He said, “You’re pretty good at protecting your turf, Lance. You’ve done a nice job of consolidating. What am I supposed to do?”
Lance laughed and said, “Oh, I don’t know, Sheriff. Run ’em off?”
Fats laughed too and lit a cigarette. He blew a cloud of smoke and put it on the ashtray. “That’s your game, Lance. I don’t regulate the commerce. I just make sure you boys stay in business.”
“And we appreciate it, Sheriff, don’t get me wrong. But staying in business is my goal too. Right now things have never been better, for me and for you, and I’d like to keep it that way. Everybody’s playing by the rules, nobody’s getting too greedy, at least for the moment. But if we allow this gang to move in, there’s gonna be trouble.”
“Be careful, Lance. If somebody gets killed, then there’s the payback. Tit for tat and so it goes. Nothing fires up the do-gooders around here like a gang war. You want your business on the front page?”
“No, and I think this is the perfect moment for you to prevent a war. Put the clamps on these new guys and get rid of them. If they buy O’Malley’s, then close it down. They won’t shoot at you, Sheriff. They’re not that crazy.”
The gumbo arrived in large bowls and the oyster shells were removed. Tip refilled the four beer mugs and the men enjoyed their food. After a few bites, Bowman said, “Let’s wait and give it some time. I’ll have a chat with O’Malley, see what he’ll tell me.”
Lance grunted, smiled, and said, “Nothing, same as always.”
* * *
O’Malley’s Pub was in an old warehouse one block off the Strip. Two weeks after the meeting at Baricev’s, Deputy Kilgore stopped by one afternoon and went inside. The bar was dark and quiet, too early for happy hour. Two bikers were shooting pool in the rear and one regular was holding down the far end of the bar.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked with a smile.
“Looking for Chick O’Malley.”
The smile vanished. “This is a bar. You want something to drink?”
“I told you what I want.” Kilgore was wearing a coat and tie. From a pocket he pulled out a badge and waved it in front of the bartender, who took a long look.
“Chick’s not here anymore. Sold out.”
“You don’t say? Who’s the new owner?”
“She’s not in.”
“I didn’t ask if she was in. I asked who is the new owner.”
“Name’s Ginger.”
“I arrest women with only one name.”
“Ginger Redfield.”
“Now we’re making progress. Get on the phone and tell her I’m waiting.”
The bartender looked at his wristwatch and said, “She should be here any minute. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Black coffee. Fresh.”
“Coming right up.”
Kilgore sat at the bar and stared at the bottles below the mirror. The coffee wasn’t fresh but he drank it anyway. Evidently Ginger used the rear door because no one else came through the front. Fifteen minutes later, the bartender reappeared and said, “Ginger will see you now.”
Kilgore knew where the office was because he had been there several times to collect dues. He followed the bartender into the back and up a flight of narrow stairs that opened to a long, dark hallway with a row of small doors to the left. Prostitution was not a focus at O’Malley’s. Chick had made his money on booze and poker, but almost every joint had a few rooms upstairs just in case. The walls smelled of fresh paint and the shag carpet was new.