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
