In 1946, Congress provided funding for the GI Bill and thousands of young veterans could suddenly afford higher education. Jesse enrolled at a junior college and took every history course offered. His dream was to teach American history to high school students. His unspoken dream was to become a learned professor and lecture at a university.

  Starting a family was not in the plans, but postwar America was proving to be a fertile land. Keith was born in April of 1948 at Keesler, where the veterans and their families received free medical services.

  Twenty-eight days later, Hugh Malco was born on the same wing. Their families knew each other from the immigrant cliques on the Point, and their fathers were friendly, though not close.

  Five months after Keith arrived, Jesse and Agnes surprised his family with the news that they were going away to study. Or, at least Jesse would study. The nearest four-year school was the state teachers college seventy-five miles north in Hattiesburg. They would be gone for a couple of years and then return. His would be the first college degree in the Rudic/Rudy family, and his parents were rightfully proud. He and Agnes packed their belongings, along with Keith, into their 1938 Mercury and headed north on Highway 49. They rented a tiny student apartment on campus, and within two days Agnes had a job as a nurse with a group of doctors. They juggled her work schedule with his classes and managed to avoid paying babysitters for little Keith. Jesse took as many classes as possible and breezed through his studies.

  In two years he was finished and they contemplated staying on and pursuing a master’s. However, the fertility issue was back. When Agnes realized she was pregnant with number two, they decided college was over and Jesse needed to start a career. They returned home and rented a house on the Point. When there were no openings in the history department at Biloxi High, Jesse scrambled to find a job teaching civics to ninth-graders in Gulfport. His first salary was $2,700 a year. Agnes went back to Keesler as a nurse but struggled with a difficult pregnancy and had to take leave.

  Beverly was born in 1950. Jesse and Agnes agreed that two children were enough for a while and they became serious about family planning. He finally landed a job teaching history at Gulfport High and received a slight raise. Agnes worked part-time and, like most young postwar couples, they barely stayed above water and dreamed of better things. Despite their cautionary efforts, things somehow went awry and Agnes got pregnant for the third time. Laura arrived only fourteen months after Beverly, and overnight the house became far too small. But Jesse’s parents were only four doors down, and there were aunts and uncles practically across the street. When Agnes needed help or even an occasional break, she needed only to give a yell and someone was on the way. The mothers and grandmothers on the block took great pride in raising each other’s children.

  A favorite topic, whispered between Jesse and Agnes in one of their rare quiet moments, was the notion of moving away from the Point. While the support was crucial and they appreciated it, they also found it suffocating at times. Everyone knew their business. There was little privacy. If they skipped Sunday Mass for any reason, they could expect a regular parade of family and friends stopping by Sunday afternoon to see who was sick. If one of the kids had a fever, it became a life-and-death matter along the street. Privacy was one issue. Space was an even larger one. The house was cramped and would only become more so as their children grew. But any upgrade would be a challenge. With three small children underfoot, Agnes was unable to work, which was a blow because, when full-time, she earned more than Jesse. His salary was not yet $3,000 a year, and pay raises for schoolteachers were never a priority.

  And so they dreamed. And, as difficult as it was, they tried to abstain from sexual relations as much as possible. A fourth child was out of the question.

  He arrived anyway. On May 14, 1953, Timothy came home to a house full of well-wishers, most of whom were in quiet agreement that four was enough. The neighbors were tired of balloons and cake.

  * * *

  During his brief interlude as a college boy, albeit a married one, Jesse made only one significant friend. Felix Perry was also a history major who abruptly changed course after graduation and decided to become a lawyer. As an excellent student, he had no difficulty getting into law school at Ole Miss, and finished in three years at the top of his class. He landed a job with a nice firm in Jackson and was drawing an enviable salary.

  He called ahead and said he was coming to Biloxi on business and how about dinner? With four kids under the age of five, Jesse could not even consider a night out, but Agnes insisted. “Just don’t come home drunk,” she said with a laugh.

  “And when was the last time that happened?”

  “Never. Get out of here.”

  Single, away from home, and with cash in his pocket, Felix was looking for fun. They enjoyed gumbo, raw oysters, and grilled snapper at Mary Mahoney’s, with a bottle of French wine. Felix made it clear that the night was on him, said he’d bill it to a client. Jesse had never felt so indulged. But as the dinner progressed, Jesse became irritated with his old friend’s self-importance. Felix was earning good money, wearing impressive suits, driving a 1952 Ford, and his career was arching upward with no end in sight. He would be a partner in seven years, maybe eight, and that was like hitting the jackpot.

  “Have you ever thought about the law?” he asked. “I mean, you can’t teach school forever, right?”

  Dead right, but Jesse wasn’t ready to admit it. “I’ve thought about a lot of things lately,” he said. “But I love what I do.”

  “That’s important, Jesse. Good for you, but I don’t know how they survive financially in this state. The pay is peanuts. Still the lowest in the nation, right?”

  Indeed it was, but such an observation coming from Felix was unnecessary.

  They spent half of dinner talking about associates and partners, lawsuits and trials, and for Jesse the conversation cut two ways. First, it was mildly irritating to be reminded that teaching school would always be a financial strain, especially for a male breadwinner with four kids at home. Second, the more they talked the more intrigued Jesse became with the idea of becoming a lawyer. Given that he was already thirty years old, it seemed an impossible challenge, but perhaps he was ready for one.

  Felix paid the bill and they set off to find “trouble,” in his words. He was from a small, dry county (all eighty-two counties were still dry in 1954) and had only heard the legend of Biloxi vice. He wanted to drink, roll some dice, see some skin, and maybe rent a girl.

  Like every kid from Biloxi, Jesse had grown up in a culture and a town where some of the men enjoyed bad things—gambling, prostitutes, strippers, whiskey—all illegal but accepted nonetheless. As a young teenager, he had sneaked cigarettes in the pool halls and beers from certain bars, but once the novelty wore off he forgot about such prohibited activities. Every family had a story of a young man with gambling debts or a drinking problem, and every mother lectured her sons on the dangers lurking just across town. The night before Jesse left for boot camp and the war, he and some friends hit the bars hard and spent their last dollars on hired girls. Over breakfast the next morning, his mother said nothing about his late night. He was not the only soldier to say his farewells with a hangover. When he came home three years later, he brought a wife and his brief stint as a hell-raiser was over. Occasionally, once a month at most, he met some friends for a quick beer after work. His favorite bar was Malco’s Grocery, and he often saw Lance there mixing drinks.

  He wasn’t sure what kind of “trouble” Felix was thinking of, but the safest place to lose cash was Jerry’s Truck Stop, a fixture on Highway 90, the main drag along the Coast. In years past, Jerry had actually sold diesel fuel and serviced rigs passing through. Then he added a bar behind his café and offered the cheapest drinks on the Coast. Truckers were delighted and spread the word throughout the region that you could have ice-cold beer with your eggs and sausage. Jerry expanded his bar and was counting his money until the sheriff informed him that drinking and driving were not compatible. There were some wrecks caused by intoxicated truckers; folks were dead. Jerry had a choice—diesel fuel or booze. He chose the latter, took out his pumps, converted his shop into a casino, and began servicing soldiers instead of long-haulers. The “Truck Stop” became the most famous lounge in Biloxi.

  Felix paid the one-dollar cover charge and they went inside to the long, shiny bar. He was immediately slack-jawed at the sight of two lovely dancers shimmying around a pole with moves he’d never seen. The club was loud, dark, and smoky, with colored lights sweeping the dance floor. They found a spot at the bar and were immediately accosted by two young ladies in heavy makeup, low-cut blouses, and short skirts.

  “How about a drink, boys?” the first one asked as she squeezed between them and pressed boobs into Felix’s chest. The other one came on to Jesse, who knew the game.

  “Sure,” Felix said, eager to spend some money. “What’ll it be?”

  Jesse glanced at one of four bartenders who was ready to mix their drinks. Within seconds, two tall greenish cocktails arrived for the girls and two bourbons for the boys.

  The friendly bartender eagerly agreed and said loudly, “Remember, every fourth drink is free.”

  “Wow!” Felix practically yelled. So, to make the economics work, a fella would need at least eight drinks to call it a good night.

  The green drinks were nothing but sugar water and each included a colorful plastic swizzle stick with a cherry on top. In due course, the girls would collect the swizzle sticks and hide them in a pocket. When the night was over and they settled up, they would be paid fifty cents per stick, nothing per hour. The more drinks they solicited, the more money they made. The locals knew the game and from somewhere the term “B-drinking” had evolved. The tourists and servicemen did not, and they kept ordering.

  The girls were pretty and the younger the better. Because the money was good, and the opportunities for women in small towns were scarce, they headed to the Coast and a faster life. The stories were legion of farm girls who worked the clubs hard for a few years, saved their money, and returned home where no one knew what they’d been up to. They married their old boyfriends from high school and raised kids.

  Felix was with Debbie, a real veteran who could spot a mark, though it didn’t take much in the way of intuition. Felix said to Jesse, “We’re gonna dance. Watch our drinks.”

  They disappeared into the mob. Sherry Ann moved closer to Jesse, who smiled and said, “Look, I’m not in the game. I’m happily married with four kids at home. Sorry.”

  She sighed, smiled, understood, and said, “Thanks for the drink.” Within seconds she was working the other end of the bar. After a few minutes of bump-and-grind, Felix and Debbie breezed by and grabbed their drinks. He whispered, loudly, “Say, we’re going upstairs. Give me thirty minutes, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Suddenly lonely at the bar and wishing to avoid another pickup attempt, Jesse went to the casino and walked through it. He had heard rumors about the Truck Stop’s growing popularity, but he was startled at the number of tables. Slot machines lined the walls. Roulette and craps tables were on one side, poker and blackjack on the other. Dozens of gamblers, almost all men and many in uniform, were gambling as they smoked, drank, and yelled. Cocktail waitresses scurried about, trying to keep up with demand. And it was only a Tuesday night.

  Jesse knew to avoid roulette and craps because the games were rigged. It was well known that the only consistently honest game in town was blackjack. He found an empty stool at a crowded 25-cent table and pulled out two dollars, his limit. An hour later he was up $2.50 and Felix was nowhere in sight.

  At eleven, he called his brother and harangued him for a ride home.

  * * *

  The following year, 1955, Jesse enrolled in night classes at the Loyola Law School in New Orleans. Since the dinner with Felix, he had become infatuated with the idea of becoming a lawyer, and talked, at least to Agnes, of little else. She finally grew weary of the same conversations and set aside her reluctance. With four small children a nursing job, even part-time, was out of the question, but she would support him and together they could make it work. Both despised the idea of debt, but when his father offered a $2,000 loan, they had no choice but to take it.

  On Tuesdays, after class, Jesse hurried to New Orleans, a two-hour drive, and usually arrived about fifteen minutes late for the 6:00 p.m. class. The professors understood their students and the demands on their time as full-time employees elsewhere. They were in law school, at night, going about their studies the hard way, and most rules were flexible. Over four hours, covering two courses, Jesse took copious notes, engaged in discussions, and, when possible, read upcoming materials. He absorbed the law and was thrilled by its challenges. Late in the night, as the second course came to a close, he was often the only student still wide awake and eager to engage with the professor. At 9:50 sharp, he hustled from the classroom and to his car for the drive home. At midnight, Agnes was always waiting with a warmed-over dinner and questions about his classes.

  He seldom slept more than five hours a night and woke before dawn to prepare his own history lectures, or to grade papers.

  On Thursday nights, he was off again to Loyola for two more classes. He never missed one, nor did he miss a day of work or Mass or a family dinner. As his children grew, he always had time to play in the backyard or take them to the beach. Agnes often found him at midnight on the sofa, dead from exhaustion, with a thick casebook opened and resting on his chest. When he survived the first year with stellar grades, they opened a bottle of cheap champagne late one night and celebrated. Then they passed out. One benefit of the fatigue was the lack of energy for sex. Four kids were enough.

  As his studies progressed, and as it became more apparent to his family and friends that he was not chasing a crazy dream, a degree of pride crept into his world. He would be the first lawyer from the Point, the first of all those children and grandchildren of immigrants who had worked and sacrificed in the new country. There were rumors that he would leave and rumors that he would stay. Would he go to work in a nice firm in Biloxi, or would he open his own shop on the Point and help his people? Was it true he wanted to work for a big firm in New Orleans?

  The curious, though, kept their questions to themselves. Jesse never heard the rumblings. He was too busy to worry about the neighbors. He had no plans to leave the Coast and tried to meet every lawyer in town. He hung around the courtrooms and became friendly with the judges and their court reporters.

  After four years of slogging through night school and losing countless hours of sleep, Jesse Rudy graduated from Loyola with honors, passed the Mississippi bar exam, and took an associate’s position with a three-man firm on Howard Avenue in downtown Biloxi. His starting salary was on the same level with that of a high school history teacher, but there was the allure of the bonus. At the end of each year, the firm tallied up its income and rewarded each lawyer with a bonus based on hours worked and new business generated. Lean and hungry, Jesse immediately began his career by clocking in each morning at 5:00.

  While the law degree at first meant little in the way of real money, it meant something more to the mortgage banker. He knew the law firm well and thought highly of its partners. He approved Jesse’s application for a loan, and the family moved into a three-bedroom home in the western part of Biloxi.

  As the first local lawyer of Croatian descent, Jesse was immediately flooded with the everyday legal problems of his people. He couldn’t say no, and so he spent hours preparing inexpensive wills, deeds, and simple contracts. He was never bored by this, and he welcomed his clients into his handsome office as if they were millionaires. Jesse Rudy’s success became the source of many proud stories on the Point.

  For his first big case, a partner asked him to research several issues involved in a business deal that had gone sour. The owner of the Truck Stop had verbally agreed to sell his business to a syndicate fronted by a local operator named Snead. There was also a written contract for the land, and another contract for a lease or two. The parties had been negotiating for a year, without the benefit of legal counsel, and, not surprisingly, there was confusion and tension. Everyone was angry and ready to sue. The owner of the Truck Stop had even been threatened with a good beating.

  The owners of the syndicate preferred to hide behind Snead and remain anonymous, but as the layers were peeled away, it became known, at least among the lawyers, that the principal investor was none other than Lance Malco.

  Chapter 5

  The price war began in a brothel. A small-time gangster named Cleveland bought an old club on the Strip called Foxy’s. He tacked on a cheap wing for gambling and a slightly nicer one for his whores. While there was no set price for half an hour of pleasure with a girl, the generally accepted rate, and one tacitly agreed upon by the owners, was twenty dollars. At Foxy’s the rate was cut in half and the news spread like wildfire through Keesler. And since the soldiers were thirsty before and after, the price of a cheap draft beer was also discounted. The place was slammed and there was not enough parking.

  To survive, some of the other low-end clubs cut their rates too. Then the owners began poaching girls. The economics of Biloxi vice, always a fragile equilibrium, were upended. In an attempt to restore order, some tough guys stopped by Foxy’s late one night, slapped around a bartender, beat up two bouncers, and passed along the warning that selling sex and booze for less than the “standard rate” was unacceptable. The beatings proved contagious and a wave of violence swept through the Strip. An ambush behind one joint led to retaliation at another. The owners complained to the police, who listened but were not too worried. There had yet to be a killing and, well, boys will be boys. What’s the real danger in a few fights? Let the crooks take care of their own markets.