A Political Dance

A Political Dance

A 1964 Historical Mystery Novel

by Michael Don Fess

Copyright © 2019 Michael Don Fess

Smashwords Edition

Published by FessBooks.com

Little Rock, Arkansas

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to all of my old friends in Louisiana with a special salute to the memory of Mayo Murphey, Jerry Doty, Reuben Egan, Harry Roberts, Bob Corley, P.C. Berlin, Charlton Lyons, and Governor John McKeithen . . . all of whom are deceased.

Preface

Louisiana is unique. The French have influenced this area since the days of Napoleon and Cajun French was the dominant language in South Louisiana during the period of this novel.

The legacy of Huey P. Long still shapes many of today's legislative decisions with New Orleans and Orleans Parish remaining as special districts in the state. Many of Huey's successors have served prison terms and as of this writing, the recent ex-governor, Edwin Edwards, just finished his ten-year term in a cell.

Many states have graft and corruption problems, but Louisiana seems to excel in this specialty. This historic novel tries to expose some of the methods used to accomplish those deeds. The characters are fiction, but were inspired by real people in Louisiana history. This fictionalized account of those many real events that happened in 1964 is designed to give the reader a taste of politics, Louisiana style.

The series of events depicted here have roots in various family lore, hearsay, and pure fiction, all leading up to an unforgettable climax at the Political Bar-B-Que.

CHAPTER ONE

Florida - Election Day 1980

8:00 AM

Fleetingham Fox pulled off his suit coat, placed it on the back of a chair, loosened his tie, and plopped into the plush, soft leather couch. With a practiced motion, he propped his feet on the ottoman.

I don't care what most people do on election days, he said to his campaign manager as he followed him into the room, I'm going to forget about the election for the next ten or twelve hours.

He took a deep breath and brushing back his cowlick with his fingers.

I'm out of that uniform till tonight, he continued. I'm gonna slip on a T-shirt and some shorts and you can become the boss for a while.

Halbut Smith grinned with a slight chuckle and perched lightly on the arm of the couch.

Okay . . . I'll clear your Calendar for today.

I'm serious . . . I voted early at 7:30, said Fleet. "Our telephone bank will keep reminding people to go vote, our workers will transport voters to the polls, and there's nothing else to do but wait for the outcome.

Smitty patted his shoulder and nodded.

I may just get a good book and read it, he continued, but I don't want to be disturbed until the returns are in. I'm tired and I've done all I can do. The campaign's over.

Okay chief, you're right, I'll batten down the hatches, barricade the doors and unplug the phones. You deserve a day off after the campaign you've been through.

You've been hitting it pretty hard yourself, old friend, Fleet sighed. Don't think I don't appreciate it.

I've been your right hand too long to slow down now, Smitty raised an eyebrow. Besides, we're almost there.

It'll be close . . . too close to be decisive either way, Fleet indicated with a gesture. It won't be a mandate or a rejection, just a close election. That's why I want to get it off my mind for a while.

Okay chief, I'll be on my way. I have a few things to do that'll take my mind off the pressure, too . . . see you about eight o'clock tonight.

On your way out, would you ask Mattie to serve some coffee in the library? That's where I'm going to hole up for the day.

At that moment Mattie came into the room, Dere's someone waitin' to see you in the library, raising her hand to ward off the scowl that appeared on Fleet's face. He told me dat he is yo son. I believed him.

An open mouth and raised eyebrows replaced his scowl.

Walter? Here in Orlando?"

The look of astonishment slowly faded to pleasure.

My God, it's been fifteen years if it's been a day. Are you sure?

Mattie's face said it all. I believed him, she shrugged.

Fleet rushed off to the library, oblivious to the departure of Hal Smith. He hurried to the end of the hall where a guest bedroom had been converted for use as his personal retreat. Stopping at the door, he stared at the well dressed young man, who was facing the opposite wall, looking at pictures over the mantle.

Are you . . . Walter?

The young man turned toward Fleet. One glance at the young man told him the answer to his question. His son looked at him with thirsty eyes, drinking in the details of his face. Those eyes measured his size, then he focused on Fleet's eyes.

You look better than your pictures, Walter rubbed his chin, but you're not as tall as I expected.

Well, you're certainly a fine looking young man, I'm glad to see you. Fleet took a couple of steps into the room, then hesitated. I don't know whether to hug you or shake your hand, he admitted.

Walter took on a dark cold look. I think a handshake will do for now, after all, we don't know each other. I've never had a father.

Fleet eyes grew moist as he clasped the extended hand with both hands. You did until you were five years old, son. Don't you remember any of that?

Barely . . . it was more like a dream, doesn't seem like it really happened.

But it did, son, it did. We had some great times together. The memories flooded back. He thought of the toys, the small ball and bat, and the Saturday trips to the lake on his weekends with the children.

How's your little sister?

Walter's eyes softened as he grinned. She would be embarrassed at that question, little sister has been a cheerleader at LSU for two years.

My God, it doesn't seem possible. Fleet shook his head and sat down in his favorite chair. Sit down and tell me all about yourself.

"Well, I finished up my master's at LSU this summer and I'm considering three job offers. He squeezed the arms of his chair as his words started to come out in a rush, like he was giving a prepared speech.

I'm doing fine, except I've got to know why you abandoned us. You seem like a nice guy. Mom didn't say any bad things about you, but you disappeared and never came back. I finally tracked you down and I'm here to find out why. I need to know. I've got to understand what we did to deserve that. I realize that today probably isn't a good time for you, but I haven't had any other opportunities."

Fleet brought his hand up to rub his chin as he listened to the hurt in his son's voice. He nodded as he considered his son's words.

Why did you do it, dad? All these years of wondering why. Don't you see, not knowing is the worst possible state of mind. I'm a grown man, now. I think I can handle it, whatever it is. I don't know whether to hate you or claim you as a father.

You're right, son, he drew a deep breath, I guess it's time you knew the reason.

I never even knew where you were until I began to read about you occasionally as a junior in college, or at least I thought it was you. Only then did I realize that you were here in Florida . . . and in politics. Mom always said she didn't know where you were.

That was what we agreed upon. My God, that was an eternity ago. Surely, after all these years, you and your sister will be safe enough.

Safe? Walter asked. Safe from what?

Fleet held up his hand to slow the questions. It's a complicated story, son, the answer to your questions are not easy one liners.

The hurt reappeared on Walter's face.

Look, I have all day, he said, reading the hurt on Walter's face. "If you have time, why don't we get comfortable and I'll spend the whole day telling you all about it.

Walter took a deep breath. I have a week before I notify the placement office which job offer I accept. I can listen more than a day if it takes it to get the whole answer, Walter said without expression.

All right, and after you've heard what happened, you can decide whether you hate me or claim me. Fair enough?

Fair enough, Walter replied.

Just then Mattie came in bringing a tray with coffee and sweet rolls. She stopped as soon as she saw that Walter was still there.

"Mattie, this is my son Walter, he'll be with us a few days. Would you show him to the blue guest room? He'll want to get comfortable.

Lawsey, Mr. Fox, he be a fine lookin' boy.

Fleet smiled. Yes, and you were right to believe him, Mattie. I'm going to change into some shorts and a shirt. Get comfortable before the coffee gets cold, he said, turning to his son.

Good . . . I'll be right back, Walter replied, following Mattie out of the room.

Fleet's face took on a grave expression as they departed. Walking across the hall to his own bedroom, he had time to reflect on the situation. Now that this moment had arrived, would they really be safe?

He selected a pair of older tennis shorts, his most comfortable pair and grabbed an old cotton shirt with elbow length sleeves. He pulled on some cotton tennis socks, but no shoes, and padded back to the library just as Walt came down the hall.

Help yourself, he urged, pointing to the tray. Mattie makes great coffee.

Walt stepped over to the tray and poured a full cup. Have you ever remarried? he asked, stirring the cream into his coffee.

No . . . came close a couple of times, but didn't tie the knot.

Mom did about the time I graduated from high school. Her new husband seems like a nice guy. I hardly know him, I've been gone off to college most of the time since then. Karen likes him, she lived with them during her senior year and got to know him better.

Yes, your mother kept me informed through a mutual friend. That same friend is the lawyer who administers your trust funds for college and your allowances.

Why would grandfather use your friend to administer his trust?

Let's not get ahead of ourselves, I told you that it was complicated. Fleet poured his coffee, added a spoon of sugar, and stirred. Breathing in the aroma as he selected a sweet roll, he settled in his easy chair. It's ironic, isn't it Fleet said to his son. The world outside is deciding my future and I'm in here revealing my past.

I'm all ears! Walt sat down in a comfortable chair across from his dad.

The reason I vanished when you were five, he began, looking at his son through moist eyes, was to save our lives.

The young face displayed a puzzled expression. That's a heavy thing to say.

I know, but it came down to that. You see, I was a traveling salesman in those days in my first job, young and naive, just a kid from the country. I had a lot of ambition in those days and big goals to achieve, but I ran into a major obstacle that I couldn't overcome . . . his voice faltered.

After a deep breath, he continued. My life became a constant flow of new lessons about politics, Louisiana style.

CHAPTER TWO

His Story . . . North Louisiana

Summer of 1964

I'm still getting used to dialing the phone, Fleet said to the car salesman. Where I grew up, we picked up the phone and waited for the operator to say, number please, and gave her the number. He surveyed the instrument panel of his new car, Chevrolet's newest creation, and marveled at the sight. The car was small, but comfortable, just right for traveling over the Ark-La-Tex, the general area around Shreveport, Louisiana, about a hundred-mile radius.

He remembered glancing at his Benrus when he started his car that morning. It read 6:25 and the sun wasn't doing any more to the sky than bright moonlight does on a clear night. He remembered dreading another two hour trip south to Alexandria, which he did it at least every two weeks. The 1964 Corvair was a fun road car, the low vinyl-covered bucket seats made him feel like he was piloting a rocket ship, when he accelerated.

Fleet sold plumbing supplies for a major manufacturer who marketed its products through independent agents. His employer, a stocking distributor with offices in New Orleans and Dallas paid him based on a straight sales commission. Fleet's assignment was North Louisiana and East Texas.

The day had been a typical, tough, and hot one, but as usual he pushed hard, sparing no energy, and giving his usual extra effort. He knew this was the only way to excel in his highly competitive field; bidding plumbing equipment on new construction projects.

His radio announced, This is KALA, the voice of Alexandria, The clock showed that it was now five o'clock and time for the homeward bound news except that Fleet's work-day wasn't over, yet. As always, the radio was his companion, especially during the journey from Shreveport.

Throughout the long sultry day, he moved from one plumbing shop to another, all over the city of Alexandria. Climbing in and out of a hot, locked car in the sweltering heat, took the crease out of his pants, but not the spring out of his walk. He was a determined young man, goal oriented, and one who had his eyes on his future.

Alexandria comprised about one third of his market, so he spent about four days each month in those customers' offices. Many people considered this central Louisiana town, with a posted population of 56,452, to be just a sleepy little place snuggled in a bend of the Red River.

He dropped off some literature about a new silent-flush commode at an Architect's office on the riverfront, when he found himself mired in a traffic jam.

Murphy's Law, he muttered to himself.

The five o'clock rush hour had the ancient, narrow downtown streets clogged with cars. The clock seemed to speed up as it ticked off the seconds of this late afternoon hour. With a little luck, he could catch his last call of the day before his customer closed shop.

When he rolled down one window to help the car cool more quickly, the exhaust fumes made his eyes sting, with bumper to bumper traffic in all directions. He could see the heat waves rising off the hot pavement through the expelled exhaust gases. As he agonized over the crunch that had him all but paralyzed, he thought about the dismal day.

Nothing had worked out right. When the light turned green and the intersection cleared, he moved on to try to make his last call of the day. Since many of the companies start work at seven, it would be sheer luck if he caught the owner before he went home.

He counted twenty-six stops and was having a rough day. As often happened, he had missed many of his customers and had to keep calling back, sometimes three or four times. This was a frustrating game, trying to catch contractors in their offices.

He arrived at Atlas Plumbing out on the bypass at exactly 5:16 PM and rested his head on the steering wheel in an unconscious display of frustration. They had closed up shop and gone home. This was the second time today that he had been by to see old John.

Fleet prided himself on his average of fourteen calls per day and this would have been his fourteenth call today. He only counted the calls when he was face to face with a bonafide buyer. It became obvious that he would simply have to hustle more than usual tomorrow to make up for this minor set-back. He turned down the street to check into the Starlite Motel.

He reflected on an important call he made earlier at Amos Stuart, Mechanical Contractor. As Amos was low bidder on the men's dormitory job at Southern University, Fleet had expected to pick up an order for about thirty thousand dollars worth of plumbing fixtures. The feeling of disappoint hung on him like the aftertaste of garlic on toast. Writing that order, would have made this a banner month.

Remembering the feeling of foreboding while waiting in the front office, he overheard Amos finish with another salesman. When they came out together, Fleet didn't recognize the man, but when Amos saw Fleet, a cool half-smile appeared on his face as he shook hands.

Amos was a big man with hands that could nearly wrap around a football. Fleet always felt tiny when he shook hands with him. He picked up a cup, poured his coffee and offered Fleet some. Fleet thanked him but declined, he knew how strong and black Amos liked his coffee.

Fleet knew something was wrong when Amos seemed a little cool toward him, since he was usually a friendly, jovial person, who greeted him with enthusiasm. The strange feeling in his gut persisted as Fleet followed him back to his office. He shrugged it off, thinking maybe Amos was just pre-occupied with the dormitory job.

I've got some bad news for you, podnuh, Amos said in his usual straight forward manner. The man says I can't use your stuff.

What do you mean, Amos? Fleet replied. What man?

I was down to Baton Rouge two days ago to meet with the general contractor about the job schedules, he said in a slow deliberate voice. Both the architect and the engineer were there, so I met with them too.

This must be one of Lefty Hallrider's jobs?

You know him? Amos looked surprised.

I met him once when I called on him at his office in Monroe, Fleet answered. He told me he wasn't interested in any more literature and not to waste his time. I forgot he was the engineer on this job.

It's his job all right and he made sure that I knew it was his job. Amos grimaced. He took me aside and asked me what kind of equipment I planned to furnish in the contract. I opened the job folder I was carrying and read him the brand names of the low bidders.

I've heard of stories like this. Fleet nodded. I've just never been involved in one before. I think I know what comes next.

You probably do, he said, clenching his large fists on the desk. He told me that if I didn't furnish the brands he specified, I'd never finish the job. Then he told me if I gave him what he wanted, the job should turn out to be very profitable.

That's illegal as hell.

Sure it is, Amos shrugged, but since his father-in-law is on the State Board of Education, he can bend the law and get away with it.

So what are you going to do?

Two things, he replied. First, I'm going to buy what was specified for the job. I can't risk financial ruin to correct something that's been going on for a long time.

Fleet wanted to shout, This is my order, I was low bidder, fair and square, but instead he controlled his anguish and said, and the second?

I made contact with a detective agency up in Shreveport through a friend of mine. I've also called up three friendly contractors who have experienced Lefty's iron hand and asked them for a donation. Between the four of us, we are stating a fund with one thousand dollars to hire these detectives. I want them to get the goods on Mr. L. H. Lefty Hallrider.

Fleet wiped his cowlick back and said, I'll join you.

I thought you might, Amos grinned, In fact, I was counting on it. I want you to deliver the cash to Harry Rogers. He's the president of Southern Detective Agency. He said he would call me when he gets the money, to find out exactly what I want him to do.

Count me in, Fleet said, wiping his hands on his pants, just above the knees, I'll donate two hundred dollars.

Great, Amos smiled. Now remember, no names. All donations have to remain anonymous. The detectives are going to be instructed to take any evidence straight to the State Attorney General, they won't be contacting us. If you can get any more donations on that basis, just give the money to Mr. Rogers. I don't even want to know about it.

Fleet sat for a moment thinking about his nice order floating out the window, but he was excited about the plan. The loss was a bitter disappointment, but maybe they could do something about Lefty.

Amos stood and held out his hand. I'm sorry about the order, podnuh, he said, interrupting Fleet's thoughts. I don't really have a choice.

As Fleet rose, he shook his head sadly, I know it's not your fault, but that doesn't make it any easier to take.

Let's hope the detectives can do some good, Amos added as Fleet slowly walked out the door.

Fleet remembered getting in his car and just sitting a minute. He had just fallen from the fresh cool air of ecstasy to the dank, dark depths of despair. What about his goals, the quotas he set for himself? He could never reach the level of financial independence he envisioned if Lefty kept stealing his big orders. All of his hard work was wasted because of that crook.

This was the moment he made his initial resolve to do something about Lefty. It was almost as earthshaking as if it were a declaration of war. He knew something had to be done. He also realized that if he didn't do it, who would? Fighting depression for the rest of the day was tough.

Most of his customers liked Fleet and for the most part, the feeling was mutual. He liked to keep things light and informal, so he kidded people as a matter of normal conversation. If anyone ever took offense at his kidding, his comment was, I only kid people I like. The disappointment he felt made that trait very hard to continue.

After checking into the Starlite Motel, he walked next door to their lounge. He watched a middle-aged couple go in, giving him a hint of its appeal. Strains of Cajun fiddle music floated through the open door reminding him that Cajuns seem to know how to have a good time. He had an amusing thought that maybe he should take lessons. Maybe he was just too straight . . . square was another term he could use.

Recalling a hay ride in the back of a flatbed truck when he was in the eighth grade, he saw that all the couples around him were courting. He was too timid to put his arm around his date, much less, kiss her.

He had always been timid around girls. It was just something he had to overcome, like being afraid of the dark. At least he thought knew why he was afraid of the dark. When he was very young, his aunt, about twelve years older than him, used to lock him in a closet, as punishment, and tell him the boogie man might get him if he wasn't good.

The deep-throated roar of a passing '56 Chevy with straight pipes startled him out of his thoughts. He took another deep breath, wondering what made him think of such things. The subconscious mind was an interesting phenomenon.

Entering the lounge, he picked a table away from the main traffic area and ordered his favorite refreshment, two glasses of soda and a jigger of scotch. When they arrived, he poured half the jigger into each glass, stirred, and started to sip.

The waitress stood watching the little ceremony. Never seen that before, she quipped. Most people complain about our drinks being too weak, they'd really flip at yours. Fleet chuckled and took another sip, having heard many cute remarks about his drinks.

His mind drifted back to the episode at Stuart Mechanical. He had lost other large orders because of Lefty, but this was the first time any contractor had leveled with him. He had only suspected that Lefty was behind the other losses. If this were true, it would explain why he wrote very few large orders when he knew that he was more than competitive.

One of the most difficult things he had to do was to shake it off and get back into a positive frame of mind. His good friend and customer, T.C. Toulan, late in the next day, solved