John Grisham

"Sure." She takes my cup to the counter, dumps in slightly more than a half a teaspoon of coffee, more lukewarm water, then returns to the table. I stir it as if I’m anticipating an exotic cappuccino.

Our eyes meet, and I’m all sympathy. "Look, Miss Birdie. If this is too painful, then perhaps we can skip around it. You know, just hit the high points."

"It’s a fortune. Why should it be painful?"

Well, that’s exactly what I was thinking. "Fine. Just tell me, in general terms, how the money is invested. I’m particularly concerned with real estate." This is true. Cash and other liquid investments are generally liquidated first to pay taxes. Real estate is used as a last resort. So my questions are prompted by more than just sheer curiosity.

"I’ve never told anyone about the money," she says, still in a very soft voice.

"But you told me yesterday that you had talked about it with Kenneth Chandler."

There’s a long pause as she rotates her cup on the Formica. "Yes, I guess I did. But I’m not sure I told him everything. I might’ve lied just a bit. And I’m sure I didn’t tell him where it came from."

"Okay. Where did it come from?"

"My second husband."

"Your second husband?"

"Yeah, Tony."

"Thomas and Tony?"

"Yeah. About two years after Thomas died, I married Tony. He was from Atlanta, sort of passing through Memphis when we met. We lived together off and on for five years, fought all the time, then he left and went home. He was a deadbeat who was after my money."

"I’m confused. I thought you said the money came from Tony."

"It did, except he didn’t know it. It’s a long story. There were some inheritances and stuff, things Tony didn’t know about and I didn’t know about. He had a rich brother who was crazy, whole family was, really, and just before Tony died he inherited a fortune from his crazy brother. I mean, two days before Tony kicked the bucket, his brother died in Florida. Tony died with no will, nothing but a wife. Me. And so they contacted me from Atlanta, this big law firm did, and told me that I, under Georgia law, was now worth a lot of money."

"How much money?"

"A helluva lot more than Thomas left me. Anyway, I’ve never told anyone about it. Until now. You won’t tell, will you, Rudy?"

"Miss Birdie, as your lawyer I cannot tell. I am sworn to silence. It’s called the attorney-client privilege."

"How nice."

"Why didn’t you tell your last lawyer about the money?" I ask.

"Oh him. Didn’t really trust him. I just gave him the amounts for the gifts, but didn’t really tell him how much. Once he figured out I was loaded, he wanted me to put him in the will somewhere."

"But you never told him everything?"

"Never."

"You didn’t tell him how much?"

"Nope."

If I calculated correctly, her old will contained gifts totaling at least twenty million. So the lawyer knew of at least that much, since he prepared the will. The obvious question here is exactly how much does this precious little woman have?

"Are you gonna tell me how much?"

"Maybe tomorrow, Rudy. Maybe tomorrow."

We leave the kitchen and head for the rear patio. She has a new water fountain by the rosebushes she wants to show me. I admire it with rapt attention.

It’s clear to me now. Miss Birdie is a rich old woman, but she doesn’t want anyone to know it, especially her family. She’s always lived a comfortable life, and now arouses no suspicion as an eighty-year-old widow living off her more than adequate savings.

We sit on ornamental iron benches and sip cold coffee in the darkness until I finally string together enough excuses to permit myself an escape.

TO SUPPORT this affluent lifestyle of mine, I have worked for the past three years as a bartender and waiter at Yogi’s, a student hangout just off campus. It’s known for its juicy onionburgers and for green beer on St. Patrick’s. It’s a rowdy place where lunch to closing is one prolonged happy hour. Pitchers of watery lite beer are one dollar during "Monday Night Football"; two bucks during any other event.

It’s owned by Prince Thomas, a ponytailed rumhead with a massive body and even larger ego. Prince is one of the city’s better acts, a real entrepreneur who likes his picture in the paper and his face on the late news. He organizes pub crawls and wet tee shirt contests. He’s petitioned the city to allow joints such as his to stay open all night. The city has in turn sued him for various sins. He loves It. Name the vice, and he’ll organize a group and try to legalize it.

Prince runs a loose ship at Yogi’s. We, the employees, keep our own hours, handle our own tips, run the show without a lot of supervision. Not that it’s complicated. Keep enough beer in the front and enough ground beef in the kitchen and the place runs with surprising precision.

Prince prefers to handle the front. He likes to greet the pretty little coeds and show them to their booths. He’ll flirt with them and in general make a fool of himself. He likes to sit at a table near the big-screen and take bets on the games. He’s a big man with thick arms, and occasionally he’ll break up a fight.

There’s a darker side to Prince. He’s rumored to be involved in the skin business. The topless clubs are a booming industry in this city, and his alleged partners have criminal records. It’s been in the papers. He’s been to trial twice for gambling, for being a bookie, but both juries were hopelessly deadlocked. After working for him for three years, I’m convinced of two things: First, Prince skims most of the cash from the receipts at Yogi’s. I figure it’s at least two thousand a week, a hundred thousand a year. Second, Prince is using Yogi’s as a front for his own little corrupt empire. He launders cash through it, and makes it show a loss each year for tax purposes. He has an office down below, a rather secure, windowless room where he meets with his cronies.

I couldn’t care less. He’s been good to me. I make five bucks an hour, and I work about twenty hours a week. Our customers are students, thus the tips are small. I can shift hours during exams. At least five students a day come here looking for work, so I feel lucky to have the job.

And for whatever else it might be, Yogi’s is a great student hangout. Prince decorated it years ago in blues and grays, Memphis State colors, and there are team pennants and framed photos of sports stars all over the walls. Tigers everywhere. It’s a short walk from campus, and the kids flock here for hours of talking, laughing, flirting.

He’s watching a game tonight. The baseball season is young, but Prince is already convinced the Braves are in the Series. He’ll bet on anything, but his favorite is the Braves. It makes no difference who they’re playing or

where, who’s pitching or who’s hurt, Prince will take the Braves heads up.

I tend the main bar tonight, and my principal job in this capacity is to make sure his glass of rum and tonic does not run dry. He squeals as Dave Justice hits a massive home run. Then he collects some cash from a fraternity boy. The wager was who would hit the first homer-Dave Justice or Barry Bonds. I’ve seen him bet on whether the first pitch to the second batter in the third inning would be a ball or a strike.

It’s a good thing I’m not waiting tables tonight. My head is still aching, and I need to move as little as possible. Plus, I can sneak an occasional beer from the cooler, the good stuff in the green bottles, Heineken and Moose-head. Prince expects his bartenders to nip a little.

I’m gonna miss this job. Or will I?

A front booth fills with law students, familiar faces I’d rather avoid. They’re my peers, third-year students, probably all with jobs.