“She doesn’t know that I’m not as harmless as I look,” he said with a smile. Roger had always dressed up for choir practice. He often wore a seersucker suit with a bow tie and white buck shoes. His thinning gray hair was combed over to hide some new bandage on his scalp or ear.
Roger battled cancer but never complained. I rarely mentioned the bandages or the fedora he had worn the last few months before he died.
“For the next four hundred and fifty years after the hurricane, Pensacola has repeatedly tried to recapture the excitement of the Conquistadors and the first settlers when they entered Pensacola Bay and achieve its potential,” said Roger, before paying our tab as he always did.
“What has held it back?” he continued. “Grudges.”
When the dog and I got back to our loft, I stripped off the damp T-shirt as we climbed the three floors past the back entrance of the restaurant on the first floor and the Insider’s offices on the second to our apartment on the third floor. I put on the coffee, filled Big Boy’s bowl with water, and jumped into the shower. As I toweled off, I glanced into the mirror and saw a six-foot-tall Mississippi Delta boy with brown hair that was starting to gray on the temples and what some called “piercing” blue eyes. My forty-one-year-old face still seemed youthful enough, even with a few faint distinguishing scars on both cheeks, nose, and a corner of the mouth from fights long forgotten. The belly had thickened some, but I could still see my feet.
I turned on the television to watch a few minutes of the local morning news before I walked downstairs to our offices. Everyone else owned flat screens, but my TV still had a booty and occasionally lost its color.
Bo Hines was on the screen. A local hero and the symbol of what made Pensacola great, people always tried to curry his and his wife Sue’s favor. His smile made everyone feel that all was right in the world. If he chaired a charity event, the donations poured in, especially when he served as the master of ceremonies and auctioneer. He coaxed thousands of dollars out of the wallets and purses of those sipping fine wines and bourbon. Yes, everyone loved him.
And I was responsible for his arrest.
I turned up the volume. The morning host, who showed none of the aftereffects of celebrating her promotion to the anchor spot on the ten o’clock news with her buddies at Intermission the previous night, said, “Mr. Hines, what prompted you to write a $25,000 check to help the Warrington Middle School buy new band instruments?”
Hines smiled. “When my wife Sue heard of the fire that destroyed the school’s band room, she insisted we do something.”
The station showed video of the smoldering blaze that was caused by lightning. He said, “Sue and I have always been committed to children, public education, and the arts.”
The host said, “Earlier this year, the governor bestowed upon you the prestigious Patron of Florida Culture in recognition of your long history of supporting arts and culture—”
Hines cut her off, “Yes, but we don’t do what we do for any recognition. It’s about giving back to a community that helped raise me.” The only thing missing was applause from the station crew.
Reluctantly the TV host brought up his pending trial. Bo acted like nothing was wrong in his world.
“Mr. Hines, your trial for embezzlement and organized fraud starts today. Would you like to comment?”
Hines smiled, even broader. “I’m guilty of nothing but placing too much trust in an executive director of a nonprofit—who still hasn’t been located, I might add. I was a volunteer who signed the checks and raised funds, nothing more. My attorneys and I are confident my name will be cleared of all charges. The trial might not even last beyond tomorrow.”
I felt like bashing my head against a wall. The man was a fake. Why was I the only one who saw it?
The trouble with being a publisher of a small town weekly paper is that you can’t control the facts or where they may lead you. The path can be surprising and appalling. The facts can destroy lives and shatter dreams forever. But they remain the facts, immutable and damning.
I had spent days agonizing over the story about Hines. People don’t like to see their heroes disgraced, not ones that they have known all their lives. What made this especially hard for me was that the man was my friend.
The first time I met Bowman Hines was three years earlier when he asked for my help with the Surfer’s Ball, a fundraiser to help victims of domestic violence.
Bo stood six foot two inches tall and was tanned and lean with a dazzling smile. His blonde hair blended with a little gray was still unusually full for someone in his mid-fifties and always stayed in place, defying all laws of physics. The Pensacola Insider had facilitated the formation of the Pensacola Young Professionals to give those under forty, like me at the time, a more organized voice to weigh in on issues like the maritime park, and I had served on its board until my fortieth birthday. PYP also helped potential Insider advertisers visualize our paper’s readership. Bo wanted to tap into PYP for his fundraiser and needed my help to make the event cool enough to bring fresh dollars into the kitty.
Eighty thousand dollars later we became friends, or as good friends as an alt-weekly publisher who was focused on battling injustices and challenging the status quo can be with someone like Bo. Over countless mugs of beers and baskets of spicy buffalo wings, we brainstormed on how to pull Pensacola into the twenty-first century. The conversations were deep enough to put Bo on my very short Christmas card list—if I ever got around
