The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller by John Grisham Page A

problem with that. I’ll radio Pascagoula and tell ’em we ain’t see nothin’ over here.”
    “That’ll work. May I ask your name? Mr. Malco will want to know.”
    “Sure. Wiley Garrison.”
    “Thank you, Deputy Garrison. If you need a drink sometime, let me know.”
    “Don’t drink.”
    “Thanks just the same.”

Chapter 7
    Baricev’s was a well-known seafood restaurant on the Biloxi beach, near downtown. It was a popular place, with too few tables for the demand that was fueled by locals who favored it and tourists who’d heard of its reputation. Reservations were frowned upon because record-keeping was not a priority, so there was usually a long wait at the front door. Some locals, though, got their preferred tables with no waiting whatsoever.
    Sheriff Albert “Fats” Bowman was a regular and insisted on the same corner table. He ate there at least once a week, with the check always grabbed by a nightclub owner or hotel operator. He loved the crab claws and stuffed flounder and often stayed for hours.
    He never dined in his official uniform, but chose a nice, loose, rumpled suit for these occasions. He didn’t want folks to stare, though everyone knew Fats. Not everyone admired him because of his well-earned reputation for corruption, but he was an old-school politician who shook every hand and kissed every baby. It paid off with landslide reelections.
    Fats and Rudd Kilgore, his chief deputy and chauffeur, arrived early and sipped on whiskey sours as they waited for Mr. Malco. He arrived promptly at eight and had with him his number two—a lieutenant known only as Tip. As usual, Nevin Noll was the driver and would wait with the car. Though Lance trusted him implicitly, he was still too young to take part in business meetings.
    The four shook hands, exchanged greetings like old friends, and settled around the table. More drinks were ordered as they dug in for a long dinner.
    Lance had arranged the meeting for a reason. Some of the dinners were nothing but a nice way to say thanks to a corrupt sheriff who took their payoffs and stayed out of their business. Occasionally, though, there was a matter of concern. A large platter of raw oysters landed in the center of the table and they began eating.
    Bowman needed to get a trifling issue out of the way. He asked, “Ever hear of a boy named Winslow? Goes by Butch.”
    Lance looked at Tip, who instinctively shook his head. In response to any direct question, especially one from a cop, Tip always began with a curt “No.”
    Lance added, “Don’t think so. Who is he?”
    “Figured. They found him in a ditch last weekend beside Nelly Road, half a mile off Highway 49. He was alive, but barely. Beat to hell and back. Still in the hospital. Last known place of employment was over at the Yacht Club. We checked around, got the word that Butch was dealing blackjack and had sticky fingers. Somebody said he once dealt for you guys at the Truck Stop.”
    Tip smiled and said, “Yeah, now I remember. We caught him stealing and ran him off. ’Bout a year ago.”
    “No follow-up?”
    “It wasn’t us, Sheriff,” Tip said.
    “Didn’t think so. Look, you boys know I don’t get involved in disciplinary matters, unless there’s a dead body. Somebody came within an inch of killing this boy.”
    “What’s your point, Sheriff?” Lance asked.
    “I don’t need one.”
    “Got it.”
    Tip ordered two pitchers of beer and they worked on the oysters. When it was time to get down to business, Bowman asked, “So what’s on your mind?”
    Lance leaned in a bit lower and said, “Well, it’s no surprise, but this place is getting crowded. Too crowded. And now we’re getting word that a new gang is taking a look.”
    Bowman said, “You’re doing okay, Lance. You got your clubsand joints, more than anybody else. We figure you’re running at least a third of the business on the Coast.” He lobbed this across the table as if he were speculating as to the numbers. Fats