“Remember I tried to work with you,” he said as he headed for the door. Mal wasn’t going to be happy. Frost clearly had no intention of emailing us digital files of his payroll.
My cell phone vibrated as Frost walked out of the deli. Summer had perfect timing. I delivered the loan payment to the bank and prayed that tomorrow’s bank deposit would be a good one.
Only half a block from my office, Intermission sat across from the Escambia County Courthouse, which made it an excellent place to eavesdrop. Narrow like most of the bars and restaurants along Palafox Street, the bar itself stretched the length of the front room. Small tables with two or three chairs were arranged on the tiled floor in no particular pattern in the space between the bar and the dartboard, Golden Tee, and other video games on the opposite wall. Pool tables sat in the back by the restrooms.
The menu was limited—pretzels and, if you were lucky, peanuts. Nothing on tap, but every bottled beer imaginable stocked the coolers behind the bar. It was Wednesday happy hour, so there was no live music, but Journey played on the jukebox as I walked in wearing my fourth white button-down of the day.
Maybe I should cut back on my walking and use my Jeep more so that I didn’t go through so many shirts in a day. I did a quick calculation and decided my laundry bill was still cheaper than a tank of gas.
The bartender handed me a Bud Light and brought me a basket of pretzels and nuts. I smiled. Things might be looking up.
Bree Kress walked in, and the bartender sucked in his gut and rushed to take her drink order—Bud Light. She had left her cover-up in her car, and the tattoo sleeve on her right arm almost took my eyes off her athletic frame. She had muscles and curves, and everyone in the bar noted her arrival.
Ignoring the attention, Bree smiled and gave me a hug.
“That was quite a show you put on at the cafe this morning,” she said with a half smile. “How’s your head?”
“Throbbing but this should help,” I said as I took a swig of my Bud Light. “Thank you for your help. I’ll get the shirt back to you after I do laundry.”
“Keep it. The owner has no idea how many shirts we have in inventory. She’ll get a kick out of seeing you wear it when you walk Big Boy.”
Everybody on Palafox knew Big Boy. Bree had even taken him a few times on her daily runs. The dog thought the crowd stopped to look at him when they ran. Bree acted like that was why, too.
Bree had interned with the newspaper when she was in college, filling in for Mal when she took off for her annual summer concert tour, Bonnaroo, Summerfest, and Essence. She had finished at the top of her graphic design class at Pensacola State College. Now 32, she was one of the most sought after freelance graphic artists in the area.
She had some financial success designing logos for bands that were inspired by their music. Her posters for their concert tours sold well, and she had also designed our last two Best of the Coast award posters. She wanted to get into the corporate world and help with branding, but the companies in Northwest Florida weren’t willing to pay much. I knew that she was interviewing with agencies in New Orleans and Atlanta.
“How’s the job search going?” I asked her.
“Walker, that’s why I wanted to talk with you,” she said. “I think I’m going to get a job offer from one of the top firms in New Orleans. It’s my dream job.”
“Great! You have a gift for design,” I said. “If you need a reference or anything, I’m in your corner.”
She said, “I’ve already given them your name and number, but that’s not the problem.”
Bree paused and gathered herself. “I was so stupid and probably blew it and any future good job outside of this shithole.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Nothing can be that bad. You’re too talented to stay here.”
She looked at me, fighting back the tears in her eyes. “I was so stupid.”
“What? Did they throw something at you during the interviews that you weren’t prepared for?”
“No, the interviews went well . . . but the background check worries me, and they are not done with that.”
“If there’s a post on Facebook or somewhere else on social media, I’ve got friends that can take care of it,” I assured her.
“This is bigger than that,” Bree said. “I got drunk a month or so ago and did something I regret.”
“What?” I asked, signaling the bartender to bring us another round.
She pushed back her brown bangs, and said, “This town is so difficult for women like me. Single, in my thirties, intelligent. All the good guys are married. Those who aren’t have so many issues—they are sadistic misogynists or mommy’s boys or focused on their careers or Peter Pans that never grew up.”
I hoped she didn’t include me in that group of misfits.
Bree took a sip of her beer and seemed to be gathering her emotions before saying, “A woman has to have her defenses up at all times.”
I nodded in agreement. “What happened?”
“I was celebrating how well my job interviews had gone with my girlfriends,” she began. “We had dinner and drinks. Somebody suggested we end our night with shots at The Green Olive. Have you ever been there?”
“No,” I said.
“It’s a dive, but sort of cool, I guess. One of my friends wanted to meet her boyfriend there, and another said she knew the owner and could get us free shots of Fireball. I didn’t have my car so I was at the mercy of the group.”
I didn’t interrupt her, knowing that she needed to tell this at her own pace.
She continued, “The owner, Monte Tatum, came over to our table. When
