“Holmes, the sheriff wants to see you.”
I looked away from the water and saw Captain Peck Krager leaning against the hood of his car that he had parked in a loading zone. Peter “Peck” Krager, the stereotypical Sheriff Frost henchman, stood five foot six and weighed about two hundred and ten pounds. The buttons on his shirt screamed for relief, and his white T-shirt peeked through the gaps.
Krager was that former third-string offensive lineman in high school that never got to play, never lettered, but bragged about his championship football team. His grades weren’t good enough for college, and the Navy rejected him because they knew he was a sociopath. “Peck” was short for speck.
The deputy kept his hand on his Taser while he talked to me. His belt looked like Batman’s utility belt, but not the Christian Bale Batman, more like the Adam West version, filled with gadgets: handcuffs, pistol, two cell phones, nightstick, flashlight, and Taser stun gun.
Krager had been a mall security guard before Ron Frost won his first term. After he had worked hard on the campaign putting up signs and handing out flyers, Frost rewarded him with a shiny badge, uniform, a pistol with real bullets, and his very own patrol car.
The diminutive deputy had a toothpick in his mouth that he rolled back and forth.
“Hi, Peck. Couldn’t you wait until the dog finished his meal?”
Undeterred, Peck growled, “Sheriff Frost wants to talk with you. Get in the car.”
I stood, as did Big Boy. Peck took a half step toward us. His right hand never left his Taser. He stood as straight and tall as possible and tried to block our path on the sidewalk. He must have been wearing lifts because his head almost reached my chin.
I gave Krager the “Walker Holmes” stare and Big Boy stiffened and uttered a low growl. The deputy backed off a little.
“Not a chance,” I said. “Have other commitments. Tell Frost I will meet him at the Garden Street Deli at three thirty for coffee. You can tag along.”
Then I added, “And tell the sheriff to bring the records we requested three weeks ago.”
I walked past Krager and headed up Palafox Street towards my office knowing the deputy wanted badly to use his stun gun on me. I heard the car door slam, and Krager sped past me with his siren blaring. I made a mental note not to drink outside of the city limits for the next few weeks. The Pensacola Police Department and Escambia County Sheriff’s Office never crossed jurisdictions. The police rarely harassed me. On the other hand, there were times I felt Sheriff Frost had promised bonuses to his deputies if they could find a reason to arrest me.
My cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but what the hell? Things had already gotten all screwed up. Maybe I had won the lottery . . . that’s if I could win without buying a ticket.
A bank teller said, “Mr. Holmes, this is C & P Bank.”
I felt a knot form in my stomach. She continued, “You are a month behind on your loan payments. We need $3,500 before next Monday.”
“Thank you for the reminder,” I replied. “I can drop off a check for $1,500 this afternoon and should have the balance of the payment due paid by next week.”
“What reason should I give my superiors for the late payment?” she asked.
Because my staff needs to eat, I thought to myself, but said, “We had a lull in collections, but everything is picking up with Best of the Coast coming up soon.”
The call ended without major hostilities, but there went my deposit. Money passed through the paper’s checking account like beer flowing from a tap directly into a urinal without me even serving as temporary storage.
Roxie had been right about the Hines article’s impact on our cash flow. Within days of the article’s publication, two condo projects tied to Hines, his bank, and his law firm canceled their long-term advertising contracts with the paper, costing us about six grand a month. What hurt even more was that they all paid on time, a rarity in Pensacola.
The truth was, the newspaper had never been on solid financial footing. I convinced a couple of businessman to invest in it in 2002. At the time the daily newspaper dominated the local media, and I saw an opportunity to cut into their market share. Rueben Crutcher and Jackson Chipley agreed to put up $200,000 each, and we published our first edition.
We had no contingencies to deal with Hurricane Ivan. In the days after the storm nearly wiped Pensacola off the map, Crutcher and Chipley told me that they weren’t interested in any more cash calls, which forced me to use my credit cards to keep the newspaper afloat.
The challenge of making the monthly payments on the credit cards and our startup loan ate up a substantial part of our cash flow. I struggled to keep the paper alive from week to week, but that was my secret. If my advertisers and the politicians knew of my possible collapse, they would do everything they could to push me off the precipice.
The day was hot. Lawyers, secretaries, and government workers crowded the sidewalk, heading back to their offices after having lunch. A few runners passed me. Show-offs, I thought.
My cell vibrated again as I walked up Palafox. Summer said, “The printer called. They won’t print this week’s issue unless we hand deliver a check before two o’clock this afternoon.”
Summer was calling on her cell phone from the conference room so the rest of the staff wouldn’t overhear the conversation. For someone so young, she had strong motherly instincts and looked out for the paper and me.
Shit.
“Cut the check and go ahead, write another for fifteen hundred dollars for C & P Bank,” I told her.
“But that’s leaves us
