Strictly for Cash

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WE hit Pelotta around nine-thirty at night, after a four-hour run from Kern City.

Packed with stores, souvenir stands, cafes and filling-stations, it was like any of the other

small towns along the Florida coast.

The trucker, whose name was Sam Williams, pointed out the places of interest as we drove

along the main street.

“That’s the Ocean Hotel,” he said, jerking his thumb at a gaudy affair of chromium, neon

lights and bottle-green awnings that stood at the intersection that led across the town and to

the sea. “Petelli owns every brick of it. Come to that, he owns pretty well the whole town. He

owns the stadium too. That’s it up there.”

I peered through the windshield of the truck. Aloof on a hill, overlooking the town, was a

circular concrete building, open to the sky in the centre, and roofed in on the rear stands.

Above the roof were vast batteries of lights strung together on big steel frames, and which