Read Online The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller by John Grisham - Free Book Online
Authors: John Grisham
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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.
A woman’s touch. At the end of the hall, Ginger opened the door to her office as they approached and nodded for Kilgore to enter. The bartender disappeared. She was a heavyset woman of about fifty, with a dress that was too tight and cut too low in front. Her breasts were pushed up close to her chin and looked somewhat uncomfortable, though Kilgore tried not to notice. Her hair wasdyed black and matched her thick mascara. She shook hands like a man and was all smiles. “Nice to meet you. Ginger Redfield.” Her voice was low, raspy, as if ravaged by nicotine.
“A pleasure. Rudd Kilgore.”
“I was wondering when you guys would stop by.”
“Here I am. Mind if I ask when you took over?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“You from around here?”
“Here and there.”
Kilgore smiled, almost let it pass, but said, “Answers like that only lead to trouble, Miss Redfield.”
“Call me Ginger. I’m from Mobile originally, spent the last few years up on the state line.”
“Call me Kilgore. Chief Deputy, Harrison County Sheriff’s Department.”
----
Within twenty-four hours, Fats and Kilgore would learn that Ginger Redfield and her husband had operated a lounge on the Tennessee–Mississippi state line and had a long history of criminal activity. Her husband was serving a ten-year sentence in Tennessee for the second-degree murder of a bootlegger. Her older son was serving time in Florida on federal gun charges. Not to be outdone, her younger son was suspected in two murders but was currently in hiding. He was rumored to be a contract killer.
This background was provided by the sheriff of Alcorn County, Mississippi, a twenty-year veteran who knew the family well. According to his rather windy narrative, Ginger and her crew had been at war with other club owners along the state line. “Sumbitches always shootin’ at each other” was how the sheriff described it. “Wish they were better shots. Don’t need ’em around here.”
Anyway, someone raised a white flag, a truce was agreed upon,and things settled down until Ginger’s husband killed a bootlegger in a fight over a truckload of liquor. She sold out, disappeared, and for the past year had not been seen in those parts.
The sheriff signed off with “Glad she’s all yours, buddy. Woman’s nothin’ but trouble.”
----
“Where’s Chick?” Kilgore asked.
Ginger smiled, and it was a fetching little grin that softened her hard face considerably. Twenty years and thirty pounds ago she was probably a real looker, but a life in lounges added plenty of wrinkles and hardened her features. She lit a filterless cigarette and Kilgore lit a menthol.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Got the impression he was leaving town.”
“That so? Did you assume this joint’s liabilities?”
“That’s prying a bit, don’t you think?”
“Call it what you want. Chick was behind on his dues.”
“His dues?”
“Look, Ginger, I’m not stupid enough to believe that Chick sold you
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.
A woman’s touch. At the end of the hall, Ginger opened the door to her office as they approached and nodded for Kilgore to enter. The bartender disappeared. She was a heavyset woman of about fifty, with a dress that was too tight and cut too low in front. Her breasts were pushed up close to her chin and looked somewhat uncomfortable, though Kilgore tried not to notice. Her hair wasdyed black and matched her thick mascara. She shook hands like a man and was all smiles. “Nice to meet you. Ginger Redfield.” Her voice was low, raspy, as if ravaged by nicotine.
“A pleasure. Rudd Kilgore.”
“I was wondering when you guys would stop by.”
“Here I am. Mind if I ask when you took over?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“You from around here?”
“Here and there.”
Kilgore smiled, almost let it pass, but said, “Answers like that only lead to trouble, Miss Redfield.”
“Call me Ginger. I’m from Mobile originally, spent the last few years up on the state line.”
“Call me Kilgore. Chief Deputy, Harrison County Sheriff’s Department.”
----
Within twenty-four hours, Fats and Kilgore would learn that Ginger Redfield and her husband had operated a lounge on the Tennessee–Mississippi state line and had a long history of criminal activity. Her husband was serving a ten-year sentence in Tennessee for the second-degree murder of a bootlegger. Her older son was serving time in Florida on federal gun charges. Not to be outdone, her younger son was suspected in two murders but was currently in hiding. He was rumored to be a contract killer.
This background was provided by the sheriff of Alcorn County, Mississippi, a twenty-year veteran who knew the family well. According to his rather windy narrative, Ginger and her crew had been at war with other club owners along the state line. “Sumbitches always shootin’ at each other” was how the sheriff described it. “Wish they were better shots. Don’t need ’em around here.”
Anyway, someone raised a white flag, a truce was agreed upon,and things settled down until Ginger’s husband killed a bootlegger in a fight over a truckload of liquor. She sold out, disappeared, and for the past year had not been seen in those parts.
The sheriff signed off with “Glad she’s all yours, buddy. Woman’s nothin’ but trouble.”
----
“Where’s Chick?” Kilgore asked.
Ginger smiled, and it was a fetching little grin that softened her hard face considerably. Twenty years and thirty pounds ago she was probably a real looker, but a life in lounges added plenty of wrinkles and hardened her features. She lit a filterless cigarette and Kilgore lit a menthol.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Got the impression he was leaving town.”
“That so? Did you assume this joint’s liabilities?”
“That’s prying a bit, don’t you think?”
“Call it what you want. Chick was behind on his dues.”
“His dues?”
“Look, Ginger, I’m not stupid enough to believe that Chick sold you
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