The Hundredth Man Read online

  She said, “This is about Jerrold, isn’t it?”

  Harry nodded and Terri Losidor picked up a throw pillow and clutched it to her breast. Harry started with easy questions to let her get used to answering. She was thirty-three and worked as an accountant at a local trucking firm. She’d lived at Bayou Verde Apartments for three years. Children weren’t allowed but pets were cool. They used too much chlorine in the pool. This all came out in a nasal twang I knew the drivers made fun of.

  Harry shifted to Nelson. While he slow-walked her through memories, I sat quietly and used a year’s worth of detective experience to identify cat hairs on the couch. Long and white.

  “How well did you know Mr. Nelson?” Harry said. “I’m talking about his past, his friends, his family, his hobbies, and so forth.”

  “Those things weren’t important to Jerrold and me, Detective Nautilus. It was just us and the things we’d do. I didn’t need to know anything else.”

  “Didn’t need to know or Jerrold didn’t tell you?” Harry loosened his tie, spun a crick from his neck, relaxed. He works in reverse of many cops by leaning forward to toss mush balls and lying back to throw heat and curves.

  Losidor looked away. “I asked a couple of times. He said they weren’t things he liked to talk about; it was painful.”

  “So if you didn’t know his friends you probably didn’t know any enemies.”

  “Jerrold didn’t have enemies. He was so so friendly. Always laughing and telling jokes.” A sad smile. “One of my friends told me, she said, “Terri, that Jerrold makes my mouth hurt with all his smiling.” No one could be angry at Jerrold, Detective Nautilus.”

  Harry locked his fingers behind his head and reclined further. “In May you were angry enough to threaten him with jail. Something about eleven thousand dollars moving from your pocket to his.”

  Losidor closed her eyes, sighed, opened them again. “See, he told me he had a one-time chance to get in on a business it would take just fourteen thousand dollars to make at least seventy in a year. All I had was eleven but Jerry said it would still work.”

  “What sort of business?”

  There was a clang from the back of the apartment, like something falling on the floor. Terri jumped.

  Harry sat up, wary. “Are we alone here?”

  “Oh, yes. Just us,” Losidor said, reaching for a cigarette. “That’s Mr. Puff, my kitty. He’s clumsy, always knocking things off the sills and shelves. Crazy cat.”

  Harry and I listened for a moment. Nothing. Harry settled back into the couch.

  “What sort of business did Jerrold say your money was going for?”

  “Something to do with computers and how they’re hooked together. He explained one office might have one kind of computer and another office had another and the computers couldn’t understand each other. He had a friend who’d invented a better way to make them talk. It made sense, since at my office the computers are always messing up like that.”

  “You ever get to meet his friend? Or hear his name?”

  “I just trusted Jerry, you know.”

  Harry spent one year with Bunco, and this was a familiar conversation. “Once you gave him the money Jerrold stopped coming by as much, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know he got busy with things … ” Her eyes dropped to the carpet. “Yes.”

  “Then the business went sour.”

  Terri sighed. “He said some other company came out with the same thing first. Intel. I asked the guy who fixes the computers at our office about it. He’d never heard about Intel having anything like that; it wasn’t what they did. That’s when I filed.” Terri sniffled and plucked a pink wad of tissue from her pocket to dab her eyes.

  “But a week later you dropped the charges.”

  “He finally told me the truth,” Terri said, sniffling.

  “Which was?”

  “He used it to buy a share of some cocaine being flown into the county it’s like a stock deal. You buy shares. Jerry didn’t tell me because he knew I’d never approve. He stopped seeing me because he was ashamed.”

  “A … stock deal?”

  “You remember that little plane that crashed up by Saraland? That was the plane all the cocaine burned up and we lost our money.”

  I recalled the incident; a Mercedes dealer in a Cessna 180 miscalculated his fuel by about a half gallon and dropped into the trees. There was nothing about drugs to it. Either Nelson was a world-class liar or Losidor was born for plucking. Or both.

  Unless, of course, Terri was spinning us a story.

  “One more thing, Miss Losidor,” Harry said. “How did you and Mr. Nelson meet?”

  She paused for a moment. “At the Game Club, by the airport.”

  The Game Club is a singles bar with a fox-hunting motif: bugles and English saddles on the wall, servers in livery and gravy-bowl hats. I’d awakened to a couple of unsettling mornings that began in the Game Club, but that was months ago, before I’d matured.

  Harry noted her hesitation. “Are you sure?”

  “I always forget the name of the place.”

  “Who initiated the contact?”

  “Do what?”

  “Who hit on who first?”

  “I was sitting with a couple of friends. Jerry was standing at the bar. I kinda glanced over at him and he winked, y’know.”

  Harry finished his questions, and we stood to leave. She followed us to the door. “We were real close before the money thing,” she said, dabbing a tear with a tissue. “We were in love. Je-Jerrold said I made him feel like he’d never felt before.”

  Desultory images floated behind my eyes; Nelson atop Terri Losidor, grinding away like he’s milling wheat, she thinking she’s inspired her lover to dizzying feats of virility. Nelson is simply bored with everything but the chance of money. He pumps himself weary, then, dreaming of flying, empties joylessly, falling asleep on a sweat-damp mattress beginning to smell.

  We were turning around in the far end of the lot when Harry slammed on the brakes.

  “Looky there, Carson,” he said, pointing to a cat scratching at Terri Losidor’s front door, a fluffy white longhair with a pink collar. The door opened a crack and the cat flipped its tail and scooted inside.

  I looked at Harry. “Mr. Puff, I presume.”

  “Wonder who was that clumsy-ass cat jumping on her sill?” he said.

  Harry dropped me off at the station. We’d meet later at Flanagan’s for some chow and a brainstorm session. He was going to gather copies of interviews in connection with the case, and I headed to the morgue to see if the prelim was ready.

  The report sat at the front desk, a few pages detailing basic and unofficial findings. I didn’t expect any revelations at this point. Since I was already here, I figured to brighten Clair’s day by interrupting it. I also wondered if the chronically morose Dr. Davanelle had tattled, maybe telling Clair I’d spent my observation time nattering like an auctioneer and singing ribald sea chanties. Even Clair Peltier, the sultaness of strict, allowed a little light conversation during an autopsy.

  I walked the wide hall to Clair’s office. The door was slightly ajar and I heard her talking. I thought I’d stick my head in and say hi, but my hand froze on the knob when I heard the tone in her voice.

  “This is ridiculous, absolutely unacceptable,” she said, her words sharp as thorns, acid dripped into syllables. “I can’t even read your writing on these reports. They look like they were scribbled by a chimpanzee.”

  I heard a low response, hushed, apologetic.

  Clair said, “No! I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care how little time you had to get them out. I did three posts a day in my first position and still managed to make my paperwork legible.”

  Another muffled response.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it. This work is simply unacceptable. I need to see some goddamn improvement.”

  I’ve never enjoyed hearing someone getting tongue-lashed; it dredges up too many childhood memories. I
felt as stricken as if the words were for me. Clair’s voice continued as I backed slowly from the door.

  “Then there’s the matter of sick days. How many are you planning on taking this year? Six? Eight? Two dozen? It’s inconsiderate at best. When you’re not here or when you’re late, more often than not, it seems it throws my scheduling on its ass. No, I don’t want to hear lame excuses, I just want you to …”

  I heard the sound of dismissal in Clair’s voice. Footsteps approached the door from within. I tiptoed a dozen feet down the hall. The only refuge was Willet Lindy’s office; his lights were off and I figured he was gone for the day. He often arrived before six a.m.” left by three. I leapt into the office.

  Lindy had a wide window to the hall, the blinds three-quarters open. I flattened against the wall and heard the footsteps approach. I watched Ava Davanelle stop in front of the window and push tears from her eyes with trembling fingers. Her face was gray. She squeezed her hands into white-knuckle fists and held them beside her temples. Her body began to shake as if her soul were being shredded by white-hot pincers. I watched, transfixed by the depth of her agony. She shook until a ragged sob wrenched from her throat and she grabbed her stomach and ran to the ladies’ room.

  The door slammed like a shotgun blast.

  Ava Davanelle’s misery left me breathless. I stared into the empty hall for a dozen heartbeats, as if anguish had been painted across the air, and I could not believe the intensity of its coloration. I crept breathless from my hidey-hole, escaping toward the front entrance, and passed Clair’s half-open door.

  “Ryder? Is that you?” she called. I turned around, affected nonchalance, and stuck my head through her door as I’d done a dozen times in the past.

  She said, “What are you doing here?” No venom in her voice, it was her usual no-nonsense tone. I smiled awkwardly and held up the report.

  She nodded. “The prelim. I forgot. It’s been one of those days.” Clair paused, thought. “Was this your first procedure with Dr. Davanelle?”

  I nodded. “My maiden voyage.”

  She slipped on her lanyarded reading glasses and peered into a file on her desk, frowning at some errant tidbit of information. “Davanelle’s good,” Clair said, nodding to herself. “Got a couple areas that need improvement. But she knows her stuff, a keeper. Have a good day, Ryder. Stay out of trouble.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Three stacks of photographs rested on his green Formica table-top: one large, one modest, one small. The only other items on the table were chrome shears and a magnifying glass. The air was hot and windless but he didn’t feel it. Nor did he hear the roar of trucks a quarter mile distant on I 10, or the whine of jets approaching or departing Mobile’s airport. He was working with the pictures and they demanded relentless attention.

  They would change the universe.

  The largest stack, pushed to the table’s farthest edge, were the Culls, upside down so he didn’t have to look at them. Emaciated twigs or fat as hogs, matted with hair, or puckered with scars. The Culls were disgusting liars and he always washed his hands after touching their pictures.

  Why had they applied for the position? Couldn’t the Culls read? His instructions, sixty-seven words drafted over three weeks, had been exceptionally precise.

  Centering the table was a smaller stack of photos, the Potentials. Chests broad and pink. Hillocks of bicep, globes of shoulder. Stomachs flat as skim boards But all had minor flaws: a strident navel, or puckered nipples. One had distractingly large hands. The Potentials were second-stringers on the sideline benches, there if needed, but hopefully kept from the field.

  He swiped his hands on his khakis to blot sweat and reached for the closest stack of photos. There were five in all: the Absolutes, the chosen ones. From the seventy-seven photos he’d received, five had survived the most intense scrutiny. He arrayed the Absolutes before him like supplicants and studied them from chin to kneecaps.

  Until the sound started up in his head.

  Not again, please not again …

  He sat back and pushed his palms against his ears. She’d started singing in the next room. He knew she wasn’t physically there, but the woman sang across time and between dimensions if she wanted. He hummed loudly to blunt her song, but it made her sing louder. The only way to stop her singing was push his pants past his knees and do that thing, his buttocks squeaking against the cupped plastic chair until down there made nasty business across the underside of the table and the floor.

  It took two minutes to make her shut up. He refastened his pants in blessed silence, then spent five minutes at the sink attending to his hands: hot water, soap up to the elbows, scrub with the brush, rinse, repeat. Dry his hands with a fresh towel, toss it in the hamper.

  He returned to the table and picked up a photo from the Absolutes. The pictured man stood grinning and naked against a cream-colored wall, hips cocked forward, the male-fruit displayed shamelessly for the camera. The man had a smile like actors grow, white as snow and lacking only a glint of light flashing from an incisor. He’d flashed the bright smile in the park when they met.

  The man at the table picked up the scissors. Carefully aligning blades and photo, he snipped, and the head tumbled to the floor. He retrieved the scrap, tore it into dime-sized pieces, and brushed it from his hands into the toilet. The last piece sucked down the whirlpool was the white smile.

  The man cocked his head and listened for her song, but she seemed to be resting. Gathering strength, probably; time was growing short. He’d been exceptionally careful, but she surely sensed he was closing in. He returned to the table, picked up the magnifying glass, and studied the men in the remaining photos knee to chin, chin to knee over and over, until he knew his choice was right.

  “Quart of whores,” Harry said, “Rats back Rats back Rats back Rats back Rats Rats Rats Rats.” He scribbled aimlessly on his pad, then tore off the top sheet, crumpled it, and flicked it to the growing pile of paper balls in the center of the round table. The tables in Flanagan’s were too small for brainstorming, I thought. The lights too low. The noise level too high. The floor too wooden. Everything irritated me when the thoughts wouldn’t come.

  “Eight rats,” I said, exasperated. “Four with backs.”

  Harry doodled on his fresh page. “Ate rats? A-T-E?”

  I thought about it. Shrugged. Nothing clicked.

  “Rats anagrams to ‘star,”” Harry continued, drawing stars. “Eight stars, four stars times two, four-star restaurant, four-star meal, twice as good?”

  I dry-washed my face. “Who in the hell warped the whores?”

  The third round arrived. Eloise Simpkins picked up the dead soldiers, glanced at my pad, winced. I’d sketched a large rat.

  “Yuck,” she said, wrinkling her nose, ratlike.

  I craned my neck, stretching. Medium crowd at Flanagan’s, twenty-five or so, about half cops. Most were at the bar or tables near it. Harry and I’d sat up front where we could pull the curtain and look outside for inspiration. I opened the curtain. Rain in such solid vertical lines it could have been falling up. Four lanes of canal with a street beneath it, an occasional car splashing by. Across the way a chiropractor’s office, pawn shop, and boarded-up dollar store. A styrofoam fast-food carton rafted down the gutter. I closed the curtain.

  “Zodiac,” Harry said. “Eight stars. Isn’t there a constellation or something “

  “The Pleiedes,” I said. “Seven stars, seven sisters.”

  “Why couldn’t they have been the eight rats?” Harry produced another ball of paper and rolled it to the center. I saw gator boots moving to the table and looked up to see Bill Cantwell, a ranking detective in second district. Cantwell was a lanky forty-fiveish former Texan who expressed his birthright through stovepipe jeans, ornate shirts, and tipped-forward Stetsons. Cantwell noticed my rat sketch, made a frame with his fingers, and pretended to study Harry. “That’s good, Carson,” he deadpanned. “A touch more mustache and you’d have him dead-on.”r />
  “Another Steinberg,” Harry moaned.

  “Seinfeld,” I corrected. Harry had one TV, a ten-inch black and white. He was a music man.

  “I hear y’all might be handling this Nelson thing under Piss-it rules,” Cantwell said, propping a silver-pointed boot on a chair beside Harry. “Tell me again what Piss-it stands for, Harry. I ain’t looking through that damn manual, thing weighs ten pounds.”

  “Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team, Bill,” Harry said. “Piss-it’s a lot easier to remember.”

  Tomorrow Harry and I were meeting second district’s homicide dicks about canvassing Nelson’s neighborhood and checking the haunts he favored. They were, in fact, already doing it, since the killing had occurred in their territory. But under PSIT procedures information had to be routed past Harry and me, since we were the sole members of the team.

  Cantwell nodded slowly. “I guess it makes sense Piss-it handles things. The case’s got crazy writ all over it, a chopped-off head and writing by the peter. They’ll be some grumbling from the guys, it’ll mean extra paperwork. But we’ll be fine with it, even if Squill ain’t.”

  “What you mean, Bill?” Harry said. “Squill ain’t?”

  “He was in this afternoon making noises, y’know. Like we didn’t have to be real cooperative if we didn’t want.” Cantwell scratched at an incisor and flicked something unwanted to the floor. “I got the notion ol’ Captain Squill ain’t real fond of Piss-it.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry, Harry; we’ll be going by Piss-it procedures. We’re in till we hear otherwise.”

  Cantwell rapped the table with his knuckles and drifted back to his group. I looked at Harry. “Why is Squill sticking his finger in our eyes?”

  Harry shrugged. “It’s Squill. We have eyes and he has fingers.”

  When there was more crumpled paper than room to work, we called it a night, heading outside as Burlew was coming in, his gray raincoat a sodden tent. Harry was already on the street and Burlew and I passed in the narrow vestibule between outside and inside doors. I nodded and gave him room, but he took a sidestep stumble and shouldered me into the wall. I turned to see if he was drunk, but he’d already passed into Flanagan’s, chewing his wad of paper, a tight smile at the edges of his doll-baby mouth.