by Rick Outzen
On Saturday mornings, locals crowded Eunice Superette & Slaughterhouse for fresh boudin. People lined up with coolers to fill with steaks and pork chops for grilling later in the day. We bought boudin for breakfast.
Grandma Gaudet spoke to everyone in line. They talked about the Friday night dance at the Knights of Columbus Hall and who drank too much and who left with who. She introduced me as Mari’s friend from college. After they shook my hand and moved on, she whispered to me juicy pieces of gossip about them.
Back at Grandma Gaudet’s house, I met her twin sister, Alice, and Mari’s uncles and their wives. The men worked on offshore oil rigs, one of the most dangerous jobs possible. They poked fun at me for being a liberal journalist but were impressed that I had spent the two summers before my newspaper internship working on road crews laying asphalt.
Their hands weren’t soft, and neither were mine.
Aunt Alice, the town librarian and family historian, gave me a quick tour of Eunice once we had finished our breakfast of boudin, saltine crackers, cracklin, and warm Pepsi.
The man who developed Eunice in 1884 had named the town for his wife, and in the center of town was a statue dedicated to its namesake. She looked like a Cajun Mary Poppins in a Victorian dress and hat.
Eunice’s claim to fame was the Cajun Music Hall of Fame. On Saturday nights, the locals headed to the Liberty Theatre for the best Cajun and zydeco musicians in Louisiana. WCJN radio broadcasted the performances across the state.
Alice showed me the town’s one-of-a-kind Nutcracker Museum, with a storefront that boasted the world’s largest collection of nutcrackers. We walked into a Cajun music souvenir shop located in between the theater and museum. The owner’s wife kept a sewing machine and spent her spare time making Mardi Gras costumes for everyone in town.
Around noon, Alice dropped me off at Mari’s home. I met her parents and the rest of her extended family. Grandma Gaudet kissed me on the cheek and gave me a warm hug.
Mari beamed when she saw me surrounded by all her relatives. She kissed me warmly and whispered in my ear, “Thank you.”
My alarm went off, and I awoke abruptly. I wanted desperately to go back to sleep and continue the dream, but no matter how hard I tried, I laid awake.
21
Over a pot of coffee, I read the Saturday edition of the Herald. Frost had successfully turned the media’s focus, and possibly the community’s, away from his top-heavy administrative payroll to my “sleazy tabloid journalism.” The daily published an almost complete transcript of the press conference and promised more tomorrow.
Summer texted to say she would bring Big Boy over around four o’clock. They were going to the beach.
I researched Amos Frost online and sent out emails and text messages to various sources asking for any information on the man.
While he was a decorated lawman, Lieutenant Frost’s personal life wasn’t as stellar. Married and divorced twice, his marital problems seemed odd for a church deacon and “outstanding Christian.” But this was Pensacola—Christianity and personal morality weren’t necessarily the same thing.
A Waffle House waitress shared online that Amos Frost was leaving wife number three for a much younger woman. She had heard the girl, barely out of her teens, was pregnant.
Gravy called mid-morning. He said, “Let’s talk about Eva Johnson.”
“Who?”
Gravy said, “Monte Tatum’s ex-bookkeeper who’s suing him.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not sure she will go on the record,” he said. “She’s a little nervous, and her lawyer doesn’t want to hurt her case. However, she will meet with you this afternoon when she starts her shift at three. You need to get there before the five o’clock crowd starts filling the bar. She’s worried Tatum will find out about her talking with you.”
“I’ll win her over with my charm.”
“You won’t get another shot at her,” Gravy warned. “Handle her gingerly. She does bookkeeping for a downtown real estate firm during the day and bartends at Intermission on weekends. She agreed to see you, but she’s jumpy.”
“Handling witnesses with care is my specialty,” I said as I hung up.
A little before four o’clock, I walked into Intermission. A white button-down hid the wrap around my ribs. My Dodgers cap covered the stitches on my head. My ribs and head ached only dully.
The place was nearly empty. A NASCAR race, women’s soccer, and a Miami Marlins game played on the televisions above the bar, and Aerosmith played on the speakers.
The bartender was a woman with black, curly hair and a dark complexion, maybe of Hispanic or Italian ancestry. As I walked in, she waved me to the corner of the bar away from a small group of drinkers.
I recognized her, not as Eva Johnson—her real name—but as Sparks Sinclair, the former Benny’s Backseat stripper who had played a supporting role in the short-lived career of Alabama’s head football coach a few years ago. The head coach had been in town for a celebrity golf tournament. When he left the dinner gala at Jackson’s the night before the event, the coach ended up at Benny’s with Sinclair and another dancer in the Champagne Room.
No big deal except he got drunk, mixed up his credit cards, and used his university one to pay the tab. An Auburn fan found out about it, and the coach got fired for misuse of university funds, and Sparks Sinclair got her fifteen minutes of fame. Benny loved the notoriety and even auctioned off what he claimed was the Champagne Room table where the coach had been entertained.
After she sold her story to People Magazine, Sinclair found Jesus, let her hair return to its natural color, and gave up dancing.
As an unnamed source who had danced at strip clubs from Miami to Atlanta, she helped us write a story on the mechanics of strip club operations. She used her People Magazine check to make a down payment on a cinder-block house on the beach. I heard she had gone back to school for a college degree before starting work as a bookkeeper. I didn’t know it was for Tatum.
“Hi, Sparks,” I said as she slid me a Bud Light.
She smiled, “I didn’t know if you would remember me.”
“You never told me your real name, but you aren’t someone people forget easily.”
Eva cocked her head back and smiled. “You’re sweet.”
She explained to me how six years ago she had married a cop named Johnson. She had finished her accounting degree at the University of West Florida, had a baby, and got divorced. After that she went to work for Tatum as his business manager and bookkeeper.
“Most of the time, he was all right—a little touchy-feely, but nothing I couldn’t handle,” said Eva. “I dressed professionally; it wasn’t like I was showing off my cleavage. Had my son’s picture on my desk.”
She wiped down the bar as she talked. “He may have treated me different at first because of my ex, JoJo. Monte enjoyed a weird relationship with the cops. They laughed at him behind his back, but he always paid for their drinks, offered them nights at his condo, which he called the ‘Love Shack.’”
I drank and listened.
“My split with JoJo was amicable.” She gave a slight shrug. “He’s a good father, but we drifted apart. It happens. JoJo moved to Tallahassee and went to work for ATF.”
A couple of sailors stepped up to the bar. Eva took care of them and came back. She didn’t miss a beat. She wanted to share her story.
Eva brought back a bowl of pretzels and another Bud Light. “After the divorce, Monte Tatum became more aggressive with me. Doing creepy things that somehow didn’t sound quite so weird when I repeated them later to my girlfriends.”
I asked, “Like what?”
“He invaded my personal space constantly, stood too close to me when we talked. He would pull up a chair, sit right next to me, and ask to go over the books. Regularly he leaned over my shoulder to view my computer screen and put his hand on my neck or shoulder. He bragged about his dates with people I knew and how good or bad they were in the sack.”
> “Did he ever mention taping his bedroom escapades?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“How about drugs? Did you get any indications he used drugs with the girls?”
Eva said, “I have heard the rumors about his past, but I had no hints that drugs were part of his lifestyle or the bar’s operations. Our offices were in the SunTrust Bank building. I never went inside The Green Olive. JoJo warned me not to go there, ever.”
“Why?”
She said, “I think it had more to do with the cops hanging around the place. He didn’t want to have them gossiping about me or causing me any problems. You know how cops can be.”
I nodded, not knowing exactly what she meant. “Did Tatum know you used to be a stripper?”
“Probably, I know that he and Benny had a history, but that was before I danced at the Backseat,” said Eva. “I’m sure one of the cops mentioned it to him, but he was too afraid of JoJo to cross the line or say anything to me about my dancing.”
“How did you handle Tatum’s advances?”
“When I objected and asked him to stop, he acted innocent and told me I had misunderstood him,” she said. “It was a lame-ass act, but I put up with it because I needed the job and the pay was good. Besides, I’d dealt with worse. He seemed to be all bark and no bite.”
Eva said Tatum would stop for a few days after she objected, but it wouldn’t be long before he’d start coming on to her again. He eventually began to ask her out to concerts and plays, even offering to pay for babysitters. She refused. Then he abruptly stopped hitting on her.
“It was like he had a shiny new toy that captured his attention,” she said. “He ignored me, which I first thought was some silly mind game he learned reading Esquire or Playboy. But after a couple of weeks, I was relieved to have him off my back.”
Intermission began to fill up, and I slowed down on my drinking. Eva juggled a dozen customers. She made each of them feel special, both men and women. Leaning into them and laughing, she expertly handled their drink orders.
The tips mounted. More than a few vied to take her home after work. At thirty-eight, she still was a crowd-pleaser. She must have driven Tatum crazy.
On the television above the bar, a teaser for the six o’clock news ran. Sheriff Frost was shown. Fortunately, there was no sound, but I was certain I was the topic.
Eva looked up at the screen. “Sad news about Amos.”
“You knew him?” I asked.
She nodded. “From my days at the Backseat. He liked lap dances from the young ones. Passed out his business cards, just in case they got in trouble on the way home or needed a ride.”
“I thought he was such a fine Christian.”
She smiled and said as she walked away to serve another customer, “Everybody has to let off a little pressure.”
While she tended to customers, I jotted down notes on cocktail napkins, sticking them in my shirt pocket.
“Walker, this is off the record, right?” Eva asked when she came back.
“Completely,” I said. “This is all background, but I’ve had a few beers and don’t want to forget anything.”
Showing her a napkin, I added, “Your name isn’t anywhere on this. I always protect my sources.”
She handed me soda water with a lime. “I don’t want to hurt my case. My attorney assures me Monte will settle to avoid depositions.”
Eva then shared with me why she no longer worked for Tatum and the reason for her lawsuit. In March, Tatum began hanging around a guy named Cecil.
“A big dude,” she said. “Typical gym rat. He and Monte talked about setting up a film production company. Monte started writing $10,000 checks to his production company. Two over ten days. Always after they had spent time viewing footage behind closed doors.”
“Did you ever see any of the clips?” I asked.
“No, but the dude Cecil began coming on to me, very aggressively. Monte egged him on. They kept saying I had a great body for film and laughed about me doing a screen test.”
Eva almost shuddered as she recalled the story. “I wasn’t sure exactly what they were talking about it, but it was unnerving. I walked out.”
When she returned to work the next day Tatum told her that she was fired. Eva asked for the ninety-day severance that was in her contract, and he told her to sue him, which she did.
“He tried to claim he caught me stealing, but I kept a backup of the books on a flash drive. I can account for every nickel.”
Good for her, I thought on the way home. Eva always knew how to take care of herself. Tatum was in for a fight, and he would lose.
Back at the loft, Big Boy greeted me. A note from Summer was stuck to the refrigerator:
“Beer and leftover cheese pizza in the fridge. Please rest.”
After a couple of slices and a cold beer I took Big Boy for a short walk and sent a few text messages.
I asked Harden to check into a filmmaker, first name Cecil, and find out what type of film company he ran. I also texted Tyndall to see if he could meet on Monday.
They both replied, “K.”
22
Sunday morning I walked Big Boy and picked up a copy of the Pensacola Herald. A huge photo of Amos Frost in his dress uniform was on the front page. The article made it seem as if he had died in the line of duty. There were photos of him leading a bible study at his church, coaching Little League, and on a SWAT call. The paper included quotes from his coworkers and friends, but oddly none from his ex-wives. The editorial proclaimed the need for more responsible journalism. It didn’t mention my name or my newspaper, but it was about me.
I went over to Dare’s for brunch. A light breeze off Pensacola Bay made it comfortable enough for us to sit outside.
Dare made a healthy version of eggs Benedict with her special hollandaise sauce, tomatoes, and turkey bacon. I brought champagne and fresh orange juice for the mimosas and sliced the fruit. A Preservation Hall album played while we cooked, and Dare shared her New York adventures. I filled her in on the last few days. Big Boy sat on the floor of the kitchen, happily eating strips of crispy bacon.
“How many battles can you fight at one time?” she asked as we sat down to eat on her back porch. In between the neighboring houses, we could see shrimpers trawling the bay.
I handed her a mimosa. “I’m about at my limit, but I have to see this through. You know that.”
Dare smiled. “It seems you’re always on some crusade, carrying the whole world on your shoulders.” Taking a sip of mimosa, she added, “And the world doesn’t care; some even resent you for it.”
“I guess I’m a real jerk.”
Big Boy was full and napped in the sun, soaking up rays. “Well I do worry about you,” she said. “You have no social life other than drinking in bars with Gravy, your staff, or some news source. You don’t go out on many dates. You’re obsessed with a newspaper that’s on constant life support. Seems like every time I see you someone has either beaten you up or threatened to shut you down.”
Dare must have seen the surprise on my face. I hadn’t mention Hopjacks or Walnut Hill. I had combed my hair to hid the stitches and had tried hard not to show how badly my ribs ached.
She smiled. “What? You think you are the only one with sources?”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” I said. “The doctor said I’ll be better in a week or so.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Only when I exhale, but the mimosas are helping.”
Dare asked, “Don’t you ever get tired of pushing rope up a hill? You and I are outsiders. Pensacola tolerates us, but its patience with you may be wearing thin.”
“Someone has to drag this place into the twenty-first century . . .”
“Even when it’s completely against its will?” she interrupted.
“Yes.” This conversation was one we had countless times. We touched our glasses and laughed. Big Boy looked over at us, sniffed loudly, and laid his head back down. He had heard it
all before, too.
“I missed talking with you,” I said.
“Me, too. You can be such a stubborn jackass.”
I shrugged.
“You are a hard person to be friends with,” Dare added.
“Yeah,” I said, tossing the dog my last piece of bacon. He ignored it. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was full or the scraps off my plate were beneath him.
“Dare, the handwriting analysis came in early this morning. The expert confirmed that Sue wrote the note.”
“I knew it,” she said as she got up to clear off the table. I let Dare soak in the news and waited for her to digest it.
Dare came back to the table and refilled our flutes. I asked her, “What lies do you think Sue was writing about in her note?”
She said, “On the flight, I tried to figure it out. Sue complained how secretive Bo had been the last year or so. At one time, she was convinced he was having an affair and hired your buddy Harden to tail Bo, but nothing came of it.”
Harden had never mentioned working for Sue Hines.
“Having Julie and Jace in their home put a strain on her marriage,” Dare said. “Jace only thinks of Jace and left his fifteen-year-old alone with Bo and Sue. Julie and Sue got along at first, but it didn’t last long. Bo seemed to be the only who could connect with her.”
“Have you had any luck talking with Julie since Sue’s funeral?” I asked.
“Not yet, but we have a date for coffee on Friday,” said Dare. “I did see on Facebook that she dyed her hair a ridiculous shade of red.”
We sipped our mimosas. Something wasn’t right.
I said, “I thought Bo and Jace hated each other.”
“Jace and Bo were members of the same hunting club in Alabama. They had a falling out—as always happens in any relationship with Jace—but Sue kept them together.” She added, “I had heard long ago it was some grudge over a girl they both dated, but like everything in this town that happened before 1990, nobody will ever share any details about it. The vagueness of these people slays me. Even Sue said she couldn’t remember any details.”
