“What press conference? Why would I want to comment?”
The reporter said, “Bowman Hines and Jake Wittman are holding a press conference today at 4:00 p.m. on the courthouse steps. They tell us their attorneys will attend, and they will expose you for the tabloid hack writer that you are.”
I told Doug to finish his story on time so that he could cover the press conference. I played briefly with the idea of sitting it out but knew I wouldn’t.
My cell phone vibrated again.
“I’ve never known a man so determined to get his butt kicked,” Dare said when I answered. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or teasing. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Dare, stay with me on this,” I replied. “You’ve got to trust me. We will find the truth.”
“I’m in your corner, regardless of how difficult you make it at times,” she said. “I know you had to publish the note. What’s the feedback so far?”
I walked out to the stairwell so the staff couldn’t hear how bad it was.
“Spencer demands to know how I got the note. Jace and Bo have called a press conference this afternoon to blast me. I’m sure his attorneys are fired up to come after me. My checking account has $104 in it. And my dog smells like the bathroom of a truck stop.”
“What will you do?”
“Take them all down. What other choice do I have?” I added, feeling my cockiness didn’t ring true.
I checked my email when I walked back into the office. There was one from Clark Spencer that contained the official statement from the state attorney’s office on the suicide note. It stated they would analyze the handwritten document and release a report as soon as it was available, probably in two days.
My name wasn’t mentioned in the press release.
Roxie yelled at me, “The marketing director for Evans Land just called. They bought eight full-page ads. The first one will run next week.”
I smiled.
Roxie said, “They’re prepaying and will drop off the check before 2:00 p.m.”
Dare had come to my rescue yet again.
I needed to work, but if I sat in the office, all I would do was check comments on the blog and worry about the upcoming press conference. I decided to drive my 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee to The Green Olive. Maybe Tatum would be around.
As I walked out the door, Roxie said, “The marketing director also said Dare would have a package for you to pick up later this afternoon. Do you want me to get it?”
“No, I’ll handle it.”
24
One o’clock in the afternoon drinking in Pensacola was an art. The predictable cast of characters at The Green Olive included a chain-smoking hipster attorney in a charcoal gray flannel suit chatting up a secretary while hiding out from his bosses, a drunken former city councilman lamenting how the voters didn’t appreciate him, two city road workers on a “lunch break,” and a cadre of college kids either coming or going from Pensacola Beach.
More memorabilia than the TGI Friday’s backroom crammed the walls of the dimly lit shit hole. The ancient sound system was either playing Aerosmith or Def Leppard. I couldn’t quite tell. The place seemed dirty, but it was too dark to know for sure.
In the corner sat Monte Tatum. It wasn’t hard to spot his gold chain and hairy chest peeking out of a too-tight, open-collared shirt. He had dropped his professional business attire for the day. He looked a little stressed and strung out. Maybe he hadn’t been sleeping so well. Eva had told me her attorney had scheduled his deposition for the following week.
Tatum was ignoring a young, skinny, blond waitress who was trying to convince him breast enhancement would be good for his business.
“If I had new boobs, they’d make my job so much easier,” she said leaning into Tatum. “Like, I won’t have to talk as much, because they’d do all the talking. The bigger, the better!”
Tatum eyed her chest and licked his lips, but he didn’t say anything to her as I approached his table. He didn’t know what I had heard.
“Well, if it isn’t Walker Holmes,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand while dismissing the waitress with his other hand. “What brings you to The Green Olive?”
“I’m working on my Yelp review of your fine establishment,” I said as the bartender brought me a Bud Light with a lime.
Tatum grunted, maybe it was his version of a chuckle. His skin glistened with sweat, and his pupils were dilated.
“Over the past year I’ve begged you to come to my bar so we could get to know each other better, and finally you show up at one in the afternoon,” he said. “Who are you hiding from? The guys who whipped your ass at Hops?”
“Screw you,” I said, as I sat down across from him. “You’re the one dressing down today. Your Brooks Brothers suit at the cleaners?”
“I’ve been a little under the weather,” Tatum replied. “I stopped here to check on things before I go back to bed.” He looked over at his bartender. “They’ll steal you blind if you don’t check on them every day.”
“Maybe you should talk with your HR department about the screening process for new employees,” I suggested.
He grunted another chuckle. Sitting up a little straighter, he pulled his shirt collar together and fastened a button to cover up the black fur on his chest.
“Holmes, I’m running for the county commission again in two years,” he said. “I want your support.”
I shook my head. “Too early for endorsements.”
“I’ll start placing ads for the bar in your newspaper. We’ll prepay at the first of each month.”
“The answer is still no. We will wait until we know who is in the race.”
Tatum said, “I hear you need the cash. Let me help.”
“In the last race, you had a chain of dry cleaners and ran as a successful small business owner,” I replied. “How do you think this place will
