Dancing With The Mafia

Preface

This novel is a sequel to A Political Dance, first published by the author in 2014. It depicted life through the eyes of a sales engineer in the construction trade and detailed his battle with corruption in state politics.

Louisiana is one of our states in which the mafia had a major foothold. While these characters and events are fictitious, they are inspired by real people and real events. This era was plagued by turmoil of Civil Rights protests, Viet Nam war protests, and the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

Louisiana remains a welfare state as one of the legacies of Huey P. Long . . . the charity hospital system, the free school books, and the huge patronage system where each new governor makes over one thousand appointments. New Orleans and Orleans Parish remain as special districts in the state.

Many states have graft and corruption problems, but Louisiana seems to excel in this specialty. This novel exposes some of the corruption and influence of organized crime. The characters are fiction, but were inspired by real people in Louisiana history.

Much of this novel is focused around the area and events that occurred when Toledo Bend Lake was under construction. The series of events depicted here have roots the real world and is a uniquely fictionalized account of those events designed to give the reader a taste of Dancing with The Mafia.

Dancing With The Mafia

CHAPTER ONE

Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Lionel Bigley paced the floor, his long legs covering the room in four steps. We almost had the S.O.B. he told his boss.

Al Gravis nodded. I knew the plan had high risks. That's why I didn't want this office involved.

If the Attorney General's office can't take a risk, who can? Lon stopped and held out his hands in exasperation.

I'm retiring at the end of this year and setting up a private practice, as you know. I don't want any failures on my record.

Okay, Lon shrugged, I understand, but now since that dirt bag, Jack Meriwether is out of the way, I want to go after whoever the mob is backing. We can't allow a Governor to be elected with criminal funds.

Well, let's think it over, Al said. Senator Jack is history, the New Orleans Mayor is limited outside Orleans Parish and the Republican in Shreveport can't muster the votes statewide. Gillis Long has no base of support beyond the appeal of his last name. You know my campaign is just for publicity so you need to look for a compromise candidate.

You're right, boss, and I know just the man. Lon began pacing again. He announced two days ago and my classmate in law school, Tim Bletman, is his north Louisiana campaign manager."

You're thinking of Old Glad, aren't you?

Yes sir, Congressman Gladden Flowers happens to be the right man in the right spot. Lon stopped and scratched his head, but an old politician like him should be too smart to get in bed with the mob.

My guess is that they will give money to all the candidates until it becomes obvious who will be in the run-off. This campaign promises to be a mud slinging event.

Damn . . . I hope Tim doesn't let the dirt rub off on him.

Well, if he went through law school with you, he isn't stupid. If he is your friend, however, you need to tell him to tread lightly.

I will, for sure. Lon began to pace again.

Also, remember you are messing with the mob. They have no limitations. With legal casino gambling in New Orleans at stake and the millions of dollars it represents, they will stop at nothing. Watch yourself!

Hmmm . . . you're right, of course. Lonnie paused, then raised his hand in a mock salute as he departed. Thanks!

Lon hurried down the hall to his office. He had an idea that might work. It was based on the old adage, Fight fire with fire.

He picked up the phone a dialed a number. Capt. Bruno, please, when the lady answered.

I'll ring him, she said, politely.

Bruno here, the gruff voice pounded his ear.

Ouch, Lon said. You must be having a rough morning.

Well hello, little buddy . . . if an ass-chewing is your definition of a rough morning, I've had one. The Governor didn't like the bad publicity Louisiana received from that Bar-B-Que fiasco.

I know and I'm sorry I got you into that mess. I owe you a drink so I'm inviting you to meet me at the same place we met before . . . about 4:30 this afternoon . . . it's important, he said cryptically.

Capt. Guido Bruno's ears perked up, recognizing Lon didn't want to say much on the phone. Sure, little buddy. I'm always available for a free drink.

Lon hung up the phone and quickly picked it back up. He heard the now familiar click, click.

Shreveport, Louisiana

Tim Bletman handed his secretary, Kate, a five page draft and told her it was ready for typing. I need four carbon copies instead of the usual three . . . I may have to bring in an associate if we go to trial.

She nodded as she took the papers. That new IBM Selectric works great, she said. I love the way it responds to the touch. After using that old typewriter for years, this is a dream to use."

I'm glad you like it . . . that means we didn't waste our money.

She turned to go and said, By the way, Jason Boutte is waiting to see you.

Tim nodded, Send him in.

As Jason appeared, Tim said, Come in my friend.

Jason eased his hulk through the door and smiled as Tim motioned for him to sit.

Have you heard the latest in the Governor's race? he asked.

I'm not sure what you mean.

Old Glad not only announced he was running, he just came out big for legalized casinos in New Orleans. I just heard it on the radio and since I was downtown, I thought I would see what you knew. He is obviously in bed with the mob.

Tim looked across his desk with wide eyes. So you think the Gladden Flowers campaign for Governor will be funded with mob money? I have to say that seems preposterous.

Ain't it obvious, Jason answered with a gesture. You asked me to help and you say we don't have to worry about raising money. I think big oil will also be bankrolling him.

The Congressman told me when he asked me to head up his North Louisiana campaign that he was in favor of legal casinos in New Orleans, but I didn't think it meant he was taking mob money. He gave me several good reasons why legal casinos would be good for New Orleans.

Don't be naïve, Tim, you're a lawyer. You know what happened to our good friend, Fleet Fox. The mob blamed him for screwing up their gravy train. They thought he ruined their big Bar-B-Que fundraiser for Senator Jack. Lon told us they put out a hit on him . . . then he disappeared. That's a bad precedent . . . you don't want to mess with that bunch.

Tim nodded, saying nothing. He remembered very well how he and Lon helped Fleet to vanish. He remained as Fleet's sole contact with his family.

If you can show me Old Glad isn't on their payroll, Jason continued, I will be happy to help you . . . after all, politics is my first love.

Wow, I never considered that possibility . . . after all, Glad was my father's law partner for a few years in Alexandria before we moved to Shreveport. I suppose I was blinded by his long relationship as a friend of the family.

Remember that old adage about politics and strange bedfellows. Well . . . that's one strange bed you don't want to share.

Okay, I will have a lengthy visit with Lon and try to get to the real truth. You're right . . . I don't want to sleep in that bed.

Call me when you know more, Jason said as he got up to leave. In the meantime, I go to New Orleans a lot. I will keep my ear to the ground. We may not hear much up here in Shreveport since most of the important things revolve around Baton Rouge.

Thanks, Tim said, as he opened his file labeled Campaign Rally and began to make notes.

Jason waved goodbye as he eased his oversized body through the door.

Tim only nodded, lost in thought.

Baton Rouge

Lon left the noisy sidewalk and took three steps into the Bourbon Street Lounge. As he stopped to look around, he sniffed the pungent odor of stale liquor that permeated the air. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dimly lit bar and he spotted Capt. Bruno at the far corner table motioning him over.

You must be a glutton for punishment, he said instead of greeting Lon. The last time we were here, you hit me with a plan that went sour. They cut me no slack for being a special unit of the state police.

I know, Captain, but our state is about to go to hell in the mob's waste paper basket.

So, what's new?

Don't be so calloused . . . you have kids too, if I remember correctly. I know you want a decent place for them to live.

Okay, he said, holding up two fingers. The bartender nodded. So I want the same things you do . . . what kind of crazy scheme is it this time? His pock-marked face softened with a smile.

Well . . . I think we need to create a condition so that no candidate will accept an alliance with the mob. He said as the bartender left them.

You know how to work miracles or something?

Lonnie smiled. No but I have an idea that might work if we can pull it off.

The bartender set two frosty beer mugs and two jiggers of bourbon on the table. Bruno's shot of whiskey vanished immediately.

Bruno's special police unit was a creation of a former Attorney General in cooperation with the Governor at that time. The Governor, in addition to having public flings with strippers, had some paranoid hallucinations about an assassination attempt.

They created the special unit of the State Police patterned after the role of the U. S. Secret Service. Their original responsibility was protecting the Governor. It had since been expanded to security details of other officials and candidates.

Bruno was hand-picked for the job and promoted to Captain. He personally selected the original members of his unit, but as needs increased, so had members of his unit.

He had been happy with the chain of command until Jolle Ebarbe was brought in as his immediate supervisor and promoted to Colonel. Most of the department knew this move was politically maneuvered, but by whom, Bruno had no idea.

Lon verbalized his thoughts in a hushed voice while Bruno chugged his beer. His stocky frame suggested hard muscles under his suit and his dark red tie had seen better days. Bruno's five o'clock shadow gave emphasis to his Armenian heritage while his sharp Roman nose hinted more of a mixed ancestry.

Capt. Bruno thought in silence, then held up two fingers for another round. He shook his head and said, You realize the risk we would be taking, don't you?

Lonnie nodded. Only the strains of Dixieland music from the bar next door interrupted the silence.

Are you sure your friend, Tim, will go along?

I hope so . . . and his old chum, Pat Hariston, too.

They paused while the bartender placed their fresh drinks.

I've only got six men I can trust . . . beyond that, we would be out on a limb. His tough manner began to mellow somewhat as he paused.

By the way, here is a number that rings on my desk without going through the switchboard," he said, handing Lon a card.

Thanks . . . that will be convenient.

Let's think about this for a while . . . I've had enough ass-chewing for this year already. We've got to get our ducks in a row. If we do it . . . it's gotta be done right."

Lon pushed his shot glass over to Bruno.

Okay chief . . . good idea, as he got up to leave. Think about it for a couple of days and let's talk. Don't say anything on the phone when you call, my line may be tapped. I've heard strange clicks.

Lon left an astonished Captain to finish his drinks alone.

Shreveport

Jason Boutty sat in his den thinking, then picked up the phone and dialed his friend, Bob Goshee, an attorney in Lettieu Parish. He knew Bob from their days at LSU and had remained in touch because of their mutual interest in politics.

The secretary said he was in court, but she would take a message. Jason left his name and number.

He was uncomfortable with Tim's request to help in the campaign. As much as he loved politics, he loved life more. Rubbed his bulbous nose, he considered the situation. He reasoned that Tim was playing with fire without access to a fire hose. As a long time student of politics, Jason knew the power of money in campaigns. It was a double edged sword and it could cut deep if things didn't go right.

Anne, he yelled to his wife in the kitchen. I'm going over to see Marion Darby . . . be back in a little while."

Marion had a successful advertising agency and he seemed to have written the book on political ads. He knew how to spot an opponent's weakness and exploit it for his client. He and Jason had conferred on several campaigns, both locally and statewide.

Jason's work hours were flexible since he went to work for his dad in the vending business. He could monitor and fill vending machines as the need dictated which provided him much freedom in his schedule.

He crawled into his two year old Chevy station wagon to make the short trip to Youree Drive. The cases of cigarettes stacked behind the seat made it difficult to use the rear view mirror for backing out of parking spaces, so he opted for oversized mirrors on both sides of the vehicle.

Marion's office building was a converted house, one of many such commercial properties along the four-lane artery also designated as State Highway One. There was no one in the reception lobby, so he walked down the hall and lightly tapped at the open doorway.

Well, hello good buddy, Marion greeted him with a smile. Which horse are you gonna ride in the Governor's race?

I thought you'd never ask, Jason responded sarcastically. "I've been trying on saddles to find a good fit.

I know, Marion said, getting serious. I'm kinda nervous at this point about all the rumors. What do you hear?

I'm hearing a lot these days . . . especially about the mob and a plan to legalize gambling in New Orleans. This race could get real dirty.

Marion scratched his head. I heard they were supporting Jack Meriwether until he crashed and burned at that Bar-B-Que fund raiser. I wish I could have been there to see that. There would have been a lot of satisfaction except for that woman who was killed.

Yea, there have been two deaths already and the campaigns have hardly begun. Your competitor, Bill Wesley, was gunned down in Baton Rouge while plotting strategy for his candidate and two weeks ago, obviously a mob killing. After that, a woman was killed while dancing at a political fund raiser.

Politics in Louisiana is getting dangerous, alright.

What is this world coming to? Jason asked.

By the way, Bill wasn't exactly my competitor . . . I helped him formulate that strategy because I didn't like Senator Jack. It had good possibilities.

I didn't know that.

The campaign manager asked me to take over the advertising after Bill's death, but I bowed out. I like living too much.

I don't blame you . . . the mob is a rough crowd to go up against. You made the right decision.

I've been analyzing the other candidates. So far, I haven't decided where my loyalty should lie. Most of them have a lot of baggage to overcome."

One thing is certain . . . no candidate will try Jack's type of fund raiser in this campaign. That would be committing political suicide. Jason stated emphatically.

Marion nodded. I can't disagree with that.

Actually, I came to ask you what you are hearing about Old Glad's chances. Do you know where he is getting his funds?

If the rumors are true, my friend, he is in bed with the mob and big oil, mainly Texas Petroleum. It's hard to believe, but sometimes pigs fly. If true, we need to get a piece of that action . . . money will flow like wine.

Jason chuckled. It was obvious, looking at Marion's Hickey-Freeman suit, that he liked money.

Do you know that Tim is Glad's north Louisiana campaign manager?

Well, if I do get some of that action, Tim will be good to work with.

I'm planning to stay out of it if the mob is involved, said Jason. Things could get rough.

I follow the money, said Marion.

CHAPTER TWO

Alexandria, Louisiana

A long black limousine slowly entered the parking garage adjoining the Brentley Hotel. A lanky figure in a white linen suit walked through the hotel doorway and started across the concrete floor. Congressman Gladden Flowers strolled toward the limo and climbed through the open door.

I'm happy you could join me, Congressman.

Always glad to see you Carlos, he said as he settled into the luxurious seat.

I want to review our arrangement, he said, his balding head with slicked back hair gleaming under the dome light. My friends insisted that I make sure that we have a clear understanding.

The limo slowly exited the garage and turned to cross the Red River into Pineville. As they crossed the bridge, the air conditioner made the summer heat bearable.

We are prepared to make a sizable investment, you know. We must leave no room for a misunderstanding.

I believe I know how much legal casinos would benefit the City of New Orleans, the Congressman said with a smile. I memorized the estimates of tax revenue increases you provided.

We also want you to be able to overcome most of the moral objections . . . here are some statistics about reduction of crime when gaming is legalized, he said, handing him a sheaf of papers.

Gladden Flowers nodded, taking the papers in silence. He knew there had to be a more important reason for this meeting. Carlos wouldn't waste his time with information easily found by his congressional researchers.

After a pause, Carlos continued. I need to bring up something we haven't discussed . . . the major reason for this meeting. For the contribution we are prepared to make, we will also need you to appoint some of our friends to key positions in the justice system and we want to name some of the promotions within the State Police.

Glad's jaw tightened, but he nodded.

In return, he continued, you will have almost unlimited funds for your campaign and the numbered Swiss account will be waiting for you when your term is over. The million dollars in that account will amount to $250,000 per year during your term in office. Not a bad income when added on to the Governor's salary.

The eyes of Carlos Marcello watched his reaction with unblinking interest.

Measure that against the average household income in Louisiana last year of $6,000. he continued. 1963 was a good year and this year, the economy should be about the same.

Those eyes continued staring as he paused.

The Congressman interrupted the silence by clearing his throat. As usual, Carlos, you are very persuasive. You can count on my cooperation.

My friends will be very pleased . . . it would not be wise to disappoint them.

At that point in the conversation, the limo turned back into the parking garage.

You will need this to get you started, Carlos said as he handed him a thick envelope.

Taking the envelope, Glad opened the door and eased his lanky frame onto the concrete floor, nodding as the limo exited the garage. He knew this would be his last hurrah.

Shreveport

Tim picked up the phone when his secretary buzzed him that Lon Bigley was on line one. Hey Lon, what's up?

The price of gas, for one thing, quipped Lon. I hear its going to thirty-five cents a gallon.

You must be feeling pretty good to call me about gas prices.

Naw, just trying to keep from crying . . . things haven't gone very well lately. Now I'm worried about you, old buddy.

Tim's face took on a serious look knowing Lon didn't kid about things like that. Why are you worried about me?

I'm afraid that you might get blind-sided. Gladden Flowers may be the mob's candidate and you are right in the middle of it.

You are the second person this week to tell me that, Tim said in frustration. What do you know that I don't?

Lon changed the subject. "I'm coming to Shreveport this weekend to do some planning. Can you set up a meeting with Pat Hariston