight on. "It's not good when my date looks at her phone and says 'Damn.' What gives?"
"That was my boss, Rob Brown. They arrested some kid on drug charges. He's sixteen and already one of Louisville's biggest dealers. Rob wants to try him as an adult and get him off the streets for a long, long time. We go to court on Monday, and he wants me to find out what precedents there are for trying minors for capital drug offenses." She swept her hand along the side of her head, pushing her hair behind her ear. "I've seen this time and time again. I could write this kid's bio, sight unseen: broken home, poor education, nothing to do but hang out on the streets, building his reputation and gaining street cred. Breaks my heart to put kids in jail who never had a chance to begin with. Anyway, enough about that. You were saying something about expansion. What was it for again?"
"Oh, yeah …" Stacey's message inspired a new strategy. He stared out at the pine trees in the distance while formulating his pitch. "Funny you should mention that. My vision for expansion was to help the troubled youth of the state. You know, build an additional training ground for youngsters. Something to give them an interest off the streets. I want to give them training in something other than being a gangster."
She scrunched her nose up. "Really?"
"Don't sound so surprised."
She slid her sunglasses to the top of her head. "I just never had you down as a compassionate or caring person. You surprise me."
A spasm of guilt pierced his conscience, but the pain of lying would heal a lot quicker than broken bones.
She stepped closer to hi
s side. "How much land would you need?"
"I don't know, a few acres. Not a lot in the big scheme of things."
Stacey surveyed the horizon while sucking in the fresh country air. The greenery in the distance should have aroused her outdoorsiness—if she had any. "You better check it out. I think this might be pretty close to the state park. You don't want to step over the boundary line."
"Is it? Gosh, I hadn't thought of that. I've already had investors put some money up. They thought it was a great idea."
She faced him and put her hand on his chest. "It is a great idea, and I hope it works out. If there's anything I can do, let me know."
"I may hold you to that."
Their lips inched closer.
The moment was broken by a car skidding to a halt, with gravel crunching and a cloud of dust blowing their way.
Johnny No-Thumbs killed the engine and climbed out of his black 1964 Lincoln Continental—the kind with suicide doors.
He strolled up with tough-guy confidence, flexing his shoulders and swiping the underside of his nose. "Boss." He dipped his head toward Stacey. "Ma'am."
Stacey cordially nodded back.
"Johnny, what are you doing here?" Oscar asked.
"It's about Louie Gomez, Boss."
Stacey's eyebrows arched.
Oscar slipped his hand under Johnny's bicep and led him away from her. "What's that ratbag want?" He whispered.
"He wants to know when he can start digging. Says you've had enough time and he wants to get started."
"Holy shit. We only talked about it last week. I'm not FedEx. I don't do overnight. Why'd you come all the way down here just to ask me that?"
"Your phone's switched off, and Louie wanted an answer by six tonight—or else."
Oscar fished in his pocket and pulled out his phone. It had been malfunctioning for days, but he hadn't got around to getting it fixed or replaced yet. He let out a heavy sigh and slipped it back in his pocket. "Or else what?"
Johnny pumped his shoulders forward. "He says he's gonna bust my kneecaps so you can see how it looks, but I'd like to see him try."
