Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
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a Radio Flyer wagon clothes-roped behind one. An old Checker sedan sat in the gravel drive, its paint so faded it seemed to have evaporated. A car buff once told me whenever Yellow Cab’s Checkers reached five hundred thousand miles they were sold to the Mexican Army to be fitted with ordnance and used as tanks. I never knew when he was kidding.
We heard cranes from a nearby scrap-metal yard dropping metal into boxcars. The air smelled of rust and salt water. A full minute after Harry knocked I heard dead bolts snap free. The door opened to a wizened and bald black man wearing a faded blue jumpsuit over a frayed white shirt and black bow tie. He might have been sixty years old, he might have been three hundred. Bowing at the waist, he said, “The Nautilus has surfaced.” He repeated it three times, an incantation.
We entered a large paint-peeling foyer. There was a desk and an ironing board in a room to the right. Several newspapers were stacked on the board and a vintage iron drizzled steam toward the high ceiling. I looked into three adjoining rooms. Newspapers to the ceiling. The old man studied me warily, as if I might represent a biting species.
“Have you brought uncertainty?” he asked softly. “Challenges from the State?”
I searched my memory for a quote from a long-ago poli-sci class and replied, “‘Given the choice between a government without newspapers and newspapers without a government, I would not hesitate a moment to support the latter.’”
The old man studied my face as if memorizing it. He reached out and cradled my fingers, then bent at the waist, and touched his forehead to my hand. “I know the same songs as Thomas Jefferson,” he whispered.
I could only nod, Of course.
Harry explained what we were looking for. The old man led us through a maze of rooms, often sidestepping through particularly narrow passages, noses to yellowing newspapers. He had a curious way of walking, part skating, part jumping rock-to-rock across a stream. We stepped quickly to keep him in sight. The stacks we passed were in perfect alignment, folded papers stacked to alternate thinner edge and thicker fold. Had I a level, I suspect the top paper in any given stack would have centered the bubble.
On the papers I saw names of Alabama papers from cities big and towns small: Mobile Register, Dothan Bugle, Jackson Daily News, Huntsville Times, Cullman Times.
“New York Times?” I asked. “Washington Post?”
He shook his head. “Not my responsibility.”
We sidled up creaking stairs holding step-stacked copies of the Montgomery Advertiser dating back years. A brittle and yellow Richard Nixon leered from a front page. Light flicked on in a dark room and the old man led us to a foot-high newspaper stack in a corner.
“Mobile NewsBeat,” he recited from a perfectly typed card in his head. “Published weekly on Thursday. First date of publication was May eleventh, 1996. Suspended publication on August seventeenth, 2002, due to financial difficulties. Purchased by a new owner last October and resumed publication.”
Harry nodded. “We’d like to borrow the recent ones if possible.”
The old man bowed again. “For you, Harry Nautilus, anything.”
Harry bent to the papers and the old man whispered to me. “Five years ago I kept my work in Mobile. The city called it a public nuisance and a fire hazard and was going to take it to the dump. Harry Nautilus found this place and helped us move.” He snuck a speculative eye at Harry, then whispered, “He can be meaner than the devil, but sometimes he grows wings, this Harry Nautilus.”
We retraced our haphazard passage, Harry carrying the short stack of NewsBeats flat across two upturned arms like a crown on a velvet pillow. The old man followed, nodding approvingly. We passed a short stack of papers that caught my eye and I picked up the top one. Turning to the man, I displayed the fresh copy of Le Monde and gave him a What’s this? eyebrow.
“A guilty pleasure,” he said, smiling like the Mona Lisa.
We returned to the office and evicted two pinochle-playing janitors from the small meeting room. I called Christell Olivet-Toliver for the codes on the personals ads. She was delighted when I told her we could lend her copies of Mobile NewsBeat going back to November, and didn’t question it when I asked if she’d iron them before returning them. I explained Christell’s alphanumeric coding to Harry and we began reviewing ads, starting with the most recent of Farrier’s responses.
Harry stretched his arms out until the small print focused. “Two inches before I need glasses,” he said, and read the ad. “‘Need a Friend. SWF, twenty-four, sks friendship first then maybe LTR w attractive fun-loving, honest man twenty-one to twenty-eight. Enjoys walks in park, dancing, snuggling, and I love the beach.’ What’s LTR?”
“Long-term relationship.”
Harry grunted. “I figured it was short for ‘litter.’ A singles way of saying they want to get married, settle down, and drop some pups.”
“Farrier was a beach boy. He was probably responding to the beach reference in the ad.”
Harry riffled through another paper, read. “‘Soulmate Wanted. Active. Outgoing SWF twenty-seven w/blnde hair and brn eyes sks sweet soulmate for dinner, movies, moonlight hikes on the beach. Should be fit and enjoy working out. Friendship first, then…?’”
“Beach again. Fitness aspect. Nothing stands out.”
We went through the next four ads quickly. They were all basic clones of the first two in tone and interests, and I began to feel bricks smacking my forehead again. Harry picked up the last NewsBeat. He snapped the paper open and let his finger drift down the page, reading silently. His finger stopped, retraced.
“Sheeeee-it,” he whispered, and spun the paper 180 degrees, finger tapping the ad. I read it, and I knew that nightmares, like prayers, could be answered.
New in Town and Looking for Someone Special—SWF seeks SWM. I have an absolute crazy craving for a man 6’–6’2”, 175–185 pounds, 20–30 years old. I love a smooth, clean, almost hairless chest, noticeable biceps, and hard round shoulders. No appendectomies or other scars. I love flat abs. I’m a SWF executive, 5’7”, 120 pounds, blond hair, long legs, and full breasted with lots of secret and special needs. If you’re in a relationship, I can be very discreet. If the above description fits you to a T, send letter, photo (nude or swimsuit please—face doesn’t have to be in photograph if you’re shy), and phone please. All replies answered if received within a week.
“Face doesn’t have to be in photograph,” Harry said, “—cuz you ain’t gonna be wearing it very long.”
“How many responses do you think he got?” I asked, amazed at the brazen recruitment.
“The only qualification I got is the height,” Harry replied, “but I would have written back all day long.”
“Terri’s got to be lying,” I said. “She met Nelson through the personals. Cutter did too.”
Harry said, “Only two reasons to fib, bro, something to lose if you don’t or gain if you do.”
This time Terri was more circumspect about letting us in, spending several seconds at the peephole before we heard the chain fall and dead bolt slide.
“GCBC?” Harry whispered, meaning Good Cop-Bad Cop.
“Always nice to revisit the classics. I call BC.”
“Yes?” Terri said warily through a half-open door.
“More questions,” I said. “Open up.”
“Won’t take but a couple minutes, Miss Losidor,” Harry offered. “Then we’ll be on our way.”
She led us to her kitchen. She’d stopped at a supermarket after work and was stashing groceries. “I told you everything the other day,” she said, tucking a