by Rick Outzen
Payback was a bitch, but I had earned it. In the early days of the newspaper, I had picked on both the daily newspaper and the local television station. I hadn’t yet learned to deal with what Roger Fairly called my fatal flaw—the failure to hit the “pause” button and tone down my rhetoric before I published my criticisms.
Our first ad campaign drew blood: “A good newspaper for a town that deserves one.” It didn’t win us any fans at the daily newspaper.
At the time the Herald had come up with a promotion that let Pensacola’s elite purchase decorative pelican statues. The Pelicans in Paradise was a public art project based on the CowParade project, which the Herald’s publisher witnessed during a trip to Portland, Oregon. He was inspired by the bovine statues scattered throughout Portland and saw an opportunity to make money.
Each fiberglass pelican was nearly five feet tall and weighed about seventy pounds. They were decorated by various artists, selected by the statues’ sponsors, and placed at various outdoor locations around downtown Pensacola.
A total of forty-one pelicans were commissioned for the project. The first wave of twenty statues included a pelican decorated with bright flames and a spiked collar and anklets called “Flambo,” “The Godfeather” (a mafioso pelican in a pinstriped suit), and “Pelvis the Elvis Bird” and “Peli-Queen Elizabeak,” which were based on Elvis Presley and Queen Elizabeth I respectively. The paper got the city to pay to put them on display around downtown.
The Insider countered with cheap, plastic pink flamingoes that we planted next to the Herald’s pelicans. Our flock included “Flam-stripper,” a flamingo in a thong that was ready to entertain SEC head football coaches, law enforcement officers, and whoever had a wad of twenties or a visa card; “Ramboingo,” an attack Flamingo that could whip birds a hundred times its size, even ones made of fiberglass bolted to the ground and painted all pretty; and “Mini Bucks,” the flamingo that represented all the call center jobs the Pensacola Chamber of Commerce brought to the area by offering wages lower than most third world countries.
At a music festival, we stole one of their banners, cut it up into little pieces, and sent the Herald editor a ransom note. Unamused, she threatened to arrest me for petty theft.
We also regularly posted clips of the television station’s miscues—and there were dozens. When a prostitution sweep in the seedy part of Escambia County snagged the station manager, we published his mug shot.
No, our competition relished going after the Pensacola Insider and particularly me.
I spent my Sunday trying to find out more about Sue’s last days. Dare hadn’t returned my call. Maybe the medical examiner’s report had satisfied her concerns about her friend’s death, but I wanted to find out more about Sue’s state of mind as the trial was set to begin.
If she wasn’t having seizures, why take the pills? The Sue Hines I knew hated taking them. She wouldn’t self-medicate to sleep. Sue would have run three miles or read Faulkner instead.
Unfortunately, I hit roadblocks everywhere I turned. Sue’s friends and neighbors either wouldn’t talk to me or hinted that I was only trying to cover my ass and deflect any blame for her death. Harden had disappeared and didn’t return calls or answer text messages.
So I decided to get my mind off Sue and follow up on helping Bree with her situation. I had a source who always seemed to know what was happening in Pensacola’s underbelly. I drove to Benny’s Backseat, the last remaining strip club on the west side of Pensacola. At four o’clock on a Sunday, the club didn’t have many customers, but Benny Walsh would be there. He auditioned new talent on Sunday afternoons after he attended Mass at the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart and took his mother and aunt to brunch.
“Holmes, what the fuck are you doing here?” Benny yelled as my eyes adjusted to the dark room. Benny sat on a stool in the far corner where he could watch the bar and the stage. He wore a powder blue polo shirt. Every finger had a ring, and his gold tooth shone when he smiled. The stage lights reflected off his bald head.
As I walked towards him, he whispered something to a stocky waitress with a Daffy Duck tattoo on her left buttock. By the time I sat down, a Bud Light appeared on the table. Benny didn’t shake hands. He bumped fists.
“What’s got you slumming, my friend?” he asked.
On the stage, a very skinny girl with a blonde curly wig twirled on a gold pole to Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.” She held onto the pole for dear life. The sailors at the foot of the stage placed bets on whether or not she would fall again.
“What do you hear about The Green Olive and Monte Tatum?” I asked. It was always best to go straight to the point with Benny.
“That piece of crap,” growled Benny. “He ran up a seven-grand tab here and tried to walk out without paying. The girls had the boys hold him down until he signed the credit card receipt.”
He added, “Then the bastard tried to get the credit card company to void the transaction. Thankfully, we had him on video pretending to be a big shot and buying rounds of drinks for the girls at his table.”
“Anything on him creating sex tapes of women he sleeps with?”
“One dancer did go home with him once,” said Benny. “She said the SOB had a mirror above his bed, a stack of porno magazines in his bathroom, and drawers full of sex toys but didn’t mention a video camera.”
We drank and talked about his business and the challenge of finding dependable dancers. Millennials weren’t the best recruits. They didn’t work well with the older dancers, always demanded the prime hours, and never wanted to wait their turn.
“And they’re covered with weird tattoos,” he said as he waved at Daffy Duck to bring us another round. “Not butterflies and roses. They’ve got the names of their boyfriends and pets on their backs. It’s too much.” But Benny understood stripping was a young woman’s game. He would adapt.
Benny said, “There is a guy going around town paying waitresses, sales clerks, and strippers to perform in short hardcore videos. He said he planned to show them on the web.”
Benny was old school and didn’t touch hardcore porn. He tried to keep his girls out of making trips to South Florida to the adult film studios, but the money was too good—a thousand dollars for a weekend. The girls never told him how many videos were cut over those three days, and he never asked.
“This guy doesn’t really care about their looks. Most of the girls work at Waffle House or Walmart,” Benny said as he pretended to shudder. “He sets up a camera, the girl takes off her clothes, and they make amateur porno flicks. For about twenty minutes’ worth of work, the girl makes three hundred to four hundred dollars. The kinkier the sex, the more money she gets paid.”
“You know his name?”
“Can’t remember. He tried to recruit my girls, and I had him thrown out. Too many drugs tied up with porn. The ones he got to do it couldn’t dance anymore. Too screwed-up. One got so strung out she wound up in rehab.”
“Would you text me if you find out his name?” I asked. “Also, let me know if you can find out what Tatum has been up to lately.”
“Sure. Why the interest in that pervert?” asked Benny.
“A favor for a friend,” I said, knowing Benny would understand. I reached for my wallet to pay my tab.
“Your money’s no good here.”
I nodded thanks and walked out into the sunlight.
Three years ago, Benny’s third ex-wife was in a terrible car wreck. We investigated the county road where the accident took place and found out the road contractor had not followed the construction documents. The newly opened road had a much tighter curve than designed, and the speed limit had been set too high.
His ex-wife had no chance of maintaining control of her Camaro at 45 mph when she hit the bend. She flew off the road, hit a tree, and spent three months in the hospital and rehab.
After we published our article, the road contractor settled for five million dollars. Benny no longer had to pay alimony. I got a lifetime beer tab at a
seedy strip club and another news source.
That night, Big Boy and I watched the Dodgers beat the Braves. I poured some beer in his bowl and gave him a pile of pretzels, figuring we would walk it off in the morning.
On a legal pad, I listed a few questions for Frost that would round out my story on his payroll. I needed to try to get him on record. Otherwise he would claim the article was unfair.
On the next page, I wrote my notes on the conversation with Benny, which probably had nothing to do with Bree’s dilemma with Tatum.
I nodded off as I tried to work up a to-do list on Hines for after his wife’s funeral.
9
Most people avoid conflict and turn away from confrontations. Few people ever walk into a room where everyone wants to stone them. I tend to walk into those rooms often.
After Big Boy and I took our Monday morning constitutional, during which he belched continually, much to the delight of the running brigade, I showered, dressed, and headed to Sheriff Frost’s breakfast spot.
Mama’s Kitchen was located two blocks away from the county jail at the edge of a decaying shopping center. Faded stickers on the window promoted pancakes, fresh biscuits, and home-cooked meals. Squad cars filled many of the parking spaces. The sheriff’s silver Tahoe sat right next to the front door in a handicapped parking space.
Frost sat with Peck and two uniformed refrigerators who only spoke in grunts and ate as if they had just learned how to use a fork. Thank goodness the waitress carried away their empty plates as I pulled up a chair to their booth.
“Holmes, we didn’t invite you to breakfast,” sneered Peck, who looked even smaller next to Refrigerator No. 1. The two humongous deputies started to straighten up, but it was taking a while for the brain signals to reach the muscles. Two more regular-sized officers pivoted their seats at the lunch counter in our direction.
“Captain Krager, there’s no need to be rude,” said Sheriff Frost. “I’m sure Mr. Holmes has a few questions for his article.”
Turning to his bodyguards, he said, “I’ve got this. Go wait in the car.”
Again, it took a few minutes for the two giants to disengage from the booth and make it outside. It was like watching two dinosaurs saunter off into the jungle. The lunch counter deputies paid their tabs and exited, too. Peck stayed.
After the waitress brought me coffee, I said, “Sheriff, the records show you’ve given pay raises every year for the last six to your administrators, but nothing to your deputies.”
Peck’s cheeks started to redden. Frost remained calm, not taking his eyes off me.
“And each year you return millions to the county’s general fund,” I continued. “Why haven’t you put some of the money toward increasing the starting salaries for deputies and cut some of your administrative overhead?”
Frost said, “You don’t understand politics, Holmes. The taxpayers like to see budget dollars being put back and not wasted.”
“But your budget keeps increasing.”
Peck interjected, “The people want safe streets, and they’re willing to pay for it.”
Frost silenced Peck with a glare. This fight was between him and me. The hired help was to remain on the sidelines.
“I’ve reviewed some of the personnel files,” I said. “Why aren’t you doing job performance evaluations and tying raises to them?”
“The unions wouldn’t stand for it,” he replied.
“What about your administrators and department heads? They aren’t in the union.”
Frost said, “Well, I can’t start treating my employees differently.”
“But you have. Take Peck. His salary has doubled since you took office.”
“A good leader rewards loyalty,” said the sheriff with a little more tension in his voice. The veins in his neck began to swell. I think he knew what I was going to say next.
“Your brother, Amos, must be exceptionally loyal,” I said. “In four years, he has gone from corporal to sergeant, lieutenant, captain, and then to major. Some might call that nepotism.”
“You smug little pissant,” yelled Frost as he slammed the table, spilling everyone’s coffee. “I’m done. You print one word about my brother, and you will feel my wrath.”
He stood up. “Peck wants to destroy that worthless rag that you call a newspaper, but I’ve kept him off your butt. No more.” Frost poked me in the chest. “If you make this personal, then it will become personal.”
Peck got up, too. “This is going to fun,” he said. “Only a dumbass screws with the sheriff.”
The waitress brought me the check after they left. I paid for the coffee and all their breakfasts. I was a dumbass.
At the Pensacola Insider offices, Mal had reined in all the editorial parts of the issue and only had a few outstanding ads. She had filled the holes caused by the last-minute cancellations with ads for local nonprofits that she kept on file. Maybe those free ads would buy us a little goodwill in the community.
“Did you give Big Boy beer last night? His burps smell awful,” she said as I passed by her desk. The dog was asleep underneath it.
I just smiled. “Let’s move the staff meeting to this afternoon,” I said to no one in particular. Everyone was in his or her own world anyway. I followed up with a group email explaining that I would be attending Sue Hines’ funeral.
At my desk, I posted a teaser on the upcoming Frost cover story to my blog, which I knew would impact his blood pressure. I did one more read through of the article, adding a few remarks about my morning coffee with the sheriff. I kept Amos Frost in the article. Then I emailed it to Roxie for copyediting. After handing off the issue to the team, I went upstairs to dress for the service.
In the rain outside St. Joseph’s Church, I stood with hundreds of others as they filed in for the service. I chose to stand in back when I got inside, surrounded by the drenched street folk that saw the funeral as a chance to get out of the downpour.
When I left my cadre of sinners who pretended to sing the hymns so the ushers wouldn’t remove them, I felt the eyes of the congregation on me as I stood in the communion line. Fittingly, the bishop ran out of hosts as I reached him. He didn’t even offer me a blessing, just a faint nod.
As I walked to the back, unblessed and without grace, I imagined Sue popping up from her casket and asking, “Why, sweetie? All we did was care for you.”
Bo and his grandparents stared straight ahead as I passed them. Nestled in between Hines and his brother-in-law sat Julie Wittman, Jace’s teenage daughter. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was crying into a handkerchief. Her uncle had his arm around her shoulder, comforting her.
Jace Wittman didn’t take his eyes off me. His eyes glinted when the bishop didn’t give me communion. Monte Tatum sat two pews behind Wittman by himself.
The bums must have held a conference while I was gone because they gave me a wide berth when I returned to my place. They probably were worried that I would hurt their reputations and future handouts if anyone in the church saw me with them.
I didn’t walk over to the parish hall after the service. Martyrdom didn’t suit my personality. Neither did three bean casseroles. Instead, I strolled across Government Street to the state attorney’s office to meet with Clark Spencer. I needed to be sure they stayed with the prosecution.
Spencer specialized in white-collar crimes and loved wearing sweater vests, even in the summer. Humor wasn’t one of his strong suits. His breath smelled of chili and onions, which meant he had eaten lunch at the Dog House Deli. The mustard stain on his tie confirmed my deduction.
He said, “Bowman Hines’ attorneys want to cut a deal. Their client says the Arts Council executive director stole the funds. For immunity, he will testify against her.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Clark. He’s had ample opportunity to share that explanation before.”
I listed the opportunities on the fingers of my right hand. “When I tried to interview him for my article, when the auditors revi
ewed the Arts Council’s financial records, and when your investigators tried to question him. He’s guilty.”
“The death of Mrs. Hines has made the defense attorneys more creative,” said Spencer. “I think they fear her death points to his guilt, and they’re scrambling.”
“Wait a second,” I said holding up my hand. “The daily newspaper and others have been not too subtly blaming me for Sue’s mental state. Bo Hines and her brother have fed that rumor. Now, you’re saying it works against Hines.”
“Walker, not everything is about you,” said Spencer, as he scraped off the dried mustard he had just noticed on his tie. “None of us know what jurors may think about Sue Hines’ sudden death, but I agree with his attorneys. It’s a bigger problem for them than our side.”
“I thought your boss was having second thoughts about prosecuting,” I remarked.
Spencer shook his head. “I spent an hour this morning with Mr. Newton walking through the case. He is considering the immunity deal, but I think he will give me the green light to proceed.”
“This is bullshit. Bo is the big fish. He’s not this saint that everyone in the community believes he is. He is the mastermind behind the embezzlement scheme. Besides, no one knows where the executive director is. I haven’t talked to Pandora Childs in weeks.”
Clark kept his cool. “Mr. Newton is up for reelection in two years. Sheriff Frost is in his ear, denouncing you every chance he gets.”
He continued, “The judge will delay the trial for a week to allow Hines to deal with his wife’s death, which actually helps me. Hines’ request for a speedy trial had cut short our trial preparation, but the judge’s postponement has also given his attorneys time to negotiate with my boss. I will push to go to trial, but Hines may have the clout to pull off an immunity deal.”
