by Travis Casey
"I have to agree with Tyler on this one," Roscoe contributed. He walked to the other side of the bar and grabbed a bottle off the shelf. "Hey, this is all dusty. And who the hell drinks crème de menthe anyway?" He held the bottle out to Oscar's face. "What gives, boy?"
Oscar went for distraction. "Look at this. I've set up the online betting system so the guests can bet from the comfort of the champagne lounge without having to leave. And we get a commission for every bet they place from here."
"You think they're going to bet on polo matches?"
Oscar nodded. "Yeah, but it's set up for other sports too. It's practically an online betting shop, right here."
Roscoe stroked his jaw. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
Oscar's brows tightened quizzically.
"There isn't a law that allows that kind of betting in Kentucky."
"Not yet." Oscar tapped the side of his nose. "But I got the inside scoop. Just you wait and see."
"If the state doesn't approve new betting laws, you're stuffed." He pointed to the computer terminals. "And if that's the case, then that's a waste of money. I think you've been hatchin' some premature chickens."
"But, Granddad, I've been talking with Governor Davenport, and he said—"
Roscoe held his hand up. "When it comes to dealing with governments, never count on anything until it's signed, sealed, and delivered. And then hold your breath for an amendment. How much money have you spent on this project?"
"The computer equipment was a little over budget, and some of the building costs ran over, but I cut back in other places to offset the costs."
"Wait a minute." Tyler clicked his fingers. "You hit me up for twenty grand the other month saying you were going to get in some top-notch wine and high-grade whiskey. This shit couldn't have cost more than—oh my God. You went low budget on me. What happened?"
Oscar sucked in a deep breath. "Look, Dad. Benita's Bar and Grill was going out of business. I bought her stock at a knockdown price. It was a good deal. I couldn't pass it up. It was a sound business decision."
"Okay, Rockefeller, let's say I buy that line of BS. What'd you do with the rest of the cash?" Tyler pointed to the chairs by the window. "It couldn't have been for those. Looks like you dragged them out of the Rialto before the wrecking ball came crashing in?"
"Hang on a second …" Roscoe walked over to Oscar. "You came to me with your begging bowl asking for fifty grand to upgrade the bleachers. I figured you were gonna have personal ass-wipers for the rich and famous before they sat down. Why are you nickel and diming your kinfolk, then using knock-off furniture and gutter liquor for a project aimed at aristocrats? Something ain't right."
Oscar took a step back into the corner—literally and metaphorically. He was facing two of the best bullshit artists in the state, if not the entire world. Could he hold his own as the number three seed?
"Okay, things have changed slightly. The building company I was using is going broke—"
A sweet voice called out from the other side of the door, getting closer. "Oscar? Oscar …?" The door pushed open. Stacey swanned in wearing a gray pinstriped business suit. The oversized cuffs of her crisp white shirt folded back at the end of the sleeves, and a baby-pink necktie enhanced the ensemble. Her eyes flicked between Roscoe and Tyler. "Oh, hello." She zeroed in on Oscar. "I didn't know you had company."
Oscar extended his arm toward the upper echelon of the Novak-Chambers clan. "Stacey, this is my father, Tyler Chambers, and my granddad, Roscoe Novak."
The men tipped their heads in unison.
"Dad, Granddad, this is Stacey Davenport, consultant to the district attorney for Jefferson County—and the governor's daughter."
Tyler held out his hand, offering a firm handshake. "Well, Miss Davenport, what a pleasure, on both counts. As we aren't in Jefferson County, I'm assuming your business here, or with Oscar, is not of a legal nature."
"No, it's not. I've come down to discuss the underprivileged kids' program. Oscar has appointed me as an advisor."
"Kids' project?" Tyler mused aloud.
Oscar grabbed her arm and hustled her to the other side of the room. "I haven't told them about that yet," he whispered. "I was saving it as a surprise."
Stacey flung her arms open. "Surprise!"
"How's your father, Steph?" Roscoe asked.
"It's Stacey," she corrected him, "and he's fine. Thank you for asking."
"Not at all, and I was just checking your verbal reflexes." He winked.
She smiled.
"Tell us more about this kids' program," Tyler requested. "Seems to be a little detail Oscar overlooked telling us about."
"Come on, Dad, I was going to tell you later. I didn't want to say anything until we had Governor Davenport's full backing for the project."
"Oh, but that didn't stop you getting the betting terminals before the laws were passed." Tyler's eyebrows arched. "The governor knows about this, does he? This kids' thing? And what about your chief financial backer? Shouldn't he have known about it?"
"Oh, he does," Stacey said. "I can assure you." She looked at Oscar. "Where is he, by the way?"
"Oh no, he doesn't," Tyler replied. "And I'm right here."
Oscar touched Stacey's arm. "Now's not a good time, Stacey. Can we talk about this later?"
"I'd say now's a damn-good time," Roscoe barked, "before we go any further with this charade. So go ahead, Miss Davenport. What brings you to the Cub Run Polo Park looking all businesslike?"
"Well, I've been doing some research on playground equipment, for the five- to ten-year-olds. The teens are going to take a little more work. Anyway, I found one that's all interconnected. It has a castle theme; towers and dungeons, swings, slides, merry-go-rounds—the works. It's big and a lot of bang for the buck."
"Yeah, fine, good," Oscar blurted out. "We'll go over the details tomorrow."
"No, let's go over the details right now," Roscoe bellowed.
Stacey glanced at Roscoe, then back to Oscar. "It's thirty-two thousand dollars, but for what you get, it's a pretty good price. It's just, should I ask you for the money or get it direct from Louie Gomez?"
Oscar closed his eyes tight. His body seized into one giant muscle contraction.
Tyler stared at Stacey. "Did you say thirty-two thousand dollars?"
Roscoe stared at Stacey. "Did you say Louie Gomez?"
She nodded.
"Louie. Fucking. Gomez?"
Stacey shrugged. "I thought it was Freaking Gomez, but yes, I think we're talking about the same guy."
"You have got to be kidding me." Roscoe aimed a sharp look at Oscar. "Don't tell me you're mixed up with that scumbag."
"There's an opportunity, Granddad—"
"Opportunity? Give me an opportunity and I'll shove his nuts down his throat."
Stacey leaned toward Oscar and whispered. "I'm getting the impression your relations don't approve of Mr. Gomez, or the kids' project. And where is he?"
Oscar acknowledged that she was correct about Gomez with a dip of his head. He whispered out of the side of his mouth. "He's on errands. He's not far away." Oscar hoped that would satisfy her. He's at home with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles may have fired up her wrath.
Roscoe gave a curt nod toward the door. "If you'll excuse us, Miss Davenport, I'd like to have a family meeting—In private."
"Oh … sure." Stacey left the room, closing the door on her way out.
It may have been a stupid question, but Oscar had to ask his grandfather: "What do you have against Louie Gomez?"
"The question is, 'What do you have with Louie Gomez?' "
Oscar didn't answer.
Roscoe continued. "Maybe it's not so much Louie exactly, but his father, Hector. He's a real piece of shit. Or was."
Oscar's face creased. "Was?"
"Dead," Roscoe answered. "And the world is a better place for it."
Tyler settled into a chair opposite the bar. "What happened?"
"Back in nineteen seven
ty-four, some rumor-cum-theory got started that a bunch of elite soldiers emptied the depository at Fort Knox of all its gold. There was such a hoopla, some reporters were allowed in to dispel the story. Of course, all the gold was still there—or was it? Hector Gomez had a hot tip that only some of the gold had disappeared, but the rumor covered the crooks' tracks for what they took."
Tyler interjected, "So once the reporters verified the gold was still there, everybody quit looking for what may have been stolen?"
"Exactly," Roscoe confirmed. "Gomez reckoned the vault held over thirty-six thousand bars, but was about fifty light."
Oscar took in what his grandfather said. Hot flashes made him dizzy, wondering how much alike Hector and Louie were. "Did they ever find it?"
"Naw, but it was a good theory, and Hector Gomez convinced me to, let's say, back his expedition to find it."
Tyler was hanging on the story with great interest. "You gave him money?"
Roscoe let out a deep sigh. "He was a high flyer in the financial markets back in the day, as well as my broker and advisor. There was a stock-market crash in seventy-three, then all the OPEC oil crap was filling the news, and the bullshit about Nixon resigning. I lost huge amounts of money. And Hector was at the heart of the bad decisions." He shrugged. "Okay, you put your money in the markets and take your chances—I don't blame him for that. But he had some cockamamie idea that the stolen gold was buried in Harris State Park. I was desperate to get my money back, and that was the only light in a dark and dingy tunnel. It was the only chance I had to recoup my losses. Do you know how much money it takes to bribe officials to look the other way while you bring in equipment to dig up a State Park? Holy cow crap!" He paused to take a breath. "With what I lost with Gomez, then funding his fishing expedition, it cleaned me out."
"So what happened?" Tyler asked.
"The state found out Hector was a low-life son of a bitch and went after him. And I was caught digging around the park with him, so they were gonna throw some trumped-up charges at me—conspiracy and crap like that—unless I turned against him. So I did—or was going to. Al Picardi wasn't as forgiving about losing his money as I was, so he plugged Hector before the trial. Then the state didn't need me as a witness anymore, but they still had to hang someone out to dry for the gold, and for digging up part of a state treasure."
"You?" Oscar queried.
"Yep, but I caught a break. All this had the governor's attention, and he was impressed by my fortitude. He wanted to know about horses and how to pick a winner, and I just so happened to know a thing or two about such matters." He grinned, enjoying the trip down memory lane. "I gave him tips that made him a rich man, and he made the "unpleasantness" go away. In the end, I had a friend in a very high place."
Tyler grinned. "And that's how you got in with the governor's office to begin with?"
"Yep. All politicians are greedy, you just have to have something they want. In one way, maybe I owe Hector Gomez something, but he was a rat-fink, stinking bastard who made my life a living hell. I had to claw my way back from nothing because of him. And his son is a nasty piece of work too. He's a loan-sharking, crook bastard, just like his father."
Oscar hated to play defense counsel for Louie, but he needed some leeway for their association. "But Louie didn't actually do anything to you, did he?"
"Oh yes, he did." Roscoe's eyes tightened. "I went over to Hector's house one day to talk business, and that little shit keyed my brand-new Cadillac. I should've knocked the snot out of him then and there, but he was only five at the time. What can ya expect? The apple don't fall far from the tree."
"Unless it's on a hill," Oscar muttered.
"You never told me any of this," Tyler said.
Roscoe threw an indifferent shrug. "Never had any need to. Hector Gomez is in hell, and this family never needed anything from his boy, so why bring it up? It's not like I wanted to brag about turning nark—or almost narking."
"Wow," Oscar crooned. "I had no idea."
Roscoe hardened his voice. "And this stays just between the three of us. Got it?"
Tyler nodded.
"Sure," Oscar agreed. "But there's just one thing, Granddad. I need to get sweet with the governor because Louie Gomez—"
Roscoe stepped in close and eyeballed his grandson from a few inches away. "You listen to me, boy. If you got anything going with Louie Gomez, you nip it in the bud right now. Nothing good will come of it. He's sperm of the devil, and rotten is as rotten does. I just gave you a hundred grand for Johnny No-Thumbs to get his dick sewed back on, but if you need that money to swoon the governor instead of dealing with Gomez, then you take it. No-Thumbs will just have to get used to being one of them transgender people."
Tyler shot out of his seat. "You gave him a hundred grand?"
Oscar waved his hand, trying to calm his father down, but had his attention focused on his grandfather. "Johnny doesn't need a new dick, Granddad, but Louie—"
Roscoe shoved his finger under Oscar's nose. "You listen to me, sunshine. If you got anything going with Gomez, you stop it right now. If you don't, I will."
Chapter 32
Louie sat on Oscar's couch, his legs outstretched with his sock-clad feet resting on the coffee table. His black hair was groomed to its slicked-back position. He was comfortably wrapped in his silk robe with a bowl of cereal resting on his lap.
Oscar stumbled across the living room like a bear coming out of hibernation. His hair was ruffled, as was his disposition at the sight of Louie. His auto-pilot poured a cup of coffee, and he plunked himself at the dining table.
"What are we going to do today, Oscar?"
He'd been hoping for quiet, but his hopes were dashed. "Nothing. We're not doing anything. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. We're just going to sit here, staring at four walls, until your trial. Then whatever happens after that, you're out of my life, and we never have to see each other again."
"Oscar, you sound prickly. I am sorry about that, but I want to go out."
"No, Louie, we're not going out. I have a lot of things I need to do and going out isn't one of them."
Louie set his bowl on the coffee table, then leaned back, clutching his robe and pulling it tight across his chest. "I was only asking what you wanted to do to be polite. I know what I'm going to do, and thanks to Miss Davenport, you'll be joining me. Let me spell it out for you. We're going to see my architect and have him draw up some plans for an underground parking garage. I need something on paper to show the governor. Then we're going to Harry's Equipment Hire to enquire about digging equipment. Then I thought we'd take a run down to Harris State Park and look at the property—have a gander about and decide where we'll dig the foundation for the parking facility."
"Or we could stay here—" Oscar fired back, "you eating Fruity Peebles and watching Daffy Duck, and me doing some planning to get this polo park finished."
Louie pushed himself off the couch, put on his slippers, and walked over to the dining room table. "Oscar, we are going to Harris State Park and checking out the land. I have a map and coordinates of where we are building this 'parking garage,' and I want to see it firsthand. Now, go take a couple of Advil—or whatever it is you girls take for PMS—get dressed, and let's get moving."
Oscar stood up and broadened his chest. "No."
Louie smirked. "Oh, I get it. You think if you can get this polo park going and make some money, you can pay me back the hundred and twenty grand, and I'll forget about everything else." His lips evened out. "Wrong. We're digging up Harris State Park, and you're helping me. And if you don't like the idea, you can start digging a grave for Johnny—or perhaps your grandfather."
Oscar lunged, grabbing Louie in a headlock and wrestling him to the ground. "You leave my grandfather out of this, you son of a bitch, or I'll kill you."
Louie pulled an ink pen out of his robe pocket. He stabbed Oscar in the back of the leg, driving the pen deep into the muscle.
Oscar yelled, releasing his hold o
n Louie to grab at the pain searing through his leg.
Louie scrambled to his feet, kicking Oscar in the head.
Oscar yelled, shuffling along the floor out of Louie's range. He got ahold of the pen sticking out of his leg and pulled it out. He rolled back, laying on the floor and clutching his injury.
Louie stood over him, retying the front of his robe. "Now you listen to me, punk. We're going to my architect, then to Harry's Hire, then to the state park. And if you ever pull another stunt like that, you won't have to bother digging a grave for Johnny's. I'll dig the hole myself and drop you in it. Now get dressed."
***
Oscar came out of his room in pressed Calvin Klein jeans and a crisp Pringle polo shirt, which was normal for him, although his newly acquired limp detracted from the flawless appearance.
"Ready?" He hadn't figured out how he was going to keep Louie hidden at the polo park—in case they were seen together and it was reported to his grandfather—but he had had even less luck figuring out a way to keep Louie from going out at all. Getting stabbed with a pen was pretty persuasive.
Louie fished his phone out. "Just let me call the governor to see if there's anything else he wants to know while I'm out conducting our business." He pushed a single number and pressed the phone to his ear.
"You have him on speed dial?" Oscar murmured.
"Hello? Judd? It's me, Louie. How're things?" Louie smiled, smug in his new-found connection. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you. I'm on my way out to draw up some plans for the kids' area and parking at the polo park and wondered if you had any questions or requests before we start putting things on paper … Hold on a minute, Judd. We had a deal. An agreement … Stacey said what? … Judd, we need to talk about this and work something out. I'll be over in a few hours." He ended the call.
