The Hundredth Man by Jack Kerley Page B

tips?”
    The steaks went wild. “You think you’re a tough guy?”
    I sighed. “Worse. I am a busy guy.”
    Meat stared at me, pursed his lips, then shrugged and put his elbows on the bar. He studied the photos.
    â€œOh,” he said, and—inappropriate to his image—tsk-tsked.
    â€œWhat?”
    He pushed Deschamps’s picture aside and tapped a sausage finger on Nelson’s face. “This one. He’s been around. And I mean that both ways.”
    â€œEnlighten me, Buddha.”
    â€œA charmer, knows how to talk and act above his station. He’ll come in occasionally, pick off some old queen who’ll keep him for a while.”
    â€œKnow anyone who’d like to see him boxed and shipped?”
    It took a second to sink in. “He’s dead?”
    I nodded. The barkeep flipped the photo back. “Sad. I remember him as kind of goofy; a dreamer. He never really hurt anyone, maybe broke a few old men’s hearts.” He paused, thinking. “He was in here a couple-three weeks back. I remember because he usually drank well booze, but he’d switched to top shelf. Buying rounds instead of hustling them. Said he found himself a bottomless honey jar and life was going to get sweet.” The bartender shook his head, grunted a laugh. “Like I’ve never heard that one before.”
    â€œYou didn’t believe him?”
    The barkeep was still laughing when I walked out the door.
    Â 
    After two hours of dark bars, worn-out faces, and cigarette smoke as thick as jam, I was ready for a final run at the elusive Dr. Davanelle. She sat in her small office working up the preliminary report. Her face seemed washed of color. I wanted to say something charming, pithy, and witty. Instead, I stood in the doorway and settled on the truth.
    â€œLook, Dr. Davanelle, I can be a wiseass at times. If I’ve said things to offend you or make you think I’m a jerk, I apologize. When I asked you if you wanted to do something quiet and simple tonight, I meant only that. My intentions are so honorable I might have an ascension at any moment. That said, it’s Friday night. Before I ascend would you like to grab a sandwich and watch the sun go down?”
    Her head was shaking no before I finished the sentence. But this time her eyes weren’t looking at me like cold pork gravy with a hair in it.
    â€œI’ve got to finish the preliminary report on Deschamps, then drive over to Gulf Shores. My stereo receiver’s being repaired. If I don’t pick it up tonight, I won’t get to it for a week.”
    â€œNeed company? I know the area,” I said, instant tour guide to Greater Mobile.
    â€œThe store provided me with clear directions, but thank you.”
    Mobile Bay encompasses four hundred square miles, a vast, shallow pan of water extending approximately thirty miles from its wide Gulfside mouth to the Mobile and Tensaw rivers that feed freshwater into the northern delta. The city of Mobile is on the northwest side of the Bay, in Mobile County, appropriately enough. Baldwin County is on the eastern shore of the Bay, and has no signature city. Tourists might disagree, tending to think in terms of two motel- and condo-laden beach locales, Gulf Shores and Orange Beach.
    Though Baldwin County has rural areas of charm and beauty, it’s not only temporary home to tourists, but permanent home to former Mobilians looking for the “country life.” Driving to Gulf Shores on one of the major thoroughfares is an exemplar of what inrushing money can do, especially teamed up with bulldozers—developmentafter development, billboard following billboard. Strip centers. Big-box stores. Fast food and service stations. I was once traveling through the city of Daphne when I heard an excitement-voiced tourist call back to the Winnebago: “Get in here and take a peek, Marge, southern BPs are just like the ones we have in Dayton!”
    I