* * *
On the one-year anniversary of Camille, a crowd gathered on a beautiful morning near the remains of the Church of the Redeemer, the oldest Episcopal Church on the Coast. The municipal band played for half an hour as the crowd gathered. A Presbyterian minister offered a flowery prayer, followed by a priest who was more succinct. The mayor of Biloxi talked about the iron will and fighting spirit of his people along the Coast. He pointed to his right and talked about the rebuilding of the Biloxi harbor. To his left and across Highway 90 a new shopping center was under construction. Most of the rubble had been cleared and every day the sounds of recovery grew stronger. Staggered and wounded like never before, the Coast had been brought to its knees, but it would rise again.
A beautiful memorial to the victims was unveiled.
* * *
When Camille leveled the nightclubs and swept away everything but the concrete slabs, there was optimism in some quarters that perhaps God had sent a message, had finally pronounced judgment on the wicked. This was a popular theme among some preachers after the storm. The infamous Biloxi vice was gone. Good riddance. Praise the Lord.
The sinners, though, were still thirsty, and when Red Velvet and O’Malley’s reopened three months after the storm, they were instantly packed and long lines waited to get in. Their popularity inspired others and soon there were opportunists everywhere. Once-expensive land that faced the beach was now empty, and many homeowners had no plans to return. Why build an expensive home and risk another Camille? Prices plummeted and that drew even more interest.
By Christmas of 1969, a construction boom was underway along the Strip. The buildings were of the cheap metal variety, barely able to withstand winds from a good summer thunderstorm. They were decorated with all manner of awnings, porticos, colorful doors, fake windows, and neon signs.
The Coast was still busy with construction workers, day laborers, volunteers, drifters, and Guardsmen, not to mention the new recruits at Keesler, and the nightclub scene returned in a hurry. Vice was perhaps the first industry to fully recover after the storm.
Chapter 22
Because it was an older building made of concrete and bricks, the Truck Stop withstood the winds and water and was still standing after the storm. Lance put Hugh in charge of its repairs and renovations, and when it reopened in February he decided it would be his new hangout. He needed some distance from his father and Nevin Noll. He was twenty-two years old and looking for a challenge. He was tired of driving his father around and listening to his unsolicited advice. He was tired of breaking up fights at Foxy’s and Red Velvet, tired of mixing drinks when a bartender failed to show, tired of his mother’s quiet warnings about a life of crime. He wasn’t tired of the girls but was curious about a more serious relationship. He had his own apartment, lived alone and enjoyed it, and was getting restless.
Hugh’s official job was operating all-night convenience stores that also sold cheap gas. Lance owned several on the Coast and used them to launder money from his clubs. Their inventories were paid for in cash, at discounts, and once the goods hit the shelves they became legitimate stock. Their sales were properly recorded, taxes were paid, and so on. Most of the sales, anyway. The truth was that about half of the gross receipts never hit the books. The dirty money got even dirtier.
Hugh had given up boxing when he realized his strengths—a hard head, quick hands, a love of trading punches—were offset by his bad training habits. He had always enjoyed the gym, but Buster finally ran him off when he caught him smoking for the third time. Hugh enjoyed beer, cigarettes, and the night life too much to stay in fighting shape. Once he retired, his afternoons were spent hanging around the Truck Stop, shooting pool and killing time. He loved poker and thought about going to Vegas and pursuing it full-time, but could never win consistently. He became an ace pool shark, won some tournaments, but there was never enough money on the line.
Honest work had never appealed to him. He met some drug smugglers and dabbled in the trade, but was turned off by the brutality of the business. The money was attractive but the risks were much higher. If he didn’t get shot he would probably get busted. Snitching was rampant and he knew men who’d been sent away for decades. He’d also heard of a couple who had been bound, gagged, and dropped in the Gulf.