Southern Harm

by Travis Casey

  Pushing the shopping list to one side, he returned to business. He slid his finger along the page of the ledger. While his net worth clocked up weekly, his empire grew to seven digits, bordering on eight. Good for him. Maybe it wasn't so good for his clients, but he wasn't above capitalizing on the misfortune of others.

  He paused to admire the poster on the wall opposite his desk. It showed P. T. Barnum standing with his cane pointed at the Big Top, the phrase There's a Sucker Born Every Minute emblazoned across the top.

  Louie smiled. "Ain't that the truth."

  He returned to work and tapped a row of figures into his oversized calculator. His smile grew.

  The door to the warehouse on Front Street opened quietly. A musty smell of dust and cobwebs hung in the air. An intruder stepped in, stopping briefly to appreciate the high windows reflecting fragments of the day's last sunshine.

  The neighborhood was cause for concern. Would the vehicle still be there for the getaway? It was fifty-fifty, but a chance that had to be taken for the greater good.

  The intruder paused, searching for some self-reassurance. It was the right thing to do.

  The world would be a better place because of it. So many people would benefit, and countless threats would be removed. The vigilante method simply bypassed an already bogged-down legal system and ensured justice was served without any of the rhetoric. It wouldn't be the first time this kind of thing had happened.

  The trespasser moved up the staircase, clutching a pistol in one hand while the other grazed the handrail. Sneakers squeaked against the metal stairs.

  At the landing, the intruder clenched the gun and moved fast to flatten against the wall. Louie's office door was ajar. The gun's weight offered confirmation that destiny was in hand. The door drifted open with a nudge to reveal Louie Gomez seated at his desk. Two steps more and they could look each other in the eye.

  The intruder took those steps.

  Louie looked up. "Really?" Louie pointed to the assailant's gun. "I'm guessing that's your security blanket. I don't blame you." He feigned a shudder. "This is a rough neighborhood. One can't be too careful."

  "Shut up. You've caused a lot of pain to a lot of people for a lot of years. But you've messed with the wrong people. It's time for it to end."

  Louie smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Nothing's over till I say it's over. And there ain't no fat lady singing."

  A distinctive click filled the warehouse with the sound of impending death. "Oh yeah? Listen to this for a tune."

  A shot rang out.

  Blood oozed from the bullet hole in the middle of Louie's forehead. His head dropped forward, his chin motionless against his chest, life sucked from his body.

  Smoke drifted from the end of the barrel, fading into the unknown corners of the warehouse.

  "She's singing now, you son of a bitch."

  The intruder turned and ran down the stairs with little concern about making too much noise. A gunshot would parallel with a barking dog in this neighborhood. Moving to the entrance, a glimpse out the door confirmed that the street was as lifeless as Louie Gomez's body. The killer's heart rate skyrocketed. The escape was more dangerous than pulling the trigger.

  The killer stepped out of the building, turning toward the getaway car.

  A gang of youths came down the street, one of them bouncing a basketball.

  The killer stepped to the side, head down, trying to remain unnoticed.

  The ting of the basketball's bouncing grew louder as the gang approached.

  "… and I'm tellin' ya, I'm gonna smoke your ass."

  "You ain't smokin' shit, brother. I'll take your ass to the hoop every day this week. You gonna get some serious schooling."

  "Fast break," one of them shouted.

  The killer reached for the gun, but stopped when the gang broke into a sprint, racing to the other side of the street to the basketball court.

  False alarm. The killer stood still for a moment, inhaling full breaths, releasing the tension of almost going from vigilante to mass murderer in a matter of seconds.

  Ten paces from the vehicle, the killer pressed the key fob to unlock it and crossed the pavement. Once safely inside the vehicle, nerves steadied. With a flick of the key, the engine soon roared.

  Satisfied that justice had been served, the killer dropped the gearshift into drive and pulled away from the curb.

  Mission Complete.

  Life could now start over.

  Chapter 41

  Oscar woke up holding his head. Maybe it was that last bourbon. Or the one before that … or the one before that … Being in a motorcycle crash without a helmet would be an improvement over how he felt. He grabbed the glass of water from his bedside table and glugged three-quarters of the contents in one drink. He let out a sigh of relief, although the respite was short-lived. He clutched the duvet, pulling it high around his neck, and nestled back into the bed.

  His eyes shot open. He looked at the digital clock on the dresser. 8:32.

  "Shit!" He thrashed from under the covers, jumped out of bed, and bolted to the bathroom. He examined himself in the mirror, running his hands over his face. It was rough, but he only had twenty-eight minutes to get to the courthouse. There was no time to shave. He snatched the toothbrush from the holder on the wall, slapped on some toothpaste, and gave his mouth a twenty-second scrub.

  He wetted his hair under the faucet, gave it a quick dry with a towel, and hurried into the bedroom. After a blast of deodorant, he threw on a white dress shirt and a Hugo Boss suit, then a purple tie.

  As he sped to the courthouse, he prayed he wouldn't get pulled over, as his blood-alcohol level would still have been questionable. It all started with him sitting in his condo, thinking of what Louie did to Stacey. Then one drink led to another.

  He made it into the courtroom, slipping into the row where his Dad, Grandad, and Johnny No-Thumbs sat. Oscar slid in next to Tyler.

  "Where have you been?" Tyler asked sharply.

  "Overslept. Anyway, what are you two doing here?"

  "I wanna make sure my hundred grand shows up," Roscoe growled. "So where is he?"

  Gomez wasn't at the defendant's table.

  "That's a good question. Where is he?"

  Tyler grinned. "Maybe West Louisville did get 'im."

  The bailiff walked to the front of the nearly full courtroom. "All rise. Judge Winston Alsop presiding over this court of Jefferson County."

  A tall, robust black man with a full head of white hair entered the room. He took his seat at the oversized high-back chair behind the judicial bench.

  "You may be seated," the bailiff announced. "This court is now in session for the matter of the state of Kentucky versus Louis Charles Gomez."

  Judge Alsop looked to the defendant's table. "Mr. Rosen, is your client here?"

  The tall, chiseled attorney rose. "No, Your Honor, not at this time. I'd like to ask for a continuance while I locate him, as it is out of character for my client to be out of contact."

  Prosecutor Brown stood up. "Your Honor, I call upon the court to ask Mr. Oscar Novak-Chambers where Mr. Gomez is. As his custodian, and the person responsible for posting his bail, he must know his whereabouts." He turned to the back of the courtroom, looking at Oscar.

  "Will Mr. Novak-Chambers please rise," the judge instructed.

  Oscar stood up.

  "Where is Mr. Gomez?"

  Oscar shifted his weight on his feet and cleared his throat. "I don't know, Your Honor." He looked at the prosecution bench.

  Stacey was focused on him. She wore a bland expression that Oscar couldn't read. He shrugged helplessly.

  "Do you understand the repercussions of Mr. Gomez not showing up?" the judge asked.

  Oscar was in a whole heap of shit. That was his understanding. "I believe so, Your Honor." He looked at the judge pleadingly. "I know Mr. Gomez was in my care, but he gave me the slip. We were in my condo, and when I had my back turned, he knocked me out and vanished. It wasn't
my fault. He committed another criminal act, so I don't feel I should have to forfeit the money. I acted in good faith."

  The judge frowned. "Sir, this court doesn't care about your faith. What this court cares about is Mr. Gomez. And if Mr. Gomez doesn't show up, your faith, or lack of it, becomes the state's money."

  The door to the courtroom opened. The gallery turned toward the disruption. Officer Emmitt Dewsbury walked in and headed up the main isle. "Your Honor, may I approach the bench?"

  "No, you may not. We are trying to conduct a trial."

  "I have information pertinent to the trial you are trying to conduct, Your Honor," Emmitt insisted.

  Judge Alsop sighed. "Very well." He wiggled his fingers, motioning Emmitt forward.

  Emmitt stood in front of the bench. The two men bent their heads in private conversation. Emmitt finally stepped away.

  The judge cast his eyes around the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, we seem to have an interesting situation on our hands. Mr. Gomez has been found dead."

  Gasps sucked the air out of the room.

  Johnny looked at the floor beneath his feet. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled.

  Tyler half-smiled. Had his premonition come true?

  Roscoe whispered to Tyler. "I should get my hundred grand back, right?"

  Oscar closed his eyes, holding the sides of his head in his fingertips.

  Stacey scribbled on a piece of paper and slid it to Rob Brown. Looks like we won.

  ***

  The governor sat in a meeting at the Capitol building, repeatedly looking at his watch. Stacey was under strict instructions—to call him as soon as the first day in court had concluded and fill him in on what happened. He was already nervous, and it was only ten minutes into the hearing.

  Conrad stood in the kitchen, making a cup of tea—wondering what life would be like if he no longer worked for the Davenports.

  Chapter 42

  Melanie Harper ambled along the polished floor of the Capitol building on her way to meet with the governor—at his request. She found it strange that as soon as Louie Gomez turned up dead, she received a call to meet the man whose dirty laundry she had in her hamper. She shouldn't have been surprised to get a call from the governor's office, but she wondered how the news had been broken to him, that she knew his family's secrets. Something didn't sit right with her. And knowing what Judd and Stacey Davenport were capable of made her all the more nervous.

  She wore her red hair in a long ponytail, the end nearly touching her rounded buttocks. The clicks from her heels bounced off the sculptured walls, announcing that the Bulldog of Kentucky Gossip was in the house. She paused outside the door, which bore a white-on-brown engraved sign stating Office of the Governor of Kentucky – Judd Davenport.

  She took a deep breath, pulled on the bottom of her navy-blue jacket, and entered.

  The receptionist looked up. "You must be Miss Harper. I'll let Governor Davenport know you're here." She picked up the phone and whispered into the receiver. "The governor will see you now." She pointed to a door. "Right through there."

  It was worse than she thought—she was known to the receptionist without an introduction and was immediately ushered in for her audience with the most important man in Kentucky. At least she wouldn't have to battle anxiety while sitting in the waiting room. Melanie marched through the door.

  Governor Davenport rose from behind his desk, smiling broadly. He extended his arm and they shook hands. "Miss Harper, what an absolute delight to meet you. Please, sit down." He showed her to a seat opposite his desk.

  Melanie crossed her legs, showing off a bit of knee. "Likewise, Governor. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  "Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Soft drink? Maybe something a little stronger?"

  She smiled. "No, I'm fine, but thank you."

  He accepted her refusal with a dip of the head. "Fine. Then we'll get straight down to business. The reason you're here, is the press. I'm very fond of the media, Melanie—" He leaned forward. "May I call you Melanie?"

  A corner of her mouth turned up. An obvious yes.

  "Good. I like to get to know the people reporting the news and see if there's anything I can help them with to keep the people of our fine state informed."

  Melanie leaned in. "You do know I'm a gossip columnist, right? Most people wouldn't class me as a reporter, or even a bona fide journalist for that matter."

  Judd raised his chin, keeping his eyes on her. "I don't know, I've heard you've done a wonderful exposé on my daughter and me."

  He got to it faster than she expected. She decided she liked the governor. He wasn't a beat-around-the-bush kind of guy. That was something a journalist could appreciate.

  "I was asked to look into a few things, yes."

  The governor nodded. "Yes, I know. And I know the terms of the agreement. So my question is, 'What happens now that Louie Gomez is dead?' "

  Melanie shrugged. "That was an avenue Mr. Gomez and I didn't cover. His untimely death has left me in a quandary. Louie hadn't paid me yet. I did the work, and trust me, it was a lot of work finding out what I did. You sewed some pretty tight seams."

  "Sometimes things must be done for the greater good." Judd stared at her, stone-faced.

  "So, to get paid, I'll be selling the story to the highest bidder—but I'm not particular about who that is."

  "Is that what this is all about? Money?"

  "You're the one who invited me here. I didn't come in with a ransom note."

  "True." The governor drummed his fingers on the desk. "Here's an idea. Sell the story to the National Enquirer. I hear they pay good money, and they could run it next to the story about Michael Jackson and Elvis Presley being homosexual lovers and living in an Egyptian pyramid on the outskirts of Cairo."

  After a snort of laughter, Melanie shook her finger at him, still chuckling. "That's a good one, Governor. Can I print that?"

  "I'd rather you didn't. In fact, I'd rather you didn't print anything." He pulled himself closer. "What Louie recited to me was all nonsense. It may make for good reading, but it's against the law to print untruths. I would advise you against running the story."

  "Right …" Melanie folded her arms "Since we're being candid, Governor, I must say, I find it unlikely you would call me down here to ask me not to run a fabricated story. I'm well aware of the libel laws, and I wouldn't print anything I couldn't substantiate in a court of law. So, unless I'm here to get your version of events—in fact"—she reached into her king-size purse and pulled out a pencil and notepad, flipping pages until she found a blank one—"why don't you give me your side of the story, and I'll make sure I get the facts straight. Then we'll both be clear that there's nothing amiss, and I won't print anything I could be sued for."

  Davenport held his gaze on her for several moments, neither of them blinking.

  "Put your pad away, Melanie. I'm not holding a press conference."

  "And I'm not asking for one, Governor. Let's start with why your daughter left California at breakneck speed to become your political advisor." She cocked an eyebrow, holding her pencil at the ready.

  He tried to disarm her with a grin. "I have a better idea. Why don't you come work for me?"

  Melanie turned her ear toward him. "Excuse me? I didn't catch that."

  "I'm in the market for a press secretary. Someone who can spin a good story to keep me looking good, even in the face of adversity. Someone who can paint a pretty picture, even when the canvas looks tatty. Trust me, things are not always as they appear. I need a media artist. Is that something you can do, Melanie?"

  "Would I be correct in thinking that this job would have me too busy to follow up on any of my past work, keeping it from getting into the mainstream media?"

  Davenport nodded. "Yes, it would. You would need to stop all current projects and begin immediately."

  "That's a very interesting proposal. You know, this is strengthening the case for running my story. I mean, the timing of this job offer, well, it'
s a little shady." She rapped the butt of her pencil against her pad. "Have I been on your short list long?"

  "No, your qualifications have only been brought to my attention recently."

  "About the same time as Louie Gomez's death?"

  "And this is what I'm talking about. Even when things don't look right, I need someone who can turn it around and make Governor Davenport look like a beacon of integrity and decency. It's not shady at all—it's business. Whether certain things may be true or not is irrelevant."

  "Would I find my role difficult to do?"

  Judd laughed. "Glad to see you have what it takes. A sense of humor is important in this job."

  Who was joking? Despite the temptation, she kept her thoughts to herself. After all, he was the governor. A powerful man with plenty of influence, as she had discovered in her research. Perhaps it was time to up her professional game and stop reporting on which rich jerk was screwing which dim bimbo. A mental image of her résumé flashed in her mind. Press Secretary to the Governor. That had to be worth opening a few doors that would otherwise remain closed. Besides, money from her dirty-laundry story would run dry fast. Every news story has a limited shelf life. Freelance money was tight. This would be steady income from a job that commanded respect and held prestige. She was shocked by the offer, but she was warming to the idea.

  She shifted in her seat. "What would need to be my most valuable qualification?"

  "Loyalty. Undying, blind loyalty."

  "Would I get tickets to any of the Wildcat games?"

  The governor smiled. "Any ones you want."

  "VIP box?"

  "Goes without saying."

  "In that case"—Melanie stood up and extended her hand—"you have a new press secretary."

  Chapter 43

  The family gathered as they did every Fourth of July, for the annual Novak-Chambers barbecue.