The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2007

An excerpt from the satirical mystery novel: Demons of a Kingmaker

By Kevin Ferguson

The Dive: Prologue

On a breezy November evening in the Las Vegas Valley, an 86-year-old woman named Lola Evans put a pot of tea on the stove and told her guest, a curious young man, that she’d be right back and headed upstairs to fetch a photo album. It thrilled her to have a new neighbor come in for tea. She found him delightful even if she couldn’t remember his name. He seemed captivated by her stories and she couldn’t wait to show him pictures of her back in her glory days arm-and-arm with Frank Sinatra.

Lola sifted through three albums in her study before finding the right one. She gazed at the photo, Sinatra’s arm around her and laughing, taken at the Sands Hotel. It was the night of her life, her single brush with fame after stumbling into a cocktail lounge one night. Not bad for a fifth grade teacher and community center dance instructor. As she marveled at her youthful beauty, she heard a rumbling downstairs. The creaking of her hardwood floors. She figured she better hurry down. Her guest must be getting bored.

At the top of the stairs, she felt a desire to be that twenty-five-year-old in the photo. Lola put the album down and twirled in a full-circle. I still got it, she said to no one. So she thought.

“Oh, there you are,” she said to her tall, lengthy guest, standing at the top of the stairs. “I was just coming down.”

“I was wondering what was taking you so long,” he said.

A piece of paper slipped out of the album. Lola bent over and lost her balance. She felt a tap on her shoulder and somersaulted down the stairs. Her head smacked against the wall, knocking her unconscious.

After a few minutes, she opened her eyes to a complete blur, and her head spun like a top. She couldn’t move or speak. Pain shot through her frail body. A cold chill overwhelmed her as a pool of blood accumulated under her left hip.

A whistle blew from the kitchen. She didn’t know why, but it stopped after a couple of seconds.

A shadow came over her. She tried to turn her head, but couldn’t. Wordlessly, she mouthed: HELP.

The shadow faded as the front door opened and then closed.

Chapter 1: The Eggman

ON A COOL DECEMBER morning, Peter Wilbon sipped his coffee from the front patio of Java Joe’s and stared across the street at a row of tiny, rundown houses known to the public as “rental properties.”

“Converting those meth labs into a four-star hotel is going to be quite a feat,” Peter said with an air of proud confidence.

Police Chief Bernie Kovach, a burly forty-four-year-old, leaned back in his wicker chair and played with his cigarette lighter. “At least you’re optimistic.”

“What do you mean? The hard part’s over – now that we’ve reached a settlement with the drug lord. Am I missing something?”

Kovach shook his head while focusing on his lighter. “It’s just that your boss isn’t so optimistic.” Peter’s boss was a guy named Mike Donovan, the city planning director for the booming Las Vegas suburb of Littleton.

            “Donovan’s been key to this whole land acquisition. What’s changed in the past day or two?” Peter asked, noticing the chief’s attention turning toward a pony-tail-wearing hoodlum entering a small glitzy storefront a block away. Outside, a red neon sign flickered: barry’s bail bonds. Market Street was full of glittering signs. The one outside PT’s Pub promoted high returns on video poker and the Bull’s Eye Casino tempted hungry gamblers with $2.99 Steak Dinners!

Kovach was fond of Peter and Donovan, because of their ambitious plans to revitalize downtown, which would likely lower the region’s crime rate and consequently make the chief look good. He stood up, slid his lighter into his pocket and gulped the last bit of his lukewarm coffee. “I know Donovan was. But he seemed to have a radically different attitude last night.”

Last night? Wednesday? As far as Peter knew, his boss set sail on a Christmas Caribbean cruise on Tuesday. He was supposed to be gone from December 20 through January 3. “Where’d you see him?” They loitered at the corner of Market and Ammonium Avenue across the street from City Hall and a block from the police station.

“At the Double Down,” the chief said. “Doing Cuervo body shots off of Shelley Williams. I congratulated him on having that messy property acquisition behind him, and he shrugged it off.”

“Really? What’d he say?”

“He offered to buy me a shot,” the chief said.

Peter didn’t know what surprised him most. That Donovan, a Scripture-reading 50-year-old, was in a dive bar licking salt off of a mayoral-assistant-turned stripper. Or that he was springing for top-shelf tequila. He decided to ask the more pertinent question: “What happened to his cruise? He hasn’t been in the office the last couple of days.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he stayed in town until the Herveta deal was settled.” Geronimo Herveta, was a Miami-based “real estate investor,” at least that’s what his business card said. The Market Street properties kitty-corner across from Littleton City Hall were just a few of his “investments” in Southern Nevada. For years, he kept a low profile in Littleton as did his shady renters, that was until a month ago when a 2 a.m. explosion jolted awake the gentlemen sleeping in the fire station nearby. A couple nights later, Littleton’s finest raided the neighboring properties and netted enough over-the-counter cold medicine to keep a deathly ill elephant’s symptoms in check for weeks. The renters were hauled off to jail, but not Herveta. His savvy lawyer convinced Littleton authorities that the speed cook-off went on without his client’s knowledge. The lawyer promised if the city prosecuted his client, it would be a long and costly battle at taxpayers’ expense. In a backroom deal, Herveta agreed to sell the properties to the city at rock bottom rates in exchange for the city promising to do “its best” to keep his name out of the newspapers.

That transferred the land into Peter’s lap. His job as a Littleton redevelopment officer was to help breathe life into older and decaying parts of town by luring new private businesses into the area by promising tax incentives. Herveta’s land, along with some neighboring properties, was going to be the site of the Summit Gardens Resort and Convention Center, expected by Littleton city officials to be the catalyst for turning a depressed downtown into a vibrant shopping and dining district.

“If Donovan’s in town, is he golfing with us this weekend?” Peter asked. The three of them have been golfing every third Saturday for years.

“He didn’t say. He’s supposed to be gone, so just keep the reservation a threesome unless we hear otherwise. Detective Sugarman is planning to play, I’m sure.”

The chief headed down Ammonium Avenue to the police station as Peter cut through the City Hall parking lot. He climbed into his car, figuring he’d make a quick stop to his house to retrieve a planning report he left there. As he was about to exit the lot, he realized the trip was unnecessary. The binder lay in the backseat. Peter hung a left and drove another ten feet and parked in the mayor’s spot instead of circling back to his spot.

Peter wore a tan suit with a blue tie, not in keeping with the power-suit-red-tie worn by the man who normally parked there. Although, today Peter envisioned Mayor Jimmie King in Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and a cocktail in hand. Peter was 33, with short stocky legs, built like a catcher. He had short brown hair, like a grown out buzz cut, and a gentle-looking face with a cleft chin.

“You get a promotion, Peter?” Mitch, a fixture of downtown Littleton, sat on a bench in the courtyard next to an elderly man Peter didn’t recognize. Mitch was in his fifties, always unshaven, and today he managed to scrounge up a pair of filthy blue jeans, a black windbreaker and a dirty red UNLV ball cap.

“You got it Mitch. Acting Mayor while Jimmie’s in Cancun.”

“No shit?”

“That’s right. Wielding my new power, I’m ordering you to keep your panhandling to a minimum – six cigarettes and cut down to just a fifth per day.”

“Ha! Ha!” Mitch hooted.

Mitch’s bench mate stared at the ground and stubbed out his cigarette with his foot. An oxygen tank rested to the right of the older man, and an Albertson’s grocery bag teetered atop of the tank. A ring of butts dotted the bench. He was an odd-looking fellow, in his seventies, with a droopy mustache, thin dusty brown hair, and snow-white sideburns. Suspenders held up his discount store-bought pants. The man took a deep breath, which sent his lungs into a tailspin, causing him to cough deep. He reached for the two-pronged end of the tubes connected to the oxygen machine and attached it to his nostrils.

Peter hustled up the City Hall steps with the faint sound of Mitch’s voice still audible: “So c’mon Johnny. Whadya got in d’bag? Whisky?”

Unlike most days, no phones were ringing in the planning department. Peter’s  squeaky shoes replaced the usual sound of water cooler chatter since most of the thirty or so staffers were stretching the Christmas holiday. The only other sound, a mousy whimper, came from the third cubicle just before Peter’s office. Shirley Blowers, another redevelopment officer, slouched in her cubicle whining into her phone to her psychologist as usual. Until recently, Peter had the adjacent cubicle, forcing him to overhear her therapy sessions. Peter was thankful when Donovan found him to be worthy of a private office when it came time to restructure the department to make room for new hires.

Peter’s new office was a tiny one – the former fax and copy machine room – but it was better than the cubicle. He shut the door halfway and settled in behind his desk. He flipped on his computer and as he waited for it to boot up, he noticed Shirley poking her head through his doorway. Peter kept his eyes on his computer screen.

“Are you busy? You look busy,” she said.

“Why do you always answer your own question? Never mind. What do you need Shirley?”

She nudged the door open and her pudgy five-foot-three inch frame filled the doorway.

“Just wondering if you had any extra binders. I’m putting together a report for the city manager.”

“City manager? Is this for Loni’s New Year’s Eve party?”

“No. It’s city business.”

Peter pointed to the back shelves, which were lined with planning manuals and redevelopment binders. “I think the last two to the right are empty.” After a lengthy pause, he glanced up from his computer screen. “Is this something you concocted during your cigarette breaks with her? How come you’re bypassing Donovan?”

Peter, along with most of his coworkers, considered Loni Hawkins, Littleton’s City Manager, to be a witch. Donovan was the only city hall director who buffered his staff from the city manager’s wrath.

“It’s just something she asked me to put together,” Shirley said, grabbing the binder.  “You sure have added some personal touches to your new office. Already got a plant and some pictures I see.” Shirley gazed at a photo and an art piece hanging underneath his windowsill. The photo was of his daughter Kate Lynn playing on a park swing. Next to that hung a drawing of Peter and his wife Melissa, at least according to the crayon-using artist, who depicted them as brown stick figures smiling under an orange sun and standing on pink grass.

“Ah, how cute. Who’s your artist?”

“Who do you think?”

The drawing hung below the window to help diffuse the fact that it offered a view of a depressed downtown. Ratty houses, unkempt yards and junk cars in driveways lined Ammonium Avenue. The only thing worse than staring out that window was watching Shirley loiter in his office. She peered over his desk, trying to read a brochure upside down. Peter hoped ignoring her would make her go away.

“Are you doing the Breast Cancer 10K Walk?” Shirley asked, referring to the brochure.

“Sure. I do it every year.” Peter refrained from telling her that one of the moms on the youth soccer team he coached was a survivor, a comment that would only make Shirley thirst for more information.

After reading the same email three times, Peter glanced up and said: “Shirley, I’m a little busy. You got your binder. Is there something else?”

“No, I’m sorry. Thanks. See ya.”

Peter typed up some hand-written notes from a meeting with the Summit Gardens developer. Before he knew it, the clock struck three. He planned to leave early to do some Christmas shopping. He turned off his computer, grabbed his coat and headed down the hallway. He noticed the light on in Donovan’s office, which surprised him. Peter retreated to his office to grab an expense report he needed signed, then returned.

“Hey Mike?” Peter knocked, pushing the door open. Music echoed from a radio, but no one was inside. Peter placed his expense report on the desk next to the phone. A red light blinked, signaling ten new messages.

“Peter,” a deep voice from behind him said.

“There you are.”

Donovan, a tall athletic forty-five-year-old, placed an empty cardboard box on his desk. He wore jeans, a navy blue polo shirt and Nike tennis shoes.

“What happened to your cruise” Peter asked.

“Delayed it.”

“How come?”

Donovan didn’t answer.

“What’s going on?” Peter watched his boss open and shut an empty drawer.

“I just handed in my resignation.”

Resignation? At first Peter didn’t think he’d heard right. Resignation? Donovan’s words knocked the wind out of Peter, but then he glanced around the room, and all the evidence was there. It must be true.  The shelves on the back wall were bare, and the Thomas McKnight painting of the Greek Isles had been taken down.

“What? Why?”

Donovan shook his head, and before he could utter a reason, Peter said: “This is so abrupt!”

“Philosophical differences,” Donovan said.

“What? That’s an answer you give the media. For God sakes Mike! We play golf together.”

“Hawkins. Can’t deal with her anymore.”

“So just like that. What do you mean? You’ve worked for her for five years.”

“Finally reached the breaking point.”

Peter stood there as Donovan cleaned out.

“What do I do with this expense report?” Peter asked.

“Give it to Hawkins.” Donovan grabbed his box and headed for the door. “Sorry, Peter.”

PETER WILBON’S phone rang as he returned to his office. Ignoring the call, he slumped in his chair and stared at the wall. Several minutes passed before the phone rang again, jolting him out of his trance.

“Hello,” Peter said.   

“Oh, you are there,” said the sweet voice of his wife. It was sometimes hard to imagine such a soft voice belonged to a thirty-four-year-old, sharp, tongue-twisting lawyer.

“Yeah.” 

“Hey honey, on your way home can you pick up some apples? I’m gonna bake a pie tonight to bring to your folks on Christmas.”

Peter didn’t say anything.

“Honey, you there?”

Peter couldn’t get any words out. He often relied on her to bring clarity to his cluttered mind. But not this time.

“Hon?” she said again.

“Yeah,” he said.

What’s wrong?”

“Donovan quit.”

“What? When?”

“Today,” Peter said.

“Sort of abrupt, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Did he say why?”

“Hawkins.”

“What’s gonna happen to your department?”

“I have no idea. Donovan just hit me with this a few minutes ago, and he wasn’t in a sociable mood.” Pause. “I’ve gotta go.”

PETER’S WORST nightmare – or so he thought – unfolded in front of him. For a while, Peter considered himself lucky to work for Donovan. He often heard city employees complain about the city manager bypassing a director to order a rank-and-filer to do her dirty work. Johnson in accounting, for example, quit when Hawkins ordered him to maintain secret files on the private lives of her adversaries. But that never happened with the planning staff. Donovan displayed paternal instincts for his crew, sheltering them from the beast. He prevented Loni Hawkins from verbally abusing a planning staffer. Donovan was a master at managing personalities, pushing the right buttons to motivate individuals on his staff – he was even able to make Shirley Blowers productive. Now, Peter wondered who would oversee planning. Could Donovan’s replacement keep Blowers from self-destructing? Had Peter’s buffer from Hawkins’ tirades vanished forever?

Peter figured he couldn’t avoid her. He grabbed his expense report and headed for her office. On his way out, he noticed an opportunity to procrastinate, grabbing a couple of empty binders and decided to return them to the supply room.

Peter headed down the north hallway, which meant he’d have to double back toward the city manager’s office. A few feet from the supply room, Peter heard a loud commotion echo from inside, like the shattering of glass. UUUUGGHHH! a man grunted. Peter waited a second, then opened the door.

Oh my God! Peter watched as an entire row of shelves crashed to the floor. The room was a complete disaster zone.  Other shelves were off their hinges and books, binders, video tapes and DVDs lay in a huge pile on the floor. Smashed video cameras for the soon-to-be launched community access channel lay in another pile in a corner. Some kind of white and yellowish liquid – egg yolk? - was all over the place.

Behind a table, something moved from one of the piles. A small man emerged and climbed to his feet. Peter recognized him instantly –  with his walrus mustache and sideburns. It was the smoker with the oxygen tank from outside. The man cocked his arm back and hurled something at him. Smack! Right in Peter’s left eye! Egg yoke ran down his face.

“What the fuck!” Peter screamed, wiping his face. Through Peter’s blurry vision, it looked as though the old man was frantically heading toward him. Before Peter could put up a defense, the man knocked him to the ground. Peter smacked his head against the floor.

Everything turned black.

ABOUT THE BOOK: Demons of a Kingmaker is a satirical murder mystery novel set in the Las Vegas Valley. It’s about a young government employee named Peter Wilbon, who thought he was up to the challenge of managing a multi-million dollar hotel project aimed at rejuvenating a depressed downtown. That is until he discovers the property is tied to a murder cover-up and the trail leads to the town’s political power elite. While Peter gets pressure from his corrupt bosses to push forward, he covertly teams with a challenging duo to expose the corruption: Peter’s wife Melissa, a young, ambitious lawyer, and a detective named Sugarman, who has a bad habit of sleeping with the enemy. Meanwhile, a sloppy and disgruntled hit man goes around causing havoc for his employer. As chaos ensues, loyalties vanish as the politicians scramble to cover their own butts and dodge the wrath of the hit man.