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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