Nevin warned him that Lance was asking questions about his relationship with the girl. Someone inside a club had snitched. Hugh told her they needed to cool things, and he tried to stay away. He went a week without seeing her but thought of nothing else. She welcomed him back with open arms.

  She failed to show for a rendezvous one afternoon, and Hugh burned up the streets trying to find her. After dark, he checked her apartment and was shocked at what he found. Her left eye was bruised and swollen. Her lower lip had a small cut. Through tears, she described how she had been slapped around the night before by her last customer, a regular who had become increasingly physical. Given her appearance, she would miss work for several days, and she, as always, needed the money.

  It was serious in more ways than the obvious. A teenage girl had been beaten by a brute who was at least forty years old. Criminal charges were in order, though Hugh knew the police would not be called. If she chose to tell her supervisor, the matter would be dealt with “in-house.” Lance protected his girls and paid them well, and he relied on a steady stream of them from places unknown. If word got out that they weren’t safe in his clubs, his business would suffer.

  Cindy had left in a hurry the night before and had not told the manager. She was afraid of squealing on anyone; she was afraid of everything at the moment, and needed a friend. Hugh sat with her for hours and kept ice on her wounds.

  He found Nevin Noll the following day and told him what happened. Nevin said he would handle the situation. He checked with the club’s manager and learned the identity of the customer. Three days later, with Cindy back at work and hiding the damage under even more makeup, Nevin asked Hugh to take a ride with him.

  “Where to?” he asked, though it didn’t matter. He admired Noll and wanted to get even closer. In many ways he thought of him as a big brother, one who’d been around the block a few times.

  “We’re going over to Pascagoula to look at new Chryslers,” Noll said with a smile.

  “You buying one?”

  “Nope. I think our boy sells cars over there. Let’s drop by and have a word.”

  “This sounds like fun.”

  “You just stay in the car, okay? I’ll do the talking.”

  Half an hour later, they parked near a row of beautiful new Chrysler sedans. Nevin got out, walked over to one, looked it over, and was studying the sticker in the window when a salesman approached with a big hello and a toothy smile. He stretched out a hand as if they were old friends, but Nevin ignored it. “Looking for Roger Brewer.”

  “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  “You were at Red Velvet Monday night.”

  Brewer lost his smile and glanced over his shoulder. He shrugged, gave a smart-ass “So what?”

  “Spent some time with one of our girls, Cindy.”

  “What is this?”

  “Maybe I want to buy a car.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “She weighs a hundred and ten pounds and you slapped her around.”

  “So?” Brewer had the appearance of a man who’d slapped around others and was not shy about violence. He squared up to Nevin and showed him a sneer.

  Nevin took a step closer, within striking distance, and said, “She’s a kid. Why don’t you slap people your own size?”

  “Like you?”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  Brewer had a second thought and said, “Get outta here.”

  Hugh inched even lower in the front seat, but didn’t miss anything. His window was down and he was close enough to hear the conversation.

  “Don’t come back, okay?” Nevin said. “It’s off-limits for you.”

  “Go to hell. I’ll do what I want.”

  The first punch was so quick Hugh almost missed it. A short right cross landed square on Brewer’s jaw, snapping back his head and buckling his knees. He fell onto the front of a new sedan, caught himself, and threw a wild roundhouse right hook that Nevin easily ducked. His next shot was a hard right to Brewer’s gut that made him squeal. A left-right-left combo ripped his eyebrows and lacerated his lips. A hard right hook knocked him onto the hood of the sedan. Nevin yanked his feet and pulled him off the hood, crashing the back of his head on the bumper as he went down. On the asphalt, Nevin kicked him square in the nose and appeared ready to beat him to death.

  “Hey!” someone yelled and Hugh saw two men running toward them.

  Nevin ignored them and kicked Brewer again in the face. When the first man was close enough, Nevin whirled with a left hook and dropped him cold. The second one stopped, froze, and had a quick afterthought. “Who are you?”

  As if it mattered. Nevin grabbed him by the knot of his necktie and rammed his head into the left front hubcap of the sedan. With all three on the ground, Nevin returned to Brewer and kicked him twice in the groin, the second blow crunching his testicles and making him grunt like a dying animal.

  Nevin jumped in the car and calmly drove away as if nothing had happened. As they left the lot, Hugh glanced back. All three were still down, though the second rescuer was on all fours and trying to collect himself.

  Minutes passed before they spoke. Finally, Nevin said, “You want some ice cream?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “There’s a Tastee-Freez just up the road here,” Nevin said nonchalantly, as if nothing had happened. “Best banana shakes on the Coast.”

  “Okay.” Hugh was still in disbelief but had some questions. “Those guys back there, will they call the police?”

  Nevin laughed at such foolishness. “No. They’re not stupid. If they call the police, then I’ll call Brewer’s wife. The laws of the jungle, son.”

  “You’re not worried about them?”

  “Why? What’s to worry about?”

  “Well, that first guy, Brewer, he might be hurt.”

  “I hope so. That’s the point, young Hugh. You hurt ’em but you don’t kill ’em. He just got a message he’ll never forget, and he won’t be slapping around our girls anymore.”

  Hugh just shook his head. “That was pretty amazing. You took down three of them in no time flat.”

  “Well, son, let’s just say that I’ve had some experience.”

  “So, you do this all the time?”

  “No, not all the time. Most of our customers know the rules. Occasionally, we’ll get an ass like Brewer back there and have to run him off. More often, though, it’s some flyboys who get drunk and start fighting.”

  Nevin turned in to the Tastee-Freez and parked at the drive-in. He ordered two large banana shakes and turned on the radio to WVMI Biloxi, which happened to be Hugh’s favorite too.

  “You ever boxed?” Nevin asked.

  Hugh shook his head.

  “I used my fists a lot when I was a kid. Had to. One of my uncles boxed in the army, before he got kicked out, and he taught me the basics. And we didn’t always use gloves. When I was sixteen I knocked him out. He said I had the quickest hands he’d ever seen. He encouraged me to join the army or air force, primarily to get the hell out of the mountains, but also to box on organized teams.”

  Nevin lit a cigarette and glanced at his watch. Hugh looked at his hands and fingers and saw no signs of the beating.

  Hugh asked, “Did you box at Keesler?”

  “Some, yeah, but it was more fun fighting the Yankees who were always putting us down. I stayed in trouble and they finally kicked me out. Plus, I hated wearing a uniform.”

  A cute girl on skates rolled to their car and delivered the milkshakes. When they were back on Highway 90 and headed for Biloxi, Nevin felt the need to offer more worldly advice to his young protégé. After a long pull on his straw he said, “This girl you’re seeing, Cindy. Don’t get too attached, okay? I know, I know, right now you’re all aglow with puppy love, but she’s nothing but trouble.”

  “You fixed me up.”

  “Sure I did, but you’ve had your fun, so move on. As you’ll learn, there are plenty of women out there.”

  Hugh worked his straw and absorbed this unsolicited advice.

  Nevin said, “She’ll be gone before you know it. They come and go. She’s too pretty to hang around. She’ll go back home and marry some old boy from church.”

  “She’s only sixteen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  “I’m not surprised. They all lie.”

  Hugh grew quiet as he considered life without Cindy Murdock. Nevin had said plenty and decided it was time to shut up. He was only twenty-three years old and, though he’d seen a lot, he had never fallen hard for a woman.

  A siren startled both of them. Hugh turned around and saw a deputy in a blue-and-white patrol car. “Shit!” Nevin said as he pulled onto the shoulder of the busy highway. Then he looked at Hugh with a smile and said, “I’ll take care of this.”

  Nevin got out and met the deputy between the cars. Luckily he was from Harrison County. They had crossed from Jackson County less than a mile back.

  Harrison County was the domain of Sheriff Albert “Fats” Bowman, rumored to be the highest-paid public official in the state, with precious little of his income ever hitting the books.

  The deputy began as a hard-ass. “Your license, please.”

  Nevin handed it over and tried not to be cocky. He knew what was about to happen. The deputy did not.

  He said, “Gotta call outta Pascagoula, said a guy driving a car just like this one needed to answer some questions. Something about an assault at the Chrysler place.”

  “So, what’s your question?”

  “You been to the Chrysler place in Pascagoula?”

  “Just left. Had to see a man named Roger Brewer. He’s probably at the hospital right now, getting sewed up. Brewer was at Red Velvet Monday night and slapped around one of our girls. He won’t do it again.”

  The deputy handed back the driver’s license and glanced around, not quite sure what to do next. “So, I take it you work at Red Velvet.”

  “I do. Lance Malco is my boss. He sent me to see Brewer. Everything’s fine on our end.”

  “Okay. I guess we got no problem with that. I’ll radio Pascagoula and tell ’em we ain’t see nothin’ over here.”

  “That’ll work. May I ask your name? Mr. Malco will want to know.”

  “Sure. Wiley Garrison.”

  “Thank you, Deputy Garrison. If you need a drink sometime, let me know.”

  “Don’t drink.”

  “Thanks just the same.”

  Chapter 7

  Baricev’s was a well-known seafood restaurant on the Biloxi beach, near downtown. It was a popular place, with too few tables for the demand that was fueled by locals who favored it and tourists who’d heard of its reputation. Reservations were frowned upon because record-keeping was not a priority, so there was usually a long wait at the front door. Some locals, though, got their preferred tables with no waiting whatsoever.

  Sheriff Albert “Fats” Bowman was a regular and insisted on the same corner table. He ate there at least once a week, with the check always grabbed by a nightclub owner or hotel operator. He loved the crab claws and stuffed flounder and often stayed for hours.

  He never dined in his official uniform, but chose a nice, loose, rumpled suit for these occasions. He didn’t want folks to stare, though everyone knew Fats. Not everyone admired him because of his well-earned reputation for corruption, but he was an old-school politician who shook every hand and kissed every baby. It paid off with landslide reelections.

  Fats and Rudd Kilgore, his chief deputy and chauffeur, arrived early and sipped on whiskey sours as they waited for Mr. Malco. He arrived promptly at eight and had with him his number two—a lieutenant known only as Tip. As usual, Nevin Noll was the driver and would wait with the car. Though Lance trusted him implicitly, he was still too young to take part in business meetings.

  The four shook hands, exchanged greetings like old friends, and settled around the table. More drinks were ordered as they dug in for a long dinner.

  Lance had arranged the meeting for a reason. Some of the dinners were nothing but a nice way to say thanks to a corrupt sheriff who took their payoffs and stayed out of their business. Occasionally, though, there was a matter of concern. A large platter of raw oysters landed in the center of the table and they began eating.

  Bowman needed to get a trifling issue out of the way. He asked, “Ever hear of a boy named Winslow? Goes by Butch.”

  Lance looked at Tip, who instinctively shook his head. In response to any direct question, especially one from a cop, Tip always began with a curt “No.”

  Lance added, “Don’t think so. Who is he?”

  “Figured. They found him in a ditch last weekend beside Nelly Road, half a mile off Highway 49. He was alive, but barely. Beat to hell and back. Still in the hospital. Last known place of employment was over at the Yacht Club. We checked around, got the word that Butch was dealing blackjack and had sticky fingers. Somebody said he once dealt for you guys at the Truck Stop.”

  Tip smiled and said, “Yeah, now I remember. We caught him stealing and ran him off. ’Bout a year ago.”

  “No follow-up?”

  “It wasn’t us, Sheriff,” Tip said.

  “Didn’t think so. Look, you boys know I don’t get involved in disciplinary matters, unless there’s a dead body. Somebody came within an inch of killing this boy.”

  “What’s your point, Sheriff?” Lance asked.

  “I don’t need one.”

  “Got it.”

  Tip ordered two pitchers of beer and they worked on the oysters. When it was time to get down to business, Bowman asked, “So what’s on your mind?”

  Lance leaned in a bit lower and said, “Well, it’s no surprise, but this place is getting crowded. Too crowded. And now we’re getting word that a new gang is taking a look.”

  Bowman said, “You’re doing okay, Lance. You got your clubs and joints, more than anybody else. We figure you’re running at least a third of the business on the Coast.” He lobbed this across the table as if he were speculating as to the numbers. Fats kept his own meticulous records. When he said something like “we figure,” the message was that he knew precisely the share of vice Malco was controlling.

  “Maybe so, but the challenge is keeping it. I’m sure you’ve heard of the State Line Mob.”

  “Heard of them, but I haven’t seen them.”

  “Well, they’re here. We caught a rumor about a month ago that they’re moving in. Seems as though things are getting too hot up on the border and they’re heading south. Biloxi seems attractive, given the business-friendly environment.”

  The sheriff waved over the waitress and ordered gumbo, crab claws, and stuffed flounder. When she left, he said, “A nasty bunch, by reputation.”

  “Yes, by reputation. We got a guy who worked up there and knows ’em well. They ran him off for some reason, said he was lucky to get away.”

  “They got a joint?”

  “Rumor is they’re trying to buy O’Malley’s.”

  Bowman frowned and looked hard at Kilgore. They didn’t like the news, primarily because they had not been contacted by the new guys in town. The rules of engagement were simple: To operate any illegal establishment in Harrison County, approval had to be obtained from Fats Bowman. Dues were required, and he then spread the money around to the police and politicians. Fats wasn’t bothered by competition. More clubs and beer joints meant more money for him. The gangs could fight among themselves as long as his bottom line was protected.

  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.