In the midst of the turmoil, which raged on for over a year, a star rookie entered the picture. His name was Nevin Noll, a twenty-year-old recruit who’d joined the air force to escape trouble back home in eastern Kentucky. He came from a colorful family of moonshiners and outlaws and had been raised to hold a dim view of the law. Not a single male relative had tried honest work in decades. Young Nevin, though, dreamed of leaving and pursuing a more glorious life as a famous gangster. He left sooner than expected and in a hurry.

  In his wake were at least two pregnant girls, with angry fathers, and an assault warrant that stemmed from a vicious beating he’d given an off-duty deputy. Fighting was second nature; he’d rather throw punches than drink cold beer. He stood six feet two inches, was thick through the chest and as strong as an ox, and his fists were freakishly quick and efficient. In six weeks of basic training at Keesler, he had already broken two jaws, knocked out numerous teeth, and put one boy in the hospital with a concussion.

  One more fight, and Nevin would be dishonorably discharged.

  It happened soon enough. He was shooting craps at Red Velvet with a couple of buddies on a Saturday night when an argument erupted over a set of suspicious dice. An angry gambler called them “loaded dice,” and reached for his chips. The stickman was quicker. A side dealer shoved the gambler, who had been drinking, and who, evidently, did not take shoving well. Nevin had just rolled the dice, lost, and was also suspicious of the table. Because so many customers were soldiers and prone to drink, Red Velvet had plenty of bouncers, and they were always watching the boys in uniform. Nothing excited Nevin more than flying fists, and he jumped into the middle of the argument. When a dealer pushed him back, he shot a left hook to the man’s chin and knocked him out cold. Two guards were on Nevin in an instant and both got their noses flattened before they could throw a punch. Bodies were flying in all directions and he wanted more. His two pals from the base backed away and watched with admiration. They had seen it all before. Fully grown men, regardless of their size, were nothing but punching bags when they got too close to Mr. Noll.

  The dealer with the stick leapt across the table and took a wild swing. It hit Nevin across the shoulder but did no damage. He hit the guy four times in the face, each blow drawing blood.

  All gambling stopped as a crowd gathered around the craps table. Nevin stood in the middle of the pile of beaten and bloodied men, looked around, wild-eyed, and kept saying, “Come on, come on. Who’s next?” No one moved in his direction.

  It ended without further bloodshed when two bouncers with shotguns appeared. Nevin smiled and raised his hands. He won the fight but lost the battle. Once he was handcuffed, the guards kicked his legs out from under him and dragged him away. Just another night in jail.

  Early Sunday morning, Lance Malco and his chief of security rounded up the two dealers and two security guards, none of whom were in any mood to talk, and replayed the fight. The side dealer’s jaw was horribly swollen. The stickman’s face was a mess of cuts—one in each eyebrow, one on the bridge of his nose, plus a busted lower lip. Each security guard held an ice pack to his nose and tried to see through blurred and puffy eyes.

  “What a fine team,” Lance said with derision. “One man did all this damage?”

  He made each one describe what happened. All four reluctantly marveled at the speed with which they got nailed.

  “Guy must be a boxer or something,” one of the guards said.

  “Sumbitch can punch, I’ll tell you that,” said the other.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Lance said with a laugh. “I can see it in your face.”

  He didn’t fire them. Instead he went to court and watched Nevin Noll appear before the judge and plead not guilty to four counts of assault. His court-appointed lawyer explained to the court that his client had, only the day before, been discharged from Keesler and was headed back to Kentucky. That should be punishment enough, shouldn’t it?

  Noll was released on a cheap bond and ordered to return in two days. Lance cornered Nevin’s lawyer and asked if he could have a word with his client, said he might be willing to drop the charges if they could strike a deal. Lance had a nose for talent, be it slick card dealers, pretty young girls, or violent men. He recruited the best and paid them well.

  For Nevin Noll, it was a miracle. He could forget the military, forget going home to Kentucky, and instead get a real job doing what he dreamed of—working for a crime boss, handling security, hanging out in bars and brothels, and occasionally cracking a skull or two. In an instant, Nevin Noll became the most loyal employee Lance Malco would ever hire.

  The Boss, as he was known by then, demoted the security guards with broken noses and put them in a truck fetching liquor off a boat. Noll was moved into the office upstairs, a “corporate suite,” at Red Velvet, and began learning the business.

  Cleveland, the owner of Foxy’s, had withstood numerous threats and was still selling sex on the cheap. Something had to be done and Lance saw the opportunity to show real leadership. He and his boys devised a simple plan of attack, one that would elevate Nevin Noll to new heights, or get him killed.

  At five o’clock one Friday afternoon in early March 1961, the Boss received word from a lookout that Cleveland had just parked his new Cadillac in its usual place behind Foxy’s. Ten minutes later, Nevin Noll entered, went to the bar, and ordered a drink. The lounge was practically empty, but a band was setting up in a corner and preparations were underway for another busy night. Security was light but that would change in an hour or so.

  Noll asked the bartender if Mr. Cleveland was in, said he wanted a word with him.

  The bartender frowned, kept drying a beer mug, and said, “Not sure. Who wants to know?”

  “Well, I do. Mr. Malco sent me over. You know Mr. Lance Malco, right?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to know much at all.” Noll was off the stool and headed to the end of the bar.

  “Hey asshole!” the bartender said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Going to see Mr. Cleveland. I know where he’s hiding back there.”

  The bartender was not a small man and he’d broken up his share of fights. “Wait a minute, buddy,” he said, and he grabbed Noll’s left arm, a mistake. With his right, Noll spun and landed a crunching blow to the bartender’s left jaw, dropping him like a brick and into oblivion. A thug in a black cowboy hat materialized from the shadows and charged at Noll, who snatched an empty beer mug off the bar and bounced it off his ear. With both on the floor, Noll looked around. Two men at a table gawked at him in disbelief. The band members froze in place and were not sure what to do, if anything. Noll nodded to them, then disappeared through swinging doors. The hallway was dark, the kitchen was further ahead. A former bartender had told Malco that Cleveland’s office was behind a blue door at the end of the narrow hallway. Noll kicked it in and announced his arrival with “Hello Cleveland, got a minute?”

  A thick boy in a coat and tie was bolting from a chair. He never made it, as Noll pummeled him with three quick punches to his face. He fell to the floor, groaning. Cleveland was behind his desk and had been on the phone, which he was now holding in midair. For a second or two he was too surprised to react. He dropped the phone and reached down to open a drawer, but he was too late. Noll lunged across the desk, slapped him hard in the face, and knocked him out of his chair. The objective was to beat soundly but not to kill. The Boss wanted Cleveland alive, at least for now. Using nothing but his fists, Noll broke both jawbones, split lips, knocked out teeth, closed eyes, lacerated cheeks and forehead, and separated the nasal bone from the cranial cavity. When the thick boy made more sounds, Noll took a heavy ashtray and drove it into the back of his skull.

  A small side door opened and a platinum blonde of about thirty appeared and, seeing the carnage, almost screamed. She covered her mouth with both hands and looked in horror at Noll. He quickly removed a revolver from a rear pocket and nodded to a chair. “Sit down and shut up!” he growled. She backed into the chair, still unable to utter a sound. From a front pocket, Noll pulled out an eight-inch tube, a silencer, and screwed it over the revolver’s barrel. He fired one shot into the ceiling and the woman shrieked. He fired another shot into the wall three feet above her head and said, “Listen to me, dammit!”

  She was too horrified to react. He fired another shot into the wall, the same muted thud.

  He stood above her, pointed the pistol, and said, “Tell Cleveland he’s got seven days to shut this place down. Got it?”

  She managed to nod. Yes.

  “I’ll be back in seven days. If he’s here, he really gets hurt.” He unscrewed the silencer, tossed it into her lap as a souvenir, and stuck the revolver under his belt. He walked out of the office, ducked into the kitchen, and left through a rear door.

  * * *

  The price war was over.

  Cleveland spent three weeks in a hospital, with lots of tubes and a ventilator. His brain swelled from time to time and his doctors induced one coma after another. Fearing another visit from Noll, his girlfriend, the platinum blonde, closed Foxy’s to await orders from Cleveland. When he was finally released from the hospital, he couldn’t walk and was rolled out in a wheelchair. Though brain-damaged, he had enough sense to realize his ambitious venture onto the Strip had come to an end.

  Because Nevin Noll was new to the scene, no one recognized him and an identification was not possible. However, his one-man assault on Foxy’s became an instant legend, and left no doubt that Lance Malco was indeed the Boss.

  A bank foreclosed on Foxy’s and plywood was nailed over its doors and windows. It remained boarded up for six months, then was sold to a corporation out of New Orleans, one controlled by Lance Malco.

  With four clubs now under his thumb, Lance Malco controlled the largest share of vice along the Coast. The cash poured in and he shared it with his gang and the politicians who mattered. He believed in spending money to meet the demands of his customers, and he offered the best booze, girls, and gambling east of the Mississippi.

  Competition was a constant problem. Success bred imitation, and there was an endless line of operators angling for a foothold. Some he managed to close down by leaning on the sheriff. Others were more resilient and fought back. There was always the threat of violence, and often the threats materialized.

  The Malco family moved away from the Point and into a fine new home north of Biloxi. They lived with gates and guards, and the Boss seldom went anywhere without Nevin Noll by his side.

  Chapter 6

  Hugh Malco’s once promising athletic career came to an abrupt halt one hot day in August. As a sophomore at Biloxi High, he and a bunch of other fifteen-year-olds were suffering through preseason two-a-day practices and dreaming of making the varsity. Things were not going well. There were at least one hundred players on the field, most of them older, bigger, and faster. The Biloxi Indians competed in the Big Eight, the state’s elite conference, and talent was never a problem. The team was stacked with seniors, many of whom would play in college. Sophomores rarely made the varsity and were usually relegated to the JV.

  Long gone were the glory days of Little League baseball, when Hugh and Keith Rudy dominated every game. Some all-stars at that age continued to grow and develop, others were left behind. Some athletes peaked at twelve or thirteen. The luckier ones kept maturing and got better. Hugh wasn’t growing as fast as the others, and his speed, or lack thereof, was a known liability.

  On that day he twisted a knee and limped into the shade. A trainer put ice on it and informed the coach, who had little time to worry about a lowly sophomore. Hugh saw a doctor the next day and the diagnosis was strained ligaments. No football for at least a month. He hung around practice for a few days on crutches but soon tired of watching his pals sweat in the heat and dirt. The more he watched, the more he realized that he really didn’t love football.

  Baseball was his game, though he feared it too was slipping away. The summer season had not gone well. The right arm that had so terrified batters from forty-five feet was not nearly as intimidating from sixty feet. He had struggled on the mound and at the plate and failed to make the all-star team. Keith was now four inches taller and even faster around the bases. Hugh was proud of his pal for making all-stars, but he was also sick with envy. Their friendship grew even more complicated when Keith made the cut in August and became the varsity’s third-string quarterback, one of only five sophomores on the roster. In a football-crazed town, his status was elevated and he gravitated to a different crowd. The students admired him. The cheerleaders and pep squad girls deemed him even cuter.

  With his afternoons free, Hugh loafed for a few weeks until his father cracked the whip. Lance had never been idle and couldn’t tolerate the notion of lazy kids. There were plenty of odd jobs around his clubs and properties and he put his oldest son on the payroll. Cash, of course. Lance controlled more hard cash than anyone in the state and was generous with it. He gave Hugh a used pickup truck and made him an errand boy. He hauled nothing illegal, mainly food and supplies for the restaurants and building materials for construction projects.

  Carmen loathed the idea of her son hanging around the clubs and mixing with the shady crowd, but Hugh liked the work and the money. She complained to Lance and he promised to keep an eye on the kid and avoid trouble.

  The underworld, though, proved irresistible to a curious teenager, especially the owner’s son, and before long Hugh met Nevin Noll at a pool table in the rear of the Truck Stop. Nevin gave him a pack of cigarettes, then a cold beer, and they quickly became friends. He taught him how to shoot pool, play poker and blackjack, and the basics of betting on horses and football games. Before long, Hugh was booking games for his friends at school. While Keith slogged through daily practices on the field and sat the bench on Friday nights, Hugh was making money handicapping college and pro football games. Lance knew the dangers the kid faced, but he was too busy to care. He was building an empire, one that Hugh would likely inherit one day. Sooner or later, his son would be exposed to all manner of criminal activity. Nevin told the boss that he was watching his son and there was nothing to worry about. Lance doubted this but went about his business, hoping for the best.

  Hugh’s life changed dramatically when he saw Cindy Murdock, a perky little blonde with comely brown eyes and a gorgeous figure. She bounced through Red Velvet one afternoon when he was unloading crates of soft drinks, and said hello in passing. Hugh was smitten and asked a bartender who she was. Just another girl who claimed to be eighteen, same as the rest, though no one ever checked.

  Hugh mentioned her to Nevin, who immediately saw some harmless trouble and found it too good to leave alone. He arranged a tryst, and Hugh, at the age of fifteen, entered a new world. He was immediately consumed with Miss Murdock and thought of nothing else. While his classmates told dirty jokes, swapped girlie magazines, and fantasized, Hugh was enjoying the real thing at every opportunity. She was more than willing and thought it hilarious that she had Mr. Malco’s son on a leash. Nevin became worried that the little romance would be talked about by other employees and found the lovebirds a safer place in one of the cheap motels owned by the company.

  Lance was impressed by his son’s deepening interest in the business, while at the same time Carmen noticed an ominous change in behavior. She found his cigarettes, confronted him, and was told not to worry because all the kids were smoking. It was even permitted at school, with a note from home. She smelled beer on his breath and he laughed it off. Hell, she drank, Lance drank, everybody they knew enjoyed alcohol. He didn’t have a problem, so relax. He was skipping school and Sunday Mass and running with a rougher crowd. Lance, when he was home, ignored her concerns and said the kid was just being a teenager. His new direction in life, and his father’s indifference, added another strain to a marriage that was slowly unraveling.

  Cindy lived in a cheap apartment with four other working girls. Because their nights were long, they often slept until noon. At least once a week, Hugh skipped classes and woke them up with cheeseburgers and sodas. He became one of the gang and enjoyed listening to their bitching sessions. They were often hassled by the bartenders, bouncers, and security guards. They told hilarious stories of old men who couldn’t perform and drunks with strange requests. Hanging out with a bunch of hookers, Hugh learned more about the business than the gangsters who ran it.

  He arrived at the apartment late one morning and found everyone still asleep. As he unpacked their lunch, he noticed Cindy’s purse on the kitchen counter. He tipped it over and some things fell out. One was her driver’s license. Real name of Barbara Brown, age sixteen, from a nowhere town in Arkansas.

  Every girl was presumed to be younger than she claimed. The eighteen-year threshold was the going rule, but no one cared. Prostitution was illegal anyway, so it didn’t really matter. Half the cops in town were customers.

  Her age bothered him for a day or two, but not for long. He was only fifteen. Everything was consensual, and they were certainly compatible. With time, though, as he became more attached to her, he began to resent the thoughts of his girl sleeping with any man with the cash. For several reasons, primarily his age, he was not welcome in the clubs at night, and he had never seen her hustle the soldiers in her skimpy costumes. When he learned that she had started stripping and lap dancing, he asked her to stop. When she refused, they had a good fight, during which she reminded him that the other guys were paying cash for the companionship he was getting for free.