Erlene was tending the bar, and Alphonse sat at a table by the jukebox. Satchmo’s carried only Budweiser, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Lite, Colt 45, and Heineken. All bottles, nothing on draft. I ordered a Miller Lite.
Alphonse was nearly invisible in the dark room, except for his white shirt.
I said, “Nice show today. You came off the hero. Not a bad start to your sheriff’s campaign.”
“You almost blew it with your questions,” he said over Charlie Parker’s “Embraceable You.” “My boss called a meeting and dressed us all down about leaking information to the media.”
“Does he suspect you?”
“No, Gore doesn’t understand my roots in the community. He thinks the leak came from the state attorney’s office.”
“If he only knew I’m on their shit list, too,” I said laughing. “I was surprised Gore gave so much detail on the investigation. He made you look good, but did he go a little too far?”
“Gore wants to run for governor in four years,” said Tyndall. “He likes these theatrical presentations. You can expect more of them around the state.”
The bar was empty. Erlene was setting up for the day, but kept an eye on our beers.
Alphonse asked, “What is your deal with Monte Tatum? My aunt told me that when you are on someone’s ass, you don’t let go. She said you wouldn’t let the officer off the hook for killing my cousin, even though there was no money in it for you.”
“It’s my ‘justice’ gene.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” I walked over to the bar, put ten dollars on the counter, and Erlene handed me a Heineken for Tyndall and another Miller Lite. She kept the change without asking.
“At your suggestion, I looked into Tatum,” Alphonse said, nodding thanks for the beer. “Our agents had seen the two together several times. Money exchanged hands. We included him in the bust.”
“Why wasn’t he arrested?” I asked.
Alphonse said, “His lawyer got to the attorney general before we processed him at Central Booking. We were told not to book him, only hold him.”
“He cut a deal?”
“Sort of,” he said. “Tatum really wasn’t part of the operation, but Rantz hooked him on the idea of producing porn being an investment. He gave us some very valuable information on Rantz.”
“I needed him taken out, Razor,” I said. “He’s a sleaze that preys on girls when he gets them high or drunk. He films having sex with them and lords it over them later.”
“Shit,” said Tyndall. “Definitely sleazy, but not necessarily illegal, especially if the girls don’t want to go to court.”
“Yep, there’s one girl that’s worried a video might pop up on the web and ruin her career,” I said. “I offered to help.”
We drank our beers, listening to Nat King Cole’s “Mona Lisa.”
Alphonse smiled. “We seized all Tatum’s computers, his tablet, and his cell phone. Heck, he handed over hard drives we didn’t find in the initial search, anything to avoid time in a jail cell.”
“What about his CDs and any videotapes?”
“None. Told us he digitalized them all. Kept them on a portable hard drive that he delivered to us. He hasn’t asked for any of it back.”
“Probably relieved that his name didn’t pop up at the press conference.”
He nodded. “They are evidence. We may not ever go through them, but the attorney general won’t be giving the hard drives back to him.”
I chuckled. “This could be the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”
Bree and I met at Hopjacks. Neither of us had eaten so we ordered hummus and a pepperoni pizza. The bar hosted trivia night on Tuesdays, which gave us about two hours before the purple-haired waitress began shouting questions on the sound system.
“Anyone beat you up today?” asked the waiter.
I laughed. “Not yet, but the day’s not over.”
“I’ll keep an eye on the room for you,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied, realizing that he was serious.
Bree said, “How are your head and ribs?”
She sat close to me so that we didn’t have to shout over the music. Her perfume smelled of jasmine. I hoped I didn’t reek of Satchmo’s.
“Healing,” I reassured her.
“I know you are too busy to deal with my petty stuff. I so hoped the cops had arrested Tatum today. I apologize for crying on the phone.”
“Bree, I don’t think you have to worry about Tatum.”
She grabbed my arm. Confusion showed on her face; she didn’t want to get her hopes up again. “What do you mean?”
“Law enforcement confiscated all of Tatum’s electronics and files in the raid . . .”
She interrupted, not realizing she was squeezing my arm tighter. “But he wasn’t arrested. He’s sitting at his table at The Green Olive right now.”
I said, “Yes, because he agreed to testify against the leaders of the operation. He won’t get his files back.”
Still not believing me, she let go, took a swallow of her beer and said, “It’s only a temporary fix.”
I shook my head. “No, those files will never reappear.”
Bree looked me in the eyes. She was trying to read me. “Promise?”
“You have my word,” I said, crossing my heart.
She hugged and kissed me. “Thank you, thank you.”
I may have held the hug too long, but Bree didn’t seem to mind.
“I feel like I’ve been unshackled and a huge weight lifted off my back,” she said, glowing. She was beautiful, I thought.
The waiter delivered the pizza and more beers. Bree asked, “How did you do it?”
I said, between bites, “You don’t want to know. I’d have to kill you.”
She laughed, “Like a Navy Seal?”
I figured Bree had dated more than her fair share of Navy Seals. We talked about the newspaper. I told her about not only the Operation Cherry Bomb press conference but also the Wittman-Hines presser on Monday. She seemed genuinely interested, and it felt good to let down my guard a little.
Whether
