I texted Bree hoping she might want a drink. No dice. She called to say that she had promised her aunt a date night. At least she sounded as if she might be open to the proposition in the future.
Big Boy and I ordered wings and fries, anything other than pizza. We went to sleep watching the Dodgers on the television. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
30
Gravy called in the morning while Big Boy and I were out strolling, dodging packs of runners. We stood under an awning waiting for a summer downpour to subside when I took his call.
“No more stalling. The state attorney has served me with a subpoena concerning you first thing this morning. Spencer followed up with a phone call. He wants you in his office by one this afternoon or, and I quote, ‘they will issue a warrant for your ass,’” said Gravy. “Attorney General Gore wants to see you no later than three o’clock. No subpoena yet, but it’s coming.
“That’s a little quick,” I replied.
“Yes, but you have been putting them off,” said Gravy. “And they want you to know they’re serious. Spencer told me he has got a judge ready to sign a warrant. No more delays, Walker.”
He added, “What kind of idiot has the attorney general and state attorney on their ass at the same time? At least, Sheriff Frost stopped calling.”
Big Boy lifted his leg on a Pensacola Herald newspaper box, then flopped down by my feet satisfied.
“Thank you for running interference for me, Gravy. Tell them I promise to see both before the day is over.”
“Promise?”
“Scout’s honor,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “Tell Spencer I will stop by his office at 3:30 p.m. Gore, I will see at 4:45. He can work overtime.”
“Don’t screw with them. They are serious about sending law enforcement to bring you in if you don’t show. If you are arrested, you’ll sit in Frost’s jail all weekend.”
Not a pleasant option. “I’ll make it, Gravy.”
Gravy asked, “Do you want me there?”
“No, I’ve got it. Stop worrying.”
At the morning meeting, I let the staff vent.
“What the hell is going on?” said Jeremy, holding his triple shot, peppermint latte in his left hand and waving his right. “Protesters, smashed windows, you getting beaten every other night. Are our lives at risk?”
Mal said, “Shut up, Jeremy. The only people wanting to kick your ass are the karaoke singers at The Red Garter that you trashed last week in your column.”
“Well, how many times can anyone listen to ‘Sweet Caroline,’ ‘It’s Raining Men,’ or ‘Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover’ before they pull out a gun and shoot up the place?” he replied.
Jeremy had a point. I told the staff about how he might have helped us locate Pandora Childs to soften the blow of Mal’s jab.
Roxie ignored the Mal-Jeremy exchange. She wanted to restart the Best of the Coast sales. Summer had completed the database of the contact information of all the winners.
“Summer and I plotted out who I will contact first,” she said. “We will exceed last year’s numbers by twenty grand.”
Roxie had made a few sales calls yesterday from home and hadn’t gotten much push back. She said, “The flak over Hines and Frost surprisingly hasn’t hurt as much as I feared. People like our approach to reporting. We’re winning fans.”
Finally.
Yoste was missing, which made Mal furious. “He wrote his big cover story and has gone fishing.”
I said, “I promised him he could take today off, but he needed to do a follow-up piece on Operation Cherry Bomb. He emailed me he has some interviews set up for later today.”
Mal said, “You baby him. It’s got to stop.”
Jeremy grunted in agreement.
I outlined my cover story for them. Admittedly it had plenty of holes, but I promised them I would have it pulled together by Monday. As always, I sounded more self-assured than I felt.
At a little before noon, I grabbed my laptop and headed to visit the North Hill home of Jacob Solomon and learn more about Celeste Daniels.
When I had called to set up the interview, Mr. Solomon was more than happy to meet with me and talk about Celeste. After all, he was the one who gave Dare the yearbooks.
Jacob Solomon lived in a little gingerbread house on a narrow side street in North Hill. In front of his house, a historic marker declared this was the site of the Queen’s Redoubt, a British fortification that the Spanish artillery blew up during the Battle of Pensacola in 1781. The Spanish rebuilt it and changed the name to Fort San Bernardo. When the United States government took over Pensacola in 1821, the British residents convinced Governor Andrew Jackson to allow the fort to deteriorate, out of pure spite. Nothing now remained of it, except the marker.
Jacob and Ruth Solomon raised two sons and a daughter in the three-bedroom, one-bath cottage. Ruth had passed away two years ago in her sleep. The two sons, both doctors, lived in Atlanta and Miami. The daughter, Sarah, lived in Pensacola and worked as an attorney for the American Civil Liberties Union.
I parked in the driveway under an enormous hundred-year-old oak. Before I began to follow the stepping-stones to the front door, Solomon opened a side door to wave me in.
“Mr. Holmes, it is such a privilege to have you in our home,” said Mr. Solomon. “I told my older brother Caleb you were coming for lunch, and he was so jealous. We’re big fans of yours. What is it about Mississippi that it produces such great writers? William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Willie Morris, John Grisham, and you.”
I wondered where the best place was to sit. Mr. Solomon motioned to a leather lounge chair by a bay window.
“Mr. Solomon, please call me Walker. I only know five hundred words, and my goal is to put them in a different order every week
