I had a place for this: Five Sisters Blues Café.
Five Sisters sat in the old “colored downtown.” The Jim Crow laws forced African American businesses and customers off Palafox Street to West Hill, which eventually became known as Belmont-DeVilliers.
The neighborhood’s heyday was in the late 1920s and early 1930s during Prohibition when restaurants, stores, and pawnshops lined the streets and hot music thrived alongside the gambling, drinking, and prostitution. Whites mixed with blacks once the sun set, and the cops looked the other way as long as the payoffs were made.
Five Sisters Blues Café opened during the roaring twenties and had survived recessions, depressions, the Klan, Baptist churches, and the new wave of street thugs. The youngest sister’s great grandson, Theodore Ware, had taken over the café around the time when I started the Insider. Theodore was so tall he had to duck through every doorway he entered. His callused hands swallowed up mine when we shook hands. His face always had a smile. When he wasn’t smiling, you ran.
Theodore and I became friends when a deputy killed his uncle, Jericho Ware, in 2006 during a traffic stop. I refused to let the death go unnoticed. After a few more busted ribs, I exposed the bad guys. The deputy got off, but Theodore appreciated the effort.
I didn’t visit Theodore at Five Sisters much because he wouldn’t let me pay for anything. Today I needed to be in a place outside my regular hangouts that had an electrical outlet for my laptop and wireless internet service. Theodore would take care of me.
Five Sisters was slow on Thursday afternoons. An elderly black couple ate fried chicken, collard greens, black-eyed peas, and cornbread at a table by the door. Two well-dressed young white women drank white wine at the bar and texted on their cell phones more than they talked. Every three minutes they shared their screens with each other, giggled, and sipped their wine. Joan Armatrading’s “Love and Affection” filled the room.
Theodore was out, but his niece Maya put me at a corner table near the bar so I could keep an eye on the room. She brought me a bucket of four longneck Buds in ice and a basket of sweet potato chips.
“Uncle Theo says you don’t pay, and I’m to keep the bucket full until you say otherwise,” she said.
“No, I’ll pay,” I said, pulling a worn twenty out of my khakis.
“Put it away. My uncle won’t even let us take a tip from you, Mr. Holmes.” She spoke matter-of-factly without anger or rudeness. Her nails were painted pink with zebra stripes.
“Let me know if you want to eat,” she added. “Fried chicken is the special.”
Many people stopped by the Five Sisters just to pass the time. They asked Maya about her momma or her aunts. They would see them all in church on Sunday, but life never got so busy they couldn’t inquire as to their daily welfare. It had always been this way in Belmont-DeVilliers.
Firing up my laptop, I checked my blog. The comments had piled up, awaiting moderation. I approved them all, even one from Hines’ attorney stating he planned to file a lawsuit against me for defamation, libel, and anything else he could think up. My cell phone continued to vibrate in my pocket every few minutes. I ignored it.
The flat-screen TV over the bar broadcasted the local news without sound. Nobody paid attention—a good thing since the video showed the Save Our Pensacola protesters marching outside my office.
Assistant State Attorney Spencer was interviewed, too. The station displayed my photo in a small box in the upper right-hand corner. It was an old picture. I don’t think they were announcing I had won a Pulitzer.
When I looked back to my laptop, a shadow crossed my table and Theodore Ware sat down across from me.
“Mr. Walker, did my niece take good care of you?” he inquired in a deep and gravelly voice, folding his huge hands on the table.
“Yes, Maya has given me everything I need,” I said pointing to the half empty bucket of beer. “Please drop the mister and let me pay for the beer.”
He ignored my request. “I saw the news report on the television in the kitchen.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing I haven’t handled before.”
He affected a good-natured laugh, but it was affected. A huge man, with a gray beard and a weather-beaten brow, Theodore didn’t smile. He asked, “Who cracked your skull?”
“Unhappy readers.”
Theodore smiled finally. Shaking his massive head, he said, “You just can’t stay out of trouble.”
“Life isn’t a popularity contest,” I replied. “I’ll be fine, just need some time to collect my thoughts before my next interview.”
“And you need somewhere to hide out for a couple hours,” he said as he waved for Maya to refill my bucket. Then he added to her, “Have the cook fix a big bowl of red beans and rice for Mr. Walker. Bring him a plate of collards and cornbread, too.”
“Maya, I better switch to tea,” I said. “I’ve got an important interview later.”
Theodore nodded his approval. After Maya walked away, he said, “No one will mess with you here. Give me your keys, and I’ll move your ragged-ass jeep behind back.”
He came from a way of life that was good-natured but had to be practical. History had proven that both a laughing nature and prudence were necessary for survival.
“Thanks.” I fished out my keys, more than a little relieved.
“Let’s move you to my office off the kitchen. You can stay there as long as you need.”
For the next few hours, I wrote, monitored the blog, and ignored my cell phone that vibrated repeatedly. Of course, the food was fantastic. I even sampled the fried chicken and apple cobbler. To keep myself from falling asleep, I reread the bid Hines gave the city for the maritime park.
I started searching on the internet for JW Safety Consultants. Nothing. None of the other proposals had listed a safety consultant. I googled the post office box
