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 clubs and 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 kept his own meticulous records. When he said something like “we figure,” the message was that he knew precisely the share of vice Malco was controlling.
“Maybe so, but the challenge is keeping it. I’m sure you’ve heard of the State Line Mob.”
“Heard of them, but I haven’t seen them.”
“Well, they’re here. We caught a rumor about a month ago that they’re moving in. Seems as though things are getting too hot up on the border and they’re heading south. Biloxi seems attractive, given the business-friendly environment.”
The sheriff waved over the waitress and ordered gumbo, crab claws, and stuffed flounder. When she left, he said, “A nasty bunch, by reputation.”
“Yes, by reputation. We got a guy who worked up there and knows ’em well. They ran him off for some reason, said he was lucky to get away.”
“They got a joint?”
“Rumor is they’re trying to buy O’Malley’s.”
Bowman frowned and looked hard at Kilgore. They didn’t like the news, primarily because they had not been contacted by the new guys in town. The rules of engagement were simple: To operate any illegal establishment in Harrison County, approval had to be obtained from Fats Bowman. Dues were required, and he then spread the money around to the police and politicians. Fats wasn’t bothered by competition. More clubs and beer joints meant more money for him. The gangs could fight among themselves as long as his bottom line was protected.