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People got to feel the chief's love even more warmly in 1998, when the South Carolina Gay & Lesbian Pride Festival came to Myrtle Beach to stage its annual event. The rally was welcomed by most of the community. Broadway at the Beach club owners and merchants ponied up a $50,000 deposit to bring the 1970s group, the Village People, longtime favorite in the gay community, for an outdoor concert.
The alarm sounded at B&C headquarters. The company's Broadway at the Beach complex was a temple to family values. Under B&C's rosy rubric, even the Victoria's Secret lingerie shop and the Smith & Wesson gun store seemed as wholesome as apple pie. B&C asked their tenants to drop their association with the Gay & Lesbian Pride Festival and cancel the concert.
In a paid advertisement in The Sun News, the county's daily newspaper, B&C stated its case: "Our company abides by the laws governing fair and equal treatment of all individuals. However, as a private company, we have not, nor do we intend to be forced or intimidated into supporting organized activities that we believe endanger the historic values of our nation and the cornerstone truths on which they are based."
B&C's tenants didn't give a damn about the landlord's "historic values" or "cornerstone truths." When they refused to cancel the Village People concert, B&C got tough. In another newspaper notice, the company stated tersely, "We have decided that it is not in the interest of Broadway at the Beach to have any special events during April 30-May 3, 1998, which can be misunderstood as an endorsement of the Gay and Lesbian Pride March to be held during the same period."
There was almost universal shock at the company's high-handed action, but it only proved once again that being Burroughs & Chapin means never having to say you are sorry.
A Perfect Storm of Corruption
Until modern transportation spanned the swamps and rivers of the region, Horry County was geographically isolated, in a state that was culturally isolated from the rest of the world. Reflecting those times, Horry County still calls itself "The Independent Republic." The county was inbred and distrustful of new people and new ideas. The Ku Klux Klan marched through the streets, burned and lynched with impunity. Politically, Horry was regarded as one of the most corrupt provinces west of Calcutta.
One newspaperman who started his career in Myrtle Beach in 1973 told me he was in a watering hole on US 17, when a law enforcement officer came in -- in uniform -- ordered a beer, and received a payoff from behind the bar. That's just the way things are done in Horry County, where crime and corruption are a way of life. According to FBI statistics released last fall, Myrtle Beach has the highest crime rate in the nation. In the last two decades, scores of Horry County cops, judges, magistrates, mayors, city council members and state legislators have faced criminal charges. Most notorious was Congressman John Jenrette, the North Myrtle Beach Democrat, who was caught in a 1980 FBI sting, accepting a $100,000 bribe from a fake Arab sheik. Jenrette was infamously recorded saying, "I got larceny in my blood."
With its large population of transients, speculators and retirees, Myrtle Beach is a perfect storm of corporate greed, public apathy and governmental corruption. The region's long tradition of laissez-faire, good ole boy capitalism is now driven by outside money and suffused with a get-rich-quick madness.
Not surprisingly, the Republican Party has risen to dominate the county in the last 20 years. Sun News columnist Bob Bestler jokes that he is one of the seven Democrats in Horry County. In 1996, county GOP chairman Blaine Liljenquist explained how local politics work in Myrtle Beach when he announced creation of the Business Round Table. Businessmen would pay $1,200 for the privilege of meeting monthly with the county's top Republican officials over heavy hors d'oeuvres and an open bar to discuss their problems and concerns. The money would go to the county Republican Party to finance future campaigns.
"The business owners who join would certainly have better access to the politicians," Liljenquist said matter-of-factly. "They can sit down and talk to them on a one-to-one basis."
Six months later, Chairman Liljenquist gave a practical demonstration of just how influence works in Horry County. As a condominium developer, he was ordered by the fire marshal to install sprinklers in some of his condos, but Liljenquist ignored the order for two years. Three of Liljenquist's GOP friends on county council moved quietly behind the scenes to retroactively amend the building code, exempting Liljenquist from installing sprinklers. One council member even nominated Liljenquist to chair the building inspection board of adjustments and appeals, a position that would have allowed Liljenquist to exempt himself. The scheme unraveled when the Sun News brought it to light.
