Eva then shared with me why she no longer worked for Tatum and the reason for her lawsuit. In March, Tatum began hanging around a guy named Cecil.
“A big dude,” she said. “Typical gym rat. He and Monte talked about setting up a film production company. Monte started writing $10,000 checks to his production company. Two over ten days. Always after they had spent time viewing footage behind closed doors.”
“Did you ever see any of the clips?” I asked.
“No, but the dude Cecil began coming on to me, very aggressively. Monte egged him on. They kept saying I had a great body for film and laughed about me doing a screen test.”
Eva almost shuddered as she recalled the story. “I wasn’t sure exactly what they were talking about it, but it was unnerving. I walked out.”
When she returned to work the next day Tatum told her that she was fired. Eva asked for the ninety-day severance that was in her contract, and he told her to sue him, which she did.
“He tried to claim he caught me stealing, but I kept a backup of the books on a flash drive. I can account for every nickel.”
Good for her, I thought on the way home. Eva always knew how to take care of herself. Tatum was in for a fight, and he would lose.
Back at the loft, Big Boy greeted me. A note from Summer was stuck to the refrigerator:
“Beer and leftover cheese pizza in the fridge. Please rest.”
After a couple of slices and a cold beer I took Big Boy for a short walk and sent a few text messages.
I asked Harden to check into a filmmaker, first name Cecil, and find out what type of film company he ran. I also texted Tyndall to see if he could meet on Monday.
They both replied, “K.”
22
Sunday morning I walked Big Boy and picked up a copy of the Pensacola Herald. A huge photo of Amos Frost in his dress uniform was on the front page. The article made it seem as if he had died in the line of duty. There were photos of him leading a bible study at his church, coaching Little League, and on a SWAT call. The paper included quotes from his coworkers and friends, but oddly none from his ex-wives. The editorial proclaimed the need for more responsible journalism. It didn’t mention my name or my newspaper, but it was about me.
I went over to Dare’s for brunch. A light breeze off Pensacola Bay made it comfortable enough for us to sit outside.
Dare made a healthy version of eggs Benedict with her special hollandaise sauce, tomatoes, and turkey bacon. I brought champagne and fresh orange juice for the mimosas and sliced the fruit. A Preservation Hall album played while we cooked, and Dare shared her New York adventures. I filled her in on the last few days. Big Boy sat on the floor of the kitchen, happily eating strips of crispy bacon.
“How many battles can you fight at one time?” she asked as we sat down to eat on her back porch. In between the neighboring houses, we could see shrimpers trawling the bay.
I handed her a mimosa. “I’m about at my limit, but I have to see this through. You know that.”
Dare smiled. “It seems you’re always on some crusade, carrying the whole world on your shoulders.” Taking a sip of mimosa, she added, “And the world doesn’t care; some even resent you for it.”
“I guess I’m a real jerk.”
Big Boy was full and napped in the sun, soaking up rays. “Well I do worry about you,” she said. “You have no social life other than drinking in bars with Gravy, your staff, or some news source. You don’t go out on many dates. You’re obsessed with a newspaper that’s on constant life support. Seems like every time I see you someone has either beaten you up or threatened to shut you down.”
Dare must have seen the surprise on my face. I hadn’t mention Hopjacks or Walnut Hill. I had combed my hair to hid the stitches and had tried hard not to show how badly my ribs ached.
She smiled. “What? You think you are the only one with sources?”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” I said. “The doctor said I’ll be better in a week or so.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Only when I exhale, but the mimosas are helping.”
Dare asked, “Don’t you ever get tired of pushing rope up a hill? You and I are outsiders. Pensacola tolerates us, but its patience with you may be wearing thin.”
“Someone has to drag this place into the twenty-first century . . .”
“Even when it’s completely against its will?” she interrupted.
“Yes.” This conversation was one we had countless times. We touched our glasses and laughed. Big Boy looked over at us, sniffed loudly, and laid his head back down. He had heard it all before, too.
“I missed talking with you,” I said.
“Me, too. You can be such a stubborn jackass.”
I shrugged.
“You are a hard person to be friends with,” Dare added.
“Yeah,” I said, tossing the dog my last piece of bacon. He ignored it. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was full or the scraps off my plate were beneath him.
“Dare, the handwriting analysis came in early this morning. The expert confirmed that Sue wrote the note.”
“I knew it,” she said as she got up to clear off the table. I let Dare soak in the news and waited for her to digest it.
Dare came back to the table and refilled our flutes. I asked her, “What lies do you think Sue was writing about in her note?”
She said, “On the flight, I tried to figure it out. Sue complained how secretive Bo had been the last year or so. At one time, she was convinced he was having an affair and hired your buddy Harden to tail Bo, but
