“I will open the blog with it on Monday.”
“Shouldn’t you give it to the state attorney first? Spencer won’t be happy, and his boss will forget you two coached ball once upon a time. You could score some points with them by showing you’re cooperating.”
“I don’t want the state attorney’s office to drag out its analysis of the writing,” I said. “We need to shoot a hole in Hines’ story lines that the charges are bogus and there might not even be a trial. Plus, I want public pressure on Spencer and Newton to prosecute.”
Gravy said, “I really wish you would reconsider this strategy.”
“No,” I said, “we will break it and see how the cockroaches scramble.”
Gravy finished his beer and ordered two Irish car bombs, a concoction of a Guinness stout, Baileys Irish Cream, and Jameson Irish whiskey. “You might be able to survive combat with the sheriff or state attorney, but not both at the same time.”
“Harmony and peace are overrated,” I declared.
He laughed, “Well, hell. Let’s toast your victory while it lasts.”
We downed the drinks and ordered two more Irish Car Bombs. I finished off the rest of my Bud Light. Gravy gave me time to let it all soak in. He finally asked, “Did you see Bree at the bar?”
“Yes, I didn’t speak to her,” I said. “Have you had any luck with Tatum?”
“His former bookkeeper has filed a sexual harassment complaint with the EEOC and a breach of contract lawsuit against him,” Gravy said. “The harassment complaint probably won’t go anywhere, but the lawsuit has legs. Tatum will probably settle before it goes to court.”
“Will she meet with me?” I asked. “It can be off the record, at least initially. If she has any useful information, I can ask her later for quotes.”
Gravy said, “Her attorney thinks she might talk with you, but it most definitely needs to be for background purposes. Nothing gets published without his permission.”
“Okay, when and where?”
“I should have an answer in the morning,” he replied.
The bar began to clear out as the concert hall opened its doors. Bar tabs were paid, tables cleared. Bree and her friends gathered their purses and headed to the concert hall. She saw us and waved. A few guys hung around the bar and the foosball table near the bathrooms.
Gravy said, “I can go with you to the state attorney when you’re ready to deliver the note.”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it,” I told him as I got up and went to unload the Irish car bombs and beers.
The bathrooms at Hopjacks were far from luxurious—a urinal, a sink, and a stall with a broken door.
The door to the restroom opened as I finished and headed to the sink. In men’s restrooms the cardinal rule is to never look up, especially in small ones. I stepped toward the sink, and a large man, one of the foosball players, blocked my path.
“Excuse me,” I said as I looked up. I moved my head just in time to dodge a punch, but he bull-rushed me back into the stall.
The quarters were too tight, and I couldn’t fight worth a damn. I protected my face with my arms but left my midsection open, of which he took full advantage. Fortunately, my assailant was also hampered by the small space and couldn’t step into his punches.
My attacker was built like an NFL defensive lineman. I couldn’t push him back. If I fell, he would kick the crap out of me. One punch knocked the breath out of me. I doubled over for the second time since Sue’s death. When I went to protect my stomach, two quick jabs hit the side of my head above my left ear. Another glanced my nose, not connecting fully but hard enough to start it bleeding. A left punch hit me in the mouth. He rammed me deeper into the stall.
Instead of falling to the floor, I rose quickly, pushing off the commode and somehow the back of my head connected with his jaw. The behemoth stumbled back dazed. I pushed him into the urinal. Water splashed on the floor and soaked his clothes. He slipped as he tried to get up. I broke for the door where I surprised his buddy, who I guess was the lookout.
The guy was short, more fat than muscle, and shocked to see me. He grabbed for me and grasped the collar of my button-down. I shoved him hard against the hallway wall. The shirt ripped as I pulled away and headed for Gravy and help.
The waitstaff surrounded me as soon as they saw me. My shirt was torn open, and I was bleeding from my mouth, nose, and ears. As I fell to the floor, I saw my attackers running out the back door—then I passed out.
I spent most of the evening at the emergency room at Sacred Heart Hospital. The doctor gave me five stitches above my ear and wrapped my chest to secure my bruised ribs. My lower lip and nose were swollen, but the nurse said ice packs would lower the swelling by morning. I had no black eyes, cuts, or bruises to my face. No one would need to know about the attack. I talked the ER into not reporting the incident.
I remembered one thing about my attacker. He wore a Hines Paving Company work shirt.
18
My head pounded. My ribs ached and made it difficult to breathe. Big Boy sighed and laid on the foot of my bed. I couldn’t tell if he was worried or just disgusted with my constantly getting beaten up.
Sleep eluded me, even though I’d compartmentalized the fears of losing the paper, being penniless and forced to live in a jail cell with someone who thought I had “purdy hair.”
Even on my best nights, the first few minutes after I climbed into bed were the worst, but
