“She’s only sixteen.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“I’m not surprised. They all lie.”
Hugh grew quiet as he considered life without Cindy Murdock. Nevin had said plenty and decided it was time to shut up. He was only twenty-three years old and, though he’d seen a lot, he had never fallen hard for a woman.
A siren startled both of them. Hugh turned around and saw a deputy in a blue-and-white patrol car. “Shit!” Nevin said as he pulled onto the shoulder of the busy highway. Then he looked at Hugh with a smile and said, “I’ll take care of this.”
Nevin got out and met the deputy between the cars. Luckily he was from Harrison County. They had crossed from Jackson County less than a mile back.
Harrison County was the domain of Sheriff Albert “Fats” Bowman, rumored to be the highest-paid public official in the state, with precious little of his income ever hitting the books.
The deputy began as a hard-ass. “Your license, please.”
Nevin handed it over and tried not to be cocky. He knew what was about to happen. The deputy did not.
He said, “Gotta call outta Pascagoula, said a guy driving a car just like this one needed to answer some questions. Something about an assault at the Chrysler place.”
“So, what’s your question?”
“You been to the Chrysler place in Pascagoula?”
“Just left. Had to see a man named Roger Brewer. He’s probably at the hospital right now, getting sewed up. Brewer was at Red Velvet Monday night and slapped around one of our girls. He won’t do it again.”
The deputy handed back the driver’s license and glanced around, not quite sure what to do next. “So, I take it you work at Red Velvet.”
“I do. Lance Malco is my boss. He sent me to see Brewer. Everything’s fine on our end.”
“Okay. I guess we got no 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.