The Hundredth Man by Jack Kerley

didn’t tell me because he knew I’d never approve. He stopped seeing me because he was ashamed.”
    â€œA . . . stock deal?”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œOne 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?”
    â€œI always forget the name of the place.”
    â€œWho initiated the contact?”
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œWho hit on who first?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œLooky there, Carson,” he said, pointing to a cat scratching at Terri Losidor’s front door, a fluffy white longhair with a pinkcollar. The door opened a crack and the cat flipped its tail and scooted inside.
    I looked at Harry. “Mr. Puff, I presume.”
    â€œWonder who was that clumsy-ass cat jumping on her sill?” he said.
    Â 
    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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œSorry