In the 1950s, “Little Book,” Booker Lee’s son, nearly lost the restaurant when he almost beat a customer to death. The legend was a pregnant woman had tried to sit on one of the counter stools in a very tight, short skirt. Noticing how exposed the woman was, a man sitting nearby shouted, “My, my, I’m looking at paradise.”
Little Book, who stood over six and a half feet tall and weighed about three hundred pounds, took offense to the remark. One version of the story had the woman as his girlfriend. Lee came from behind the counter, dragged the man outside, and began beating him with a belt. He was arrested and charged with aggravated battery. Judge Beckham let Lee off with a fine. Ever since a sign hung over the H&O Café lunch counter: “No Pregnant Women Allowed on Stools.”
Little Book passed away in 1999. His nephew Curtis ran the place now. The grocery store and poolroom had long been abandoned, but the restaurant with its counter, five booths, and a handful of tables still operated twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, just as it had done in the 1920s.
When visiting Pensacola, politicians, and celebrities made sure to eat a meal at the H&O Café. On the wall were photos of Rosa Parks, Muhammad Ali, President Bill Clinton, Michelle Obama, and local champion boxer Roy Jones, Jr.
Curtis looked up from a copy of last week’s Pensacola Insider when I entered. He said, “Finally found time to read you, I just knew you would show today. It’s meatloaf day.”
“Hi, Curtis. Meatloaf, mac & cheese, fried okra, and collard greens. What’s better than that?”
“Five hundred dollars in my pocket and a fine, big-butt lady on my lap,” he said laughing as he got up to make my plate.
I said, “Only if Ms. Delores doesn’t catch you.”
Percy Sledge was playing on the jukebox. You had to love a joint that played its jukebox during lunch. In the corner booth sat Alphonse Tyndall. The special agent had less than half of the meatloaf special remaining on his plate. A group of dusty day laborers sat at the long table by the window. The rest of the place was empty. Curtis’s daughter Natalia sat by the phone to handle any takeout orders, playing on her cell phone. The girl was eighteen and curvy, which explained why her daddy wanted to keep her in his sight.
Razor smiled and greeted me as I sat down. Natalia brought me my sweet tea in a Styrofoam cup and a plate of hot cornbread.
“Thanks for meeting on such short notice,” he said, as he reached for a piece of cornbread. “I moved back more than two years ago after living in Atlanta for nearly a decade and eating at all kinds of restaurants there and other big cities, including New York and DC. This may not be the prettiest looking establishment, but none of their food can touch this place.”
The jukebox switched to Nat King Cole’s “Mona Lisa.” I said to Alphonse, “This is one of my breakfast haunts on the weekends. Always can find a story here.”
Natalia delivered the lunch special with a bottle of hot pepper sauce.
Razor said, “You know this town better than I do. I’ve been away too long.”
“I’m glad you called,” I said. “I think a lot of your aunt, and having another source in the attorney general’s office is always good.”
“What we discuss has to stay off the record until I say you can publish it, okay?” he warned.
“As long as we are honest with each other, then there will be no problem,” I said. “Everything can be on background. We can decide later what needs to go in print or on the blog.”
“Fair enough.”
We ate our meals quietly for a few minutes. He wanted to ask me something, but I wasn’t going to rush him.
“Razor, what’s your background?” I asked after Natalia poured us more tea.
He said that he had gone to Howard University on a football scholarship. When he graduated with top grades, several alumni encouraged him to go to law school. He worked as a graduate assistant for the football program and enrolled in Howard University School of Law.
“It was tough, but the alumni stayed on my case. They weren’t going to let me be a football coach or pharmaceutical salesman,” he said.
He graduated with honors, passed the bar, and went to work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, first in Los Angeles, then Chicago and Atlanta. He became an expert in catching hacking rings that operated in the cyber underground.
“I sort of made a name for myself a few years back,” Razor said. “An international hacking ring devised sophisticated hacking techniques to compromise the encryption used to protect data on forty-four payroll debit cards, and then provided a network of “cashers” to withdraw millions from over 2,100 ATMs in hundreds of cities in the United States, Russia, Ukraine, Estonia, Italy, France, Japan, and Canada. They stole nine million dollars in a span of fewer than twelve hours before we realized what happened. We caught them operating out of an internet café in Boca Raton.”
When the Florida attorney general wanted to set up his Child Predator Cybercrime Task Force, he called Alphonse Tyndall first. Razor agreed, but only on the condition that he could work out of Pensacola.
“I’ve operated under the radar here. Passed the Florida Bar. Started coaching youth football and basketball with the Southern Youth Sports Association. And I’m an usher at Mt. Zion Missionary Baptist Church.”
“What do you tell people when they ask what you do?” I asked, finishing my last bite of meatloaf.
“I say I work for the state.”
As I moved on to a bowl of banana pudding, Razor got to the point about why he wanted to meet me.
“Benny says you’ve
