Before it happened, a street battle erupted when three of Dusty’s goons walked into Foxy’s with baseball bats and hit everyone who moved, including two bouncers, two bartenders, some customers, and a cocktail waitress who was trying to flee. They broke every table, chair, neon light, and bottle of booze, and seemed ready to finish off a bartender or two when a guard appeared from the kitchen and opened fire with a handgun. One of the goons whipped out his own and a shootout began as they scampered for the door. The guard followed them into the parking lot and emptied his automatic. Bullets were peppering the front of the building and some of the cars parked close by. A bouncer with a bleeding forehead staggered out with a pistol to help the guard. They hopped in a car and chased the goons, who were firing wildly out the windows as they squealed tires and fled the scene. The gunfight continued down Highway 90 as the cars weaved through traffic and horrified drivers ducked for cover. When a bullet came through the front windshield of the chase car, the guard decided it was time to stop the madness and pulled into a parking lot.
Unknown to the guard and bouncer, one of their wild shots got lucky and hit a goon in the neck. He died in surgery at the Biloxi hospital. His two buddies dropped him off then disappeared. Typical for the time, the dead guy had no wallet, no ID. The getaway car, riddled with bullets, was never found. Luckily, no one inside Foxy’s was killed, but seven were hospitalized.
Two weeks later, Dusty was walking along the beach on a beautiful Sunday afternoon and holding hands with his girlfriend as they splashed barefoot in the sand. He was sipping a can of beer, his last. From six hundred yards away, an ex–army sniper known as “the Rifleman” took his position on the second floor of a beach motel on the other side of Highway 90. He aimed his trusted Logan .45 caliber military rifle and pulled the trigger. A millisecond later, the bullet hit Dusty in the right cheek and blew off the back of his head. His girlfriend screamed in horror and another couple ran to help. By the time the police arrived, the Rifleman was on the bridge over Biloxi Bay and headed to Mobile.
Cromwell’s death was sensational and the Gulf Coast Register finally woke up and began digging. The “gangland warfare” had claimed at least four men, all known to be involved in prostitution, drugs, and gambling. All were connected in some manner to the nightclubs along the Strip. There were rumors of other killings, as well as beatings and burnings. Fats Bowman had little to say, but assured the newspaper that his office was actively investigating the murders.
* * *
Like all law-abiding citizens, Jesse Rudy watched the war, and he, too, expected little from the investigations. And while he was frustrated by the efforts of Rex Dubisson to prosecute the murders, he was secretly delighted that the district attorney was showing so little interest. In his next campaign, he would emphasize his opponent’s benign efforts to rein in the gangs. More violence would only help Jesse’s cause. People were upset and wanted something done.
Nature intervened in an unimaginable way and stopped the killings. The storm blew away the nightclubs on the Strip, as well as most of Biloxi. It dealt a crippling blow not only to the nightlife, but every other industry along the Coast.
It also led directly to the election of Jesse Rudy.
Chapter 17
The summer of 1969 was a busy season in the Caribbean, but there was no reason to believe Hurricane Camille would become so deadly. When it skirted north of Cuba on August 15 it was an unimpressive Category 2, with a path projected to find landfall along the Florida Panhandle. As it headed north, it calmed somewhat after Cuba, then intensified rapidly in the warm waters of the Gulf. It wasn’t a wide storm, but its lack of size only added to its speed. By August 17, it was a Cat 5 and roaring toward the Coast. All projections were ignored and it took dead aim at Biloxi.
The Gulf Coast was accustomed to hurricanes and everyone could tell stories, everyone had a favorite. Warnings were part of life, and, for the most part, taken in stride. No one had ever seen a twenty-foot storm surge and predictions for one seemed absurd. The residents along the beach tacked plywood over their windows, bought batteries, food, water, and tuned up their radios; the usual precautions. They had been through the routine so many times. They were not being foolish. Those who survived would later say they had simply never seen anything like Camille.