Hopefully, Jesse would have the support of those on the right side of the law, which should be the majority of voters. But there were many who paid lip service to reform while secretly enjoying the easy life on the Coast. They liked the upscale clubs, the fine restaurants, with cocktails and wine lists, and the neighborhood watering holes away from the Strip. There had been many politicians who campaigned with promises of reform, only to succumb to the corruption once elected. And there were those who had managed to keep their integrity while turning a blind eye. He had no plans to do so.
The campaign would be strenuous and perhaps dangerous. Once the mobsters realized he was serious about reform, there could be threats and intimidation. He would never risk the well-being of his family, but he seriously doubted anyone would be bold enough to threaten real harm. And, yes, they would all hit the streets, knocking on doors and putting up yard signs.
Keith, the oldest and unquestioned leader of the pack, spoke first and said he wasn’t afraid of a damned thing. He was proud of his parents for the decision and he couldn’t wait to start campaigning. At college, he had grown accustomed to comments about Biloxi. Most students had a romanticized vision of the vice and all the fun it offered. Many had been in the clubs and bars. Few understood the dark side of the Strip. And there were those who viewed anyone from Biloxi with suspicion.
If the idea was good enough for Keith, then Beverly, Laura, and Tim were on board. They could handle any snide comments from kids at school. They were proud of their father and supported his decision.
He cautioned them to keep the plans quiet. He would announce his candidacy in a month or so; until then, not a word. The election would be settled in the Democratic primary in August, so they had a busy summer in front of them.
When the conversation was over, the family held hands and Jesse led them in prayer.
* * *
Two nights later, Keith met the old gang at a new downtown bar. The state had finally changed its antiquated liquor laws and allowed each county to vote yes or no to the sale of alcohol. Not surprisingly, the Coast counties—Harrison, Hancock, and Jackson—had quickly voted yes. Liquor stores and bars were soon doing a brisk business. For those eighteen and older, it was legal to drink. This put a dent in vice trade, but the gangsters filled the gap with marijuana and cocaine. Gambling and skin were still in demand. Business on the Strip was still thriving.
Hugh was working for his father and running a construction crew building new apartments, or so he said. The others suspected he was hanging around the clubs. Joey Grasich was home on leave from the navy. Denny Smith was a full-time student at the junior college and had never left home.
The four retired to a table, ordered pitchers of beer, and lit cigarettes. Joey told stories of basic training in California, a place he was quite taken with. With some luck, he would be assigned to a submarine and stay far away from Vietnam.
The boys found it hard to believe they were out of high school and approaching adulthood. They were curious about Keith’s baseball career at Southern Miss, and he reported that he’d had a good fall tryout. He had not made the team but he had not been cut either. The coach wanted him to practice every day, starting in February, and see how his arm developed. The team had plenty of pitchers, but then, in baseball, there’s never enough pitching.
Hugh had retired as a boxer. In his two-year career, he fought eighteen bouts, won nine, lost seven, and had two draws. Buster, his coach, had become frustrated with his training habits because Hugh admittedly had no desire to lay off the beer, cigarettes, and girls. He always won the first round, lost steam in the second, and held on for his life in the third when his feet got heavy and he had trouble breathing.
As the beer flowed, Hugh said, “Hey, remember Fuzz Foster, my second fight in Golden Gloves?”
They laughed and said of course they remembered.
“Well, I fought him two more times, in the ring. The ref stopped that first fight because we were both cut. A year later I beat him on points in a tournament in Jackson. Two months after that, he beat me on points. I came to really despise the guy, you know? Then, about three months ago we had our fourth fight, and this one was not in the ring. No gloves. He was in Foxy’s one night with a bunch of his boys, all drunk as skunks, raising hell. I was working security and trying to stay away from them. Sure enough, a fight broke out and I had to step over. When Fuzz saw me he had a big smile and we acknowledged each other. We got the fight under control, kicked out a couple of boneheads, then Fuzz started this crap about how he’d kicked my ass all three times and got screwed by the refs and judges. He was still boxing and started bragging about winning the state welterweight in a couple of months and going on to the Olympics. Total bullshit. I told him to pipe down because he was too loud. The place was full, other customers were getting tired of his mouth. He got mean, got in my face, and asked me if I wanted another go at it. We had plenty of security and another guy stepped between us. This really pissed off Fuzz and he threw a wild right that bounced off the top of my head, one of those drunk hooks that good boxers duck. But you know Fuzz, always going for the big knockout. I popped him in the jaw and the brawl was on. We slugged it out as his buddies piled on. What a mess. It was wonderful. Fuzz wasn’t on his game because he was drunk and unsteady. I got him on the floor and was pounding his face when they pulled me off. We finally got ’em outside and called the cops. Last time I saw Fuzz he was getting hauled away in handcuffs.”