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

  "I need duplicate invoices from last month's Tropical Treasures buy."

  "Are you serious?" Rob had responded to the same request just three months ago.

  "Yeah, I know. It's just like last time. I'm sure we had them — I did my post-buy analysis, checked for discrepancies and any needed make-goods — approved the invoices for client billing and agency payment, sent them down to bookkeeping — and poof!”

  "They're gone?"

  "Well, I'm sure they'll turn up, eventually. But, the girls down in bookkeeping are really on my butt."

  "Oh, uhmm. Sure. I'll get those invoices out today." He collected his thoughts, while looking at those innocent faces of Abby and Valerie. "Is it just KLOM invoices that are missing? Maybe we've messed up the mailing address or something."

  "No, I've got to call every radio and television station we placed buys with — again. You know how it goes, we've got to have an invoice in-house to back-up every buy."

  The conversation ended after another moment’s small talk. Rob hung up the phone and headed back up to Emma's office at the front of the station.

  "Emma, we need to re-create original invoices for last month's Tropical Treasures buy."

  "Again?" She was still only half through her valiant effort with the sugar-glazed cinnamon roll.

  "Yes, again. Sherry says they need it, so let's do it."

  "Oooh, Sherry, huh?" Emma was half-smiling, again looking at Rob accusingly through the corner of her eyes.

  He was going to have to start closing the door to his office when he was on the phone.

  THREE

  There is something about the air in Baton Rouge.

  The combination of petroleum refineries, rotting Mississippi River mud and typical urban exhaust creates a unique odor that greets visitors from Port Allen to the west all the way to Denham Springs to the east. Long-time residents become accustomed to the "ambiance." Sherry LeVasseur grew up with the smell, and only thought about it when she visited some place that didn't carry the essence of Baton Rouge.

  Sherry worked in one of the newer buildings located in the small downtown business district. In fact, she even enjoyed a fairly decent view of the Mississippi River from her office on the 22nd floor. "Enjoyed" a view as much as one could, watching soot-covered tug boats pushing narrow barges loaded with chemicals and crates, or Liberian tankers lumbering down river, cargo-bellies bloated with crude. The Mississippi was a liquid freeway of commerce, not a recreational waterway filled with Jet Skis and bronze bodies.

  Sherry LeVasseur hung up the phone call to Rob Baldwin and took another sip of coffee, then set the cup down beside her long list of station contacts left to call. The list had nearly become buried among the media plans, purchase orders, broadcast invoices and affidavits.

  Her ceramic coffee cup bore hand-painted lettering amid colorful designs, drawn in thick ridges of primary color paint — a gift from her former third-grade class at Andrew Jackson Elementary on the last day of school. Her first, and only class as a novice teacher straight out of college.

  Her last day as a teacher, a short-lived career, nearly two years ago.

  “We love (heart) Ms. LeV! Your class, 2014.”

  She stroked the crude, bright red and yellow lettering with her finger. Sherry could still see their gap-toothed smiles through the goodbye tears of that morning long ago.

  Her phone rang. She nearly spilled the cup and its remaining coffee as she grabbed the receiver — dabbing a tear from the corner of her eye.

  "Sherry, this is Tricia in bookkeeping."

  Sherry had met the intern less than a half-dozen times. By the time you finally got to know their names, interns were usually gone.

  "How are you coming with last month's Red File?" What's-her-name asked.

  "I’m working on it. Are you sure ya’ll haven’t misplaced it somewhere over there?" Sherry was trying to restore order to her desk as she spoke.

  "No, we've looked everywhere. We've got invoices for all the other clients, except for the Riverboat."

  Sherry adjusted her glasses again and frowned. "I'll check with everybody over here, but you should have had it all weeks ago.”

  “Well, all I know is, Mr. Brocata is on us to get out the bill and we need those broadcast invoices.”

  “Right. I know. I’m on it.” Sherry hung up the phone and looked around the office. It was the typical modular office design — tiny cubicles separated by small partitions. The media buying area blended into the account services area, which blended into the art department...

  "Becky, Doug? Where are you guys?"

  Her assistants were young, poorly paid and usually very little help.

  "Yo! Right here, boss!" Doug yelled from the break room where Becky and a handful of other agency drones had gathered by the coffee pot, delaying as long as possible the start of that day's duties.

  “Have you guys seen the Red File for Tropical Treasures?”

  They were taking their time getting to her desk.

  “You’re askin’ again?” Doug fell to a chair and kicked his well-worn Birkenstocks up on Sherry’s desk.

  “Are you kidding?” Becky’s usually thin voice was tweaked up to an even higher, and more irritating, pitch. “We’re about to send them this month’s!” She propped her hand on her hip in disgust.

  “I know, I know.” Sherry’s reply was muffled slightly by another sip of coffee. Caffeine. She needed caffeine.

  The Red File contained all of the media invoices approved by Sherry for advertising placed throughout the month. After reviewing all the bills from the radio and television stations for accurate commercial-time placement, Sherry would stamp the bills "approved" and send them down to accounting for input into the agency's computer. From those invoices would be generated the bills to be sent to clients, as well as the processing for media payment by the agency, less the standard agency commissions, of course.

  A discussion followed about the rapidly diminishing efficiency of the bookkeeping department, “especially since they put in that damned, fancy, new computer system last year.” It was the fertile start of what could turn out to be a lengthy and entertaining bitch session.

  Sherry waved them off. Meeting dismissed.

  Her days were hectic enough, without falling further behind.

  Most of her time was already spent on the agency's largest and newest account: The Tropical Treasures Riverboat Casino.

  Riverboat gambling had steamed into Louisiana on a fast wave of dirty money. Not so very long ago, no one would have thought any kind of gambling would be legally allowed in this staunch corner of the Bible Belt.

  Legally allowed.

  There had always been, and would always be, bingo in the Catholic portions of the state — and cock fighting in the rest, but a few years ago everything changed. It started with video poker — only at truck stops. But, those truck stops soon looked less like a parking lot for 18-wheelers and more like little Las Vegases. The names of these vast complexes changed from the likes of “Interstate Truck Stop” and “Kenny's Trucker Plaza,” to “The Lucky Oasis” and “The Diamond Mine.” Anyone trying to order a chicken-fried steak with country gravy and Texas toast at one of these neon nightspots would only get a hearty laugh, a wink and a slap on the back.

  Then, newly elected Governor Max Clayton — a man fond of tax-payer financed junkets to Las Vegas and Reno (for tourist development research, of course) — joined with that great bastion of human ambivalence, the Louisiana Legislature, and expanded the gambling laws. Video poker began spreading to restaurants, liquor stores and convenience stores.

  Then came the Big Decision. Riverboat casinos would be allowed on a limited number of Louisiana waterways. Limited, of course, to the rivers located in the home parishes of Governor Clayton's friends and generous business associates.

  The next step was land-based casinos. New Orleans was the first brick and mortar gambling destination, three other small-town Native American owned facilities followed. Now pla
ns were underway to build the largest gambling facility in the world, inside the sprawling, historic old New Orleans Mint on Esplanade Street, just off the Mississippi River.

  If the Governor got his way.

  The legal gambling fever had been a mother-lode for the advertising business. Sherry LeVasseur placed advertising buys on dozens and dozens of radio and television stations for the biggest media-spending riverboat casino in the state: The Tropical Treasures.

  The account had been awarded to Ashton Brocata and Associates of Baton Rouge, not because they were one of the biggest agencies in the state (in fact, before the Tropical Treasures media bucks began breezing through the shop, it was not even among the top ten ad agencies in Louisiana), and not because the Brocata firm was known for being a hot, creative shop with walls and walls of Addy Awards.

  And not because Sherry LeVasseur was an effective and ruthless media buyer, though she was.

  Brocata and Associates landed the biggest fish in the riverboat casino waters for one reason: Ashton Brocata and Governor Max Clayton were life-long friends.

  As it turned out, Sherry had broken up the meeting just in time. Ashton Brocata, agency founder and namesake was making his royal arrival. His office was at the corner of the building, of course, with the best possible view of the tug boats and Liberian tankers on the Mississippi. But, to get to the grand and spacious command suite, Brocata had to make his way through the trenches, the very bowels, of the agency. Through Account Services. Through Media Buying. Yes, even through the Art Department.

  The glassy-eyed artists in faded jeans instantly assumed a proper, business-like posture in front of their Macs, preparing for the Arrival, taking their feet off their art tables and tossing aside their copies of Rolling Stone — for the moment.

  Brocata nodded and smiled to each employee graced by his fleeting presence. A genial wink to the copywriters and creative director. A moment’s chat with a Senior Account Executive. But Brocata quickened his step, moving briskly through the Art Department.

  Obviously, there was no need to risk getting any Quick Mount spray adhesive or other art paraphernalia on his expensive, black silk Armani business suit.

  Always a black or dark-blue suit. Always custom-tailored. And always a red tie.

  Ashton Brocata slowed again for a moment as he approached the Media Buying crew. He brushed a hand through his dignified, graying temples and wished "good morning" collectively to Becky and Doug, then turned to Sherry.

  "‘Morning, LeVasseur."

  "Good morning, Mr. Brocata." Sherry forced a smile.

  It was always “LeVasseur.” Never Sherry. Never “Ms” or “Miss.” Just “LeVasseur.” Sherry invariably noticed Brocata's particularly warm tone that he used towards her, but also observed that he was careful to keep her on a last-name, subservient, you're-just-a-media-planner-but-at-least-you're-not-an-artist semi-formal basis. All of which was fine with Sherry. She dealt with enough sexual innuendo from the account execs, but Sherry could handle their fraternity-style wisecracks with a razor-sharp wit of her own.

  Brocata slowed for only a moment and then was gone, safely within the leather and antique appointed confines of his corner office.

  Sherry rubbed her temples to ease a growing, dull pain. She felt the flush of the now-familiar dread that had grown from occasional annoyance to consuming beast. The ad agency business was going to kill her, if she let it.

  “Tough day already, huh?” Doug, had circled the room, dodging Brocata’s Arrival and shuffled his way back to Sherry’s desk.

  “Oh, it’s just this Red File thing.” Sherry put her glasses back on. “How can the whole file just disappear — twice?”

  “The ad biz. It’s brutal.” Doug nodded his corroboration, but Sherry knew the most brutal part of Doug’s day would be finding out someone had a juicy piece of gossip that he didn’t know. “Anything I can do to help?” he added — fully aware that she was already making every necessary call.

  “No, thanks.” Sherry sighed, picked up a legal pad and got up from her desk. She had to buy some more time from Brocata to tie up the loose ends from the missing Red File. It would take days to get the duplicate invoices in from all the radio and television stations in the state, and she still had half a list of contacts to call. If he was putting on the pressure to Bookkeeping, it wouldn’t be long before he put the pressure on her. She would rather preempt a confrontation than wait for it.

  As Sherry headed to Brocata’s office, she glanced back to see Doug performing some impressive upside-down reading of the material on her desk.

  She could hear Ashton Brocata already on the phone. He was in the office less than five minutes and already making calls. Supreme Ad Guy.

  As part of his “open door policy,” a management technique that he thought gave him the image of being a free-thinking creative-type, Brocata had no personal secretary or receptionist guarding his spacious office, just a large, ceiling to floor oak door that was slightly ajar at the moment. Sherry tapped the door with the blunt end of her pen, loud enough to get his attention, but not so loud as to interrupt his phone conversation. The door swung slightly more open, and Sherry saw Brocata motion her to come in.

  “Yeah, OK, I’ll hold for a second,” Brocata was saying to the phone as she entered. Then he faced her: “What’s up, LeVasseur?”

  “I’m not quite done with the calls for duplicate invoices for last month. We should have the Red File completely re-worked by the middle of next week — end of the week at the latest.” She remained standing, to keep the meeting short, and so that she could easily duck out of the office in case Brocata’s phone conversation resumed and he waved her out of the office.

  “Good, good. But, I need that wrapped up by Monday. Just submit the invoice amounts from your purchase orders and get them to bookkeeping. We’ll post the back-up invoices to the client file after we get them all in-house from the stations. Let’s just get the bill to the client.” It wasn’t yet mid-morning and Brocata already looked haggard, wrinkled and stressed-out. Typical.

  It was an unusual procedure Brocata was requesting. Sherry could remember only one other instance such measures were taken, and that was the last time the Red File for the Tropical Treasures account was missing.

  “You’re sure you want to do that? Our post-buy analysis should be done on the affidavits, not with my purchase orders.” Sherry’s tone was insistent.

  The look on Brocata’s face left no doubt that his mind was made up, and he was about to reiterate his demand in no uncertain terms when he was interrupted by the resumption of his phone conversation.

  “Yeah, I’m here —- right,” he said into the phone, and immediately Sherry’s dismissal was waved.

  Brocata swiveled in his chair to regain his privacy. As she turned to leave, a glimpse of something on Brocata’s desk caught her eye. She hesitated, then slipped out the door.

  Once in the common area of the agency’s offices she stopped and leaned against a wall. She heard Brocata close his door, which she had apparently left ajar in her rush to leave. So much for his open door policy.

  Was she getting as bad as Doug, nosing around people’s desk-tops? Did she really see what she thought she had seen? If so, what did it mean?

  Sherry wandered back to her desk, tossed her legal pad and glasses down and threw herself in her chair. She wheeled around to view the gray, polluted sky of Baton Rouge, mirrored by the equally gray water of the Mississippi.

  The drab panorama made for a perfect palette to replay the scene in her mind: She had turned to leave Brocata’s office and had glanced down at his desk. Something had caught her eye. Now, in her mind’s slow-motion replay, she saw it again.

  On Ashton Brocata’s desk.

  The missing Red File.

  FOUR

  “Hey, buddy!” The word ‘buddy’ must have lasted for ten seconds, at least. The Cajun voice was unmistakable as it boomed through the phone line. In fact, Rob Baldwin thought that perhaps the phone line a
mplification was redundant.

  “Hey, Clarence! What’s happening down in beautiful Moss Point?” Rob loved hearing from KAGN’s owner, Clarence Menard.

  The two men had purchased their respective stations within six months of each other, and took every opportunity to compare notes.

  The first time they met face to face was at a National Association of Broadcasters convention in Dallas. Clarence had regaled his new-found friend with KAGN’s brief history: the station had been built by a Moss Point businessman, the owner of the town's one and only bowling alley. KAGN had been "dark" — out of business and off the air — for nearly 18 months when Menard bought what was left. The bowling alley operator had learned a tough lesson: a radio station didn't have nearly the cash flow of a good bowling alley. The station had been abandoned, with little left but some old, dust-covered equipment — a few scratched records that nobody wanted to take home — and a transmitter in a swamp.

  “Hell, the bowling alley closed a year later, too!” Menard had said, the irony wrapped inside his booming Cajun laugh. Rob still could remember that first meeting, standing and talking in the aisle of the Dallas convention center exhibit hall.

  Clarence Menard was a well-liked Moss Point native, with a thick Cajun accent, readily understood by the hometown listeners of "Cajun FM," but a dialect that confounded the occasional listener driving through the area.

  Menard owned Clarence's Hit Factory, the only record shop in town, before buying the station back in 1981. As a broadcaster, he would admit that his credentials were modest.

  “But Rob, here’s the thing,” Menard had said. “I figure I can certainly do better than the bowling alley guy!”

  Rob had admitted that it certainly was a good promotional angle for the record shop: Menard would play the records on the only radio station in town, and people would want to buy the records from the only record shop in town.

  Between workshops at the broadcast convention, Clarence Menard had given Rob further details of his “showbiz” credentials. In 2002, Clarence had released a regional hit record — "The Cajun Crunk" — an up-tempo record with a heavy bassline and a hip hop beat. He admitted that the song was probably even worse than the title indicated.