he Quiet Haven Retirement Home is a few miles outside the city limits of Clanton, off the main road north, tucked away in a shaded valley so that it cannot be seen by passing mo¬torists. Such homes near such highways pose significant dangers. I know this from experience because I was employed at Heaven's Gate outside Vicksburg when Mr. Albert Watson wandered off and found his way onto a four-lane, where he got hit by a tanker truck. He was ninety-four and one of my favorites. I went to his funeral. Lawsuits followed, but I didn't stick around. These pa¬tients often wander. Some try to escape, but they're never suc¬cessful. I don't really blame them for trying, though.

My first glimpse of Quiet Haven reveals a typical 1960s flat-roof, redbrick run-down building with several wings and the gen¬eral appearance of a dressed-up little prison where people are sent to quietly spend their final days. These places were once generally called nursing homes, but now the names have been upgraded to retirement homes and retirement villages and assisted-living centers and other such misnomers. "Momma's at the retirement village" sounds more civilized than "We stuck her in a nursing home." Momma's at the same place; now it just sounds better, at least to everyone but Momma.

Whatever you call them, they're all depressing. But they are my turf, my mission, and every time I see a new one I'm excited by the challenges.

I park my ancient and battered Volkswagen Beetle in the small empty parking lot in front. I adjust my black-framed 1950s-style nerd glasses and my thickly knotted tie, no jacket, and get out of my car. At the front entrance, under the sheet-metal ve¬randa, there are half a dozen of my new friends sitting in deep wicker rocking chairs, watching nothing. I smile and nod and say hello, but only a couple are able to respond. Inside, I'm hit by the same thick, putrid antiseptic smell that wafts through the halls and walls of every one of these places. I present myself to the re¬ceptionist, a robust young woman in a fake nurse's uniform. She's behind the front counter, going through a stack of paperwork, al¬most too busy to acknowledge me.

"I have a ten o'clock appointment with Ms. Wilma Drell," I say meekly.

She looks me over, doesn't like what she sees, and refuses to smile. "Your name?" Her name is Trudy, according to the cheap plastic badge pinned just above her massive left breast, and Trudy is precariously close to becoming the first name on my brand-new shit list.

"Gilbert Griffin," I say politely. "Ten a.m."

"Have a seat," she says, nodding at a row of plastic chairs in the open lobby.

"Thank you," I say and proceed to sit like a nervous ten-year-old. I study my feet, covered in old white sneakers and black socks. My pants are polyester. My belt is too long for my waist. I am, in a nutshell, unassuming, easily run over, the lowest of the low.

Trudy goes about her business of rearranging stacks of paper. The phone rings occasionally, and she's polite enough to the callers. Ten minutes after I arrive, on time, Ms. Wilma Drell swishes in from the hallway and presents herself. She, too, wears a white uniform, complete with white stockings and white shoes with thick soles that take a pounding because Wilma is even heav¬ier than Trudy.

I stand, terrified, and say, "Gilbert Griffin."

"Wilma Drell." We shake hands only because we must, then she spins and begins to walk away, her thick white stockings grinding together and creating friction that can be heard at some distance. I follow like a frightened puppy, and as we turn the corner, I glance at Trudy, who's giving me a look of complete dis¬dain and dismissal. At that moment, her name hits my list at num¬ber one.

There's no doubt in my mind that Wilma will be number two, with the potential of moving up. We wedge into a small cinder-block office, walls painted gov¬ernment gray, cheap metal desk, cheap wooden credenza adorned with Wal-Mart photos of her chubby children and haggard hus¬band. She settles herself behind the desk and into an executive swivel, as if she's the CEO of this exciting and prosperous outfit. I slide into a rickety chair that's at least twelve inches lower than the swivel. I look up. She looks down.

"You've applied for a job," she says as she picks up the appli¬cation I mailed in last week.

"Yes." Why else would I be here?

"As an attendant. I see you've had experience in retirement homes."

"Yes, that's correct." On my application I listed three other such places. I left all three without controversy. There are about a dozen others, though, that I would never mention. The refer¬ence checking will go smoothly, if it happens at all. Usually there is a halfhearted effort to place a couple of calls. Nursing homes don't worry about hiring thieves or child molesters or even peo¬ple like me, guys with a complicated past.

"We need an attendant for the late-night shift, from 9:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., four days a week. You'll be in charge of monitoring the halls, checking on the patients, caring for them in a general way."

"That's what I do," I say. And walking them to the bath¬room, mopping floors after they've made a mess, bathing them, changing their clothes, reading them stories, listening to their life histories, writing letters, buying birthday cards, dealing with their families, refereeing their disputes, arranging and cleaning their bedpans. I know the routine.

"Do you enjoy working with people?" she asks, the same stu¬pid question they always ask. As if all people were the same. The patients are usually delightful. It's the other employees who find their way onto my list.

"Oh yes," I say.

"Your age is—"

"Thirty-four," I say. You can't do the math? My date of birth is question number three on the application. What she really wants to say is, "Why does a thirty-four-year-old man choose to pursue such a demeaning career?" But they never have the guts to ask this.

"We're paying $6.00 an hour."

That was in the ad. She offers this as if it were a gift. The minimum wage is currently $5.15. The company that owns Quiet Haven hides behind the meaningless name of HVQH Group, a notoriously sleazy outfit out of Florida. HVQH owns some thirty retirement facilities in a dozen states and has a long history of nursing home abuse, lawsuits, lousy care, employment discrimi¬nation, and tax problems, but in spite of such adversity the com¬pany has managed to make a mint.

"That's fine," I say. And it's really not that bad. Most of the corporations that operate chains start their bedpan boys at mini¬mum wage. But I'm not here for the money, at least not the mod¬est wages offered by HVQH.

She's still reading the application. "High school graduate. No college?"

"Didn't have the opportunity."

"That's too bad," she offers, clucking her teeth and shaking her head in sympathy. "I got my degree from a community col¬lege," she says smugly, and with that Ms. Wilma Drell hits the list hard at number two. She'll move up. I finished college in three years, but since they expect me to be a moron, I never tell them this. It would make things far too complicated. Postgrad work was done in two years.

"No criminal record," she says with mock admiration.

"Not even a speeding ticket," I say. If she only knew. True, I've never been convicted, but there have been some close calls.

"No lawsuits, no bankruptcies," she muses. It's all there in black and white.

"I've never been sued," I say, clarifying a bit of language. I've been involved in a number of lawsuits, but none in which I was

a named party.

"How long have you lived in Clanton?" she asks in an effort to drag out the interview and make it last more than seven minutes. She and I both know that I'll get the job because the ad has been running for two months.

"Couple of weeks. Came here from Tupelo."

"And what brings you to Clanton?" You gotta love the South. People seldom hesitate to ask personal questions. She really doesn't want the answer, but she's curious as to why someone

like me would move to a new town to look for work at six bucks an hour.

"Bad romance in Tupelo," I say, lying. "Needed a change of scenery." The bad romance bit always works.

"I'm sorry," she says, but she's not, of course.

She drops my application on the desk. "When can you start work, Mr. Griffin?"

"Just call me Gill," I say. "When do you need me?"

"How about tomorrow?"

"Fine."

They usually need me right away, so the instant start date is never a surprise. I spend the next thirty minutes doing paperwork with Trudy. She goes about the routine with an air of importance, careful to convey the reality that her rank is far superior to mine. As I drive away, I glance at the forlorn windows of Quiet Haven and wonder, as always, how long I will work there. My average is about four months.

My temporary home in Clanton is a two-room apartment in what was once a flophouse but is now a decaying apartment build¬ing one block off the town square. The ad described it as fur¬nished, but during my initial walk-through I saw only an army-surplus cot in the bedroom, a pink vinyl sofa in the den, and a dinette set near the sofa with a round table about the size of a large pizza.. There's also a tiny stove that doesn't work and a very old refrigerator that barely does. For such amenities I promised to pay to the owner, Miss Ruby, the sum of $20 a week, in cash.

Whatever. I've seen worse, but not by much.

"No parties," Miss Ruby said with a grin as we shook hands on the deal. She's seen her share of parties. Her age is somewhere between fifty and eighty. Her face is ravaged less by age than by hard living and an astounding consumption of cigarettes, but she fights back with layers of foundation, blush, rouge, mascara, eye¬liner, lipstick, and a daily drenching of a perfume that, when mixed with the tobacco smoke, reminds me of the odor of dried, stale urine that's not uncommon in nursing homes.

Not to mention the bourbon. Just seconds after we shook hands, Miss Ruby said, "How about a little toddy?" We were in the den of her apartment on the first floor, and before I could an¬swer, she was already headed for the liquor cabinet. She poured a few ounces of Jim Beam into two tumblers and deftly added soda water, and we clinked glasses. "A highball for breakfast is the best way to start the day," she said, taking a gulp. It was 9:00 a.m.

She fired up a Marlboro as we moved to the front porch. She lives alone, and it was soon obvious to me that she was a very lonely woman. She just wanted someone to talk to. I rarely drink alcohol, never bourbon, and after a few sips my tongue was numb. If the whiskey had any impact on her, it wasn't obvious as she went on and on about people in Clanton I would never meet. After thirty minutes, she rattled her ice and said, "How 'bout some more Jimmy?" I begged off and left soon thereafter.

Orientation is led by Nurse Nancy, a pleasant old woman who's been here for thirty years. With me in tow, we move from door to door along the North Wing, stopping at each room and saying hello to the residents. Most rooms have two. I've seen all the faces before: the bright ones happy to meet someone new, the sad ones who couldn't care less, the bitter ones who are just suf¬fering through another lonely day, the blank ones who've already checked out of this world. The same faces are on the South Wing. The Back Wing is a little different. A metal door keeps it secured, and Nurse Nancy enters a four-digit code on the wall to get us through.

"These are the more difficult ones," she says softly. "A few Alzheimer's, a few crazies. Really sad." There are ten rooms, with one patient each. I am introduced to all ten without incident. I fol¬low her to the kitchen, the tiny pharmacy, the cafeteria where they eat and socialize. All in all, Quiet Haven is a typical nursing home, fairly clean and efficient. The patients appear to be as happy as you could expect.

I'll check the court dockets later to see if the place has ever been sued for abuse or neglect. I'll check with the agency in Jack¬son to see if complaints have been filed, citations issued. I have a lot of checking to do, my usual research.

Back at the front desk, Nurse Nancy is explaining visitation routines •when I'm startled by the sound of a horn of some vari¬ety.

"Watch out," she says and takes a step closer to the desk. From the North Wing a wheelchair approaches at an impressive speed. In it is an old man, still in his pajamas, one hand waving us out of his way, the other squeezing the bladder of a bike horn mounted just above the right wheel. He is propelled by a crazed man who looks no older than sixty, with a large belly hanging out from under his T-shirt, dirty white socks, and no shoes.

"Quiet, Walter!" Nurse Nancy barks as they fly by, oblivious to us. They speed off into the South Wing, and I watch as other patients scurry to their rooms for safety.

"Walter loves his wheelchair," she says.

"Who's the pusher?"

"Donny Ray. They must do ten miles a day up and down the halls. Last week they hit Pearl Dunavant and near 'bout broke her leg. Walter said he forgot to honk his horn. We're still dealing with her family. It's a mess, but Pearl is thoroughly enjoying the attention."

I hear the honk again, then watch as they wheel around at the far end of the South Wing and head back to us. They roar by. Walter is eighty-five, give or take a year (with my experience I can usually get within three years of their age—Miss Ruby notwithstanding), and he's having far too much fun. His head is low, his eyes are squinted as if he were going a hundred miles an hour. Donny Ray is just as wild-eyed, with sweat dripping from his eyebrows and gathering under his arms. Neither acknowledges us as they go by.

"Can't you control them?" I ask.

"We tried, but Walter's grandson is a lawyer and he raised a ruckus. Threatened to sue us. Donny Ray flipped him over one time, no real injuries, but we think maybe a slight concussion. We certainly didn't tell the family. If there was more brain damage, it wasn't noticeable."

We finish orientation precisely at 5:00 p.m., quitting time for Nurse Nancy. My shift begins in four hours, and I have no place to go. My apartment is off-limits because Miss Ruby has already fallen into the habit of watching out for me, and when I'm caught, I'm expected to have a little touch of Jimmy on the front porch. Regardless of the hour of the day, she's always ready for a drink. I really don't like bourbon.

So I hang around. I put on my white attendant's jacket and speak to people. I say hello to Ms. Wilma Drell, who's very busy running the place. I stroll down to the kitchen and introduce my¬self to the two black ladies who prepare the wretched food. The kitchen is not as clean as I -would like, and I begin making mental notes. At 6:00 p.m., the diners begin their protracted arrivals. Some can walk with no assistance whatsoever, and these proud and lucky souls go to great lengths to make sure the rest of the se¬niors are reminded that they are much healthier. They arrive early, greet their friends, help arrange seating for those in wheel¬chairs, flit from table to table as quickly as possible. Some of those with canes and walking carts actually park them at the door of the cafeteria so their colleagues won't see them. The attendants help these to their tables. I join in, offering assistance and intro¬ducing myself along the way.

Quiet Haven currently has fifty-two residents. I count thirty-eight present for dinner, then Brother Don stands to say the bless¬ing. All is suddenly quiet. He's a retired preacher, I'm told, and insists on delivering grace before every meal. He's about ninety, but his voice is still clear and remarkably strong. He goes on for a long time, and before he's finished, a few of the others begin rat¬tling their knives and forks. The food is served on hard plastic trays, the kind we used in elementary school. Tonight they're having baked chicken breasts—no bones—with green beans, in¬stant mashed potatoes, and, of course, Jell-O. Tonight it's red. Tomorrow it'll be yellow or green. It's in every nursing home. I don't know why. It's as if we spend our entire lives avoiding Jell-CD but it is always there at the end, waiting. Brother Don fi¬nally fades and sits, and the feast begins.

For those too frail for the dining room, and for the unpredictable ones on the Back Wing, the food is rolled out on trays. I volunteer for this service. A couple of patients are not long for

this world.

Tonight's after-dinner entertainment is provided by a den of Cub Scouts who arrive promptly at 7:00 and hand out brown bags they've decorated and filled with cookies and brownies and such. They then gather near the piano and sing "God Bless Amer¬ica" and a couple of campfire songs. Eight-year-old boys do not sing voluntarily, and the tunes are carried by their den mothers. At 7:30 the show is over, and the residents begin drifting back to their rooms. I push one in a wheelchair, then help with the cleanup. The hours drag by. I have been assigned to the South Wing—eleven rooms with two each, one room with a single oc¬cupant.

Pill time is 9:00 p.m., and it's one of the highlights of the day, at least for the residents. Most of us poked fun at our grandpar¬ents for their keen interest in their ailments, treatments, prog¬noses, and medications, and for their readiness to describe all of this to anyone who would listen. This strange desire to dwell on the details only increases with age, and is often the source of much behind-the-back humor that the old folks can't hear anyway. It's worse in a nursing home because the patients have been put away by their families and they've lost their audience. Therefore, they seize every opportunity to carry on about their afflictions when¬ever a staff member is within earshot. And when a staff member arrives with a tray of pills, their excitement is palpable. A few feign distrust, and reluctance, and fear, but they, too, soon swal¬low the meds and wash them down with "water. Everyone gets the same little sleeping pill, one that I've taken on occasion and never felt a thing. And, everyone gets a few other pills because no one would be satisfied with just a single dose. Most of the drugs are legitimate, but many placebos are consumed during this nightly ritual.

After the pills, the place gets quieter as they settle into bed for the night. Lights are off at 10:00 p.m. As expected, I have the South Wing all to myself. There's one attendant for the North Wing and two on the Back Wing with the "sad ones." Well past midnight, when everyone is asleep, including the other atten¬dants, and when I'm alone, I begin to snoop around the front desk, looking at records, logs, files, keys, anything I can find. Se¬curity in these places is always a joke. The computer system is predictably common, and I'll hack my way into it before long. I'm never on duty without a small camera in my pocket, one I use to document such things as dirty bathrooms, unlocked pharmacies, soiled and unwashed linens, doctored logbooks, expired food products, neglected patients, and so on. The list is long and sad, and I'm always on the prowl.

The Ford County Courthouse sits in the middle of a lovely and well-kept lawn, in the center of the Clanton square. Around it are fountains, ancient oaks, park benches, war memorials, and two gazebos. Standing near one of them, I can almost hear the parade on the Fourth of July and the stump speeches during an election. A lonely Confederate soldier in bronze stands atop a granite statue, gazing north, looking for the enemy, holding his rifle, re' minding us of a glorious and lost cause.

Inside, I find the land records in the office of the chancery clerk, the same place in every county courthouse in the state. For these occasions I wear a navy blazer with a tie, nice khakis, dress shoes, and in such a getup I can easily pass for just another out-of-town lawyer checking titles. They come and go. There is no requirement to sign in. I don't speak to anyone unless I'm spoken to. The records are open to the public, and the traffic is scarcely monitored by clerks who are too disinterested to notice. My first visit is to simply get acquainted with the records, the system, to find everything. Deeds, grants, liens, probated wills, all sorts of registries that I'll need to peruse in the near future. The tax rolls are down the hall in the assessor's office. The lawsuit filings and cases are in the circuit clerk's office on the first floor. After a couple of hours, I know my way around and I've spoken to no one. I'm just another out-of-town lawyer pursuing his mundane business.

At each new stop, my first challenge is to find the person who's been around for years and is willing to share the gossip. This person usually works in the kitchen, is often black, often a woman, and if indeed it's a black woman doing the cooking, then I know how to get the gossip. Flattery doesn't work, because these women can smell bullshit a mile away. You can't brag on the food, because the food is slop and they know it. It's not their fault. They are handed the ingredients and told how to prepare them. At first, I simply stop by each day, say hello, ask how they're doing, and so on. The fact that one of the fellow employ¬ees, a white one, is willing to be so nice and to spend time on their turf is unusual. After three days of being nice, Rozelle, aged sixty, is flirting, and I'm giving it right back to her. I told her that I live alone, can't cook, and need a few extra calories on the side. Before long, Rozelle is scrambling eggs for me when she arrives at 7:00 a.m., and we are having our morning coffee together. I punch out at 7:00, but usually hang around for another hour. In my efforts to avoid Miss Ruby, I also arrive for work hours before I punch in, and I sign up for as much overtime as possible. Being the new guy, I am given the graveyard shift—9:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m.— Friday through Monday, but I don't mind.

Rozelle and I agree that our boss, Ms. Wilma Drell, is a dim-witted, lazy slug who should be replaced but probably won't be¬cause it's highly unlikely anyone better would take the job. Rozelle has survived so many bosses she can't remember them all. Nurse Nancy gets passing grades. Trudy at the front desk does not. Before my first week is over, Rozelle and I have assessed all the other employees.

The fun begins when we get around to the patients. I say to Rozelle: "You know, every night at pill time, I give Lyle Spur-lock a dose of saltpeter in a sugar cube. What's the deal, Rozelle?"

"Lawd have mercy," she says with a grin that reveals her enormous teeth. She throws up her hands in mock surprise. She rolls her eyes around as if I've really opened up a can of worms. "You are one curious white boy." But I've hit a nerve, and I can tell that she really wants to shovel the dirt.

"I didn't know they still used saltpeter," I say.

She's slowly unwrapping an industrial-size package of frozen waffles. "Look here, Gill, that man has chased ever' woman that ever stayed here. Caught a lot of 'em too. Back a few years ago they caught him in bed with a nurse."

"Lyle?"

"Lawd have mercy, son. That's the dirtiest ol' man in the world. Can't keep his hands off any woman, no matter how old. He's grabbed nurses, patients, attendants, ladies from the churches who come in to sing Christmas songs. They used to lock 'im up during visitation, else he'd be chasin' the girls from the families. Came in here one time, lookin' around. I picked up a butcher's knife and waved it at him. Ain't had no problem since."

"But he's eighty-four years old."

"He's slowed a little. Diabetes. Cut off a foot. But he's still got both his hands, and he'll grab any woman. Not me, mind you, but the nurses stay away from him."

The visual of old Lyle bedding a nurse was too good to ig¬nore. "And they caught him with a nurse?"

"That's right. She wadn't no young thang, mind you, but he still had thirty years on her."

"Who caught them?"

"You met Andy?"

"Sure."

She glanced around before telling me something that had been a legend for years. "Well, Andy was workin' North Wing back then, now he's in the Back, and, you know that storage room at the far end of North Wing?"

"Sure." I didn't, but I -wanted the rest of the story.

"Well, there used to be a bed in there, and Lyle and the nurse wadn't the first ones to use it."

"Do tell."

"That's right. You wouldn't believe the hanky-panky that's gone down round here, specially when Lyle Spurlock was in his prime."

"So Andy caught them in the storage room?"

"That's right. The nurse got fired. They threatened to send Lyle somewhere else, but his family got involved, talked 'em out of it. It was a mess. Lawd have mercy."

"And they started giving him saltpeter?"

"Not soon enough." She was scattering the waffles on a bak¬ing sheet to put in the oven. She glanced around again, obviously guilty of something, but no one was watching. Delores, the other cook, was wrestling with the coffee machine and too far away to hear us.

"You know Mr. Luke Malone, room 14?"

"Sure, he's on my wing." Mr. Malone was eighty-nine years old, bedridden, virtually blind and deaf, and spent hours each day staring at a small television hanging from the ceiling.

"Well, he and his wife were in room 14 forever. She died last year, cancer. 'Bout ten years ago, Mizz, Malone and ol' Spurlock had a thang goin'."

"They had an affair?" Roselle was willing to tell all, but she needed prodding.

"I don't know what you call it, but they's havin' a good time. Spurlock had two feet then, and he was quick. They'd roll Mr. Malone down here for bingo, and Spurlock' d duck into room 14, jam a chair under the doorknob, and hop in the sack "with Miw Malone."

"They get caught?"

"Several times, but not by Mr. Malone. He couldn't've caught 'em if he'd been in the room. Nobody ever told him, either. Poor man."

"That's terrible."

"That's Spurlock."

She shooed me away because she had to prepare breakfast.

Two nights later, I give Lyle Spurlock a placebo instead of his sleeping pill. An hour later, I return to his room, make sure his roommate is fast asleep, and hand him two Playboy magazines. There is no express prohibition against such publications at Quiet Haven, but Ms. Wilma Drell and the other powers that be have certainly taken it upon themselves to eliminate all vices. There is no alcohol on the premises. Lots of card playing and bingo, but no gambling. The few surviving smokers must go outside. And the notion of pornography being consumed is virtually unthink¬able.

"Don't let anyone see them," I whisper to Lyle, who grabs the magazines like a starving refugee goes for food.

"Thanks," he says eagerly. I turn on the light next to his bed, pat him on the shoulder, and say, "Have some fun." Go get 'em, old boy. Lyle Spurlock is now my newest admirer.

My file on him is getting thicker. He's been at Quiet Haven for eleven years. After the death of his third wife, his family evidently decided they could not care for him and placed him in the "retirement home," where, according to the visitors' logs, they pretty much forgot about him. In the past six months, a daughter from Jackson has dropped by twice. She's married to a shopping center developer who's quite wealthy. Mr. Spurlock has a son in Fort Worth who moves rail freight and never sees his father. Nor does he write or send cards, according to the mail register. Throughout most of his life, Mr. Spurlock ran a small electrical contracting business in Clanton, and he accumulated little in the way of assets. However, his third wife, a woman who'd had two previous marriages herself, inherited six hundred and forty acres of land in Tennessee when her father died at the age of ninety-eight. Her will was probated in Polk County ten years ago, and when her estate was closed, Mr. Lyle Spurlock inherited the land. There is a decent chance his two offspring know nothing about it.

It takes hours of tedious research in the county land records to find these little nuggets. Many of my searches go nowhere, but when I find such a secret, it makes things exciting.

I'm off tonight, and Miss Ruby insists that we go out for a cheeseburger. Her car is a 1972 Cadillac sedan, half a block long, bright red, and with enough square footage for eight passengers. As I chauffeur it, she talks and points and sips her Jimmy, all with a Marlboro hanging out the window. Going from my Beetle to the Cadillac gives me the impression of driving a bus. The car will barely fit into a slot at the Sonic Drive-In, a modern-day version of an earlier classic, and built with much smaller vehicles in mind. But I wedge it in, and we order burgers, fries, and colas. She insists that we eat on the spot, and I’m happy to make her happy.

After several late-afternoon toddies and early-morning high¬balls, I've come to learn that she never had children. Several hus¬bands abandoned her over the years. She has yet to mention a brother, sister, cousin, niece, or nephew. She is incredibly lonely.

And according to Rozelle back in the kitchen, Miss Ruby ran, until twenty or so years ago, the last surviving brothel in Ford County. Rozelle was shocked when I told her where I was living, as if the place were infested with evil spirits. "Ain't no place for a young white boy," she said. Rozelle goes to church at least four times a week. "You'd better get outta there," she warned. "Satan's in the walls."

I don't think it's Satan, but three hours after dinner I'm al¬most asleep when the ceiling begins to shake. There are sounds—determined, steady, destined to end real soon in satisfaction. There is a clicking sound, much like the cheap metal frame of a bed inching across the floor. Then the mighty sigh of a conquering hero. Silence. The epic act is over.

An hour later, the clicking is back, and the bed is once again hopping across the floor. The hero this time must be either bigger or rougher because the noise is louder. She, whoever she is, is more vocal than before, and for a long and impressive while I lis¬ten with great curiosity and a growing eroticism as these two abandon all inhibitions and go at it regardless of who might be listening. They practically shout when it's over, and I'm tempted to applaud. They grow still. So do I. Sleep returns.

About an hour later, our working girl up there is turning her third trick of the night. It's a Friday, and I realize that this is my first Friday in my apartment. Because of my accumulation of over¬time, Ms. Wilma Drell ordered me off the clock tonight. I will not make this mistake again. I can't wait to tell Rozelle that Miss Ruby has not retired from her role as a madam, that her old flop¬house is still used for other purposes, and that Satan is indeed alive and well.

Late Saturday morning, I walk down to the square, to a cof¬fee shop, and buy some sausage biscuits. I take them back to Miss Ruby's. She answers the door in her bathrobe, teased hair shoot¬ing in all directions, eyes puffy and red, and we sit at her kitchen table. She makes more coffee, a wretched brew of some brand she buys by mail, and I repeatedly refuse Jim Beam.

"Things were pretty noisy last night," I say.

"You don't say." She's nibbling around the edge of a biscuit.

"Who's in the apartment right above me?"

"It's empty."

"It wasn't empty last night. Folks were having sex and mak¬ing a lot of noise."

"Oh, that was Tammy. She's just one of my girls."

"How many girls do you have?"

"Not many. Used to have a bunch."

"I heard this used to be a brothel."

"Oh yes," she says with a proud smile. "Back fifteen, twenty years ago, I had a dozen girls, and we took care of all the big boys in Clanton—the politicians, the sheriff, bankers, and lawyers. I let 'em play poker on the fourth floor. My girls worked the other rooms. Those were the good years." She was smiling at the wall, her thoughts far away to better days.

"How often does Tammy work now?"

"Fridays, sometimes on Saturdays. Her husband's a truck driver, gone on weekends, and she needs the extra money."

"Who are the clients?"

"She has a few. She's careful and selective. Interested?"

"No. Just curious. Can I expect the same noise every Friday and Saturday?"

"More than likely."

"You didn't tell me this when I rented the place."

"You didn't ask. Come on now, Gill, you're not really upset. If you'd like, I could put in a good word with Tammy. It'd be a short walk. She could even come to your room."

"How much does she charge?"

"It's negotiable. I'll fix it for you."

"I'll think about it."

After thirty days, I'm beckoned to the office of Ms. Drell for an evaluation. Big companies adopt these policies that fill up their various manuals and handbooks and make them all feel as though they're being superbly managed. HVQH wants each new employee evaluated at thirty, sixty, and ninety-day intervals, then once every six months. Most nursing homes have similar language on the books but rarely bother with actual meetings.

We dance through the usual crap about how I'm doing, what I think of the job, how I'm getting along with the other employ¬ees. So far, no complaints. She compliments me on my willingness to volunteer for overtime. I have to admit that she's not as bad as I first thought. I've been wrong before, but not often. She's still on my list, but down to number three.

"The patients seem to like you," she says.

"They're very sweet."

"Why do you spend so much time talking to the cooks in the kitchen?"

"Is that against the rules?"

"Well, no, just a bit unusual."

"I'll be happy to stop if it bothers you." I have no intention of stopping, regardless of what Ms. Drell says.

"Oh no. We found some Playboy magazines under Mr. Spurlock's mattress. Any idea where they came from?"

"Did you ask Mr. Spurlock?"

"Yes, and he's not saying."

Attaboy, Lyle. "I have no idea where they came from. Are they against the rules?"

"We frown on such filth. Are you sure you had nothing to do with them?"

"It seems to me that if Mr. Spurlock, who's eighty-four and paying full rent, wants to look at Playboys, then he should be al¬lowed to do so. What's the harm?"

"You don't know Mr. Spurlock. We try to keep him in a state of non-arousal. Otherwise, well, he's a real handful."

"He's eighty-four."

"How do you know he's paying full rent?"

"That's what he told me."

She flipped a page as if there were many entries in my file. After a moment, she closed it and said, "So far so good, Gill. We are pleased with your performance. You may go."

Dismissed, I went straight to the kitchen and told Rozelle about the recent events at Miss Ruby's.

After six weeks in Clanton, my research is complete. I've combed through all public records, and I've studied hundreds of old issues of the Ford County Times, which are also stored in the courthouse. No lawsuits have been filed against Quiet Haven. Only two minor complaints are on record with the agency in Jack¬son, and both were handled administratively.

Only two residents of Quiet Haven have any assets to speak of. Mr. Jesse Plankmore owns three hundred acres of scrub pine near Pidgeon Island, in the far northeastern section of Ford County, But Mr. Plankmore doesn't know it anymore. He checked out years ago and will succumb any day now. Plus, his wife died eleven years ago, and her will was probated by a local lawyer. I've read it twice. All assets were willed to Mr. Plankmore, then to the four children upon his death. It's safe to assume he has an identical will, the original of which is locked away in the lawyer's safe-deposit box.

The other property owner is my pal Lyle Spurlock. With six hundred and foty acres of unencumbered land in his neglected portfolio, he's one of the brightest prospects I've seen in years. Without him, I would begin my exit strategy.

Other research is revealing, and good for gossip, but not that valuable. Miss Ruby is actually sixty-eight years old, has three divorces on record, the most current one filed twenty-two years ago, has no children, no criminal record, and her building is ap¬praised by the county at $52,000. Twenty years ago, when it •was a full-fledged whorehouse, the appraisal was twice that. Accord¬ing to an old story in the Ford County Times, the police raided her eighteen years ago and arrested two of her girls and two of their customers, one of whom was a member of the state legisla¬ture, but from another county. Other stories followed. The leg¬islator resigned in disgrace, then killed himself. The moral majority raised a ruckus, and Miss Ruby was effectively out of business.

Her only other asset, at least of interest to the county, is her 1972 Cadillac. Last year the license tags cost her $29.

It is the Cadillac I'm pondering when I allow her to catch me arriving home from work at 8:00 a.m. "Mornin', Gill," she rasps through her tar-laden lungs. "How 'bout a Jimmy?" She's on the narrow front porch, in some hideous ensemble of pink pajamas, lavender bathrobe, red rubber shower shoes, and a sweeping black hat that would deflect more rain than an umbrella. In other words, one of her usual outfits.

I glance at my watch, smile, say, "Sure."

She disappears inside and hurries back with two large turn biers of Jim Beam and soda water. There's a Marlboro stuck be¬tween her sticky red lips, and as she talks, it bounces rapidly up and down. "A good night at the nursing home, Gill?"

"The usual. Did you rest well?"

"Up all night."

"I’m sorry." She was up all night because she sleeps all day, a holdover from her previous life. She usually fights the whiskey until about 10:00 a.m., when she goes to bed and sleeps until dark.

We ramble about this and that, more gossip about people I'll never meet. I toy with the drink, but Fm afraid not to consume most of it. She's questioned my manhood on several occasions when I tried to slip by without fully enjoying the bourbon.

"Say, Miss Ruby, did you ever know a man by the name of Lyle Spurlock?" I ask during a lull.

It takes quite a while for her to recall all the men she's known, but Lyle eventually does not make the cut. "Afraid not, dear. Why?"

"He's one of my patients, my favorite, really, and I was think' ing of taking him to the movies tonight."

"How sweet of you."

"There's a double feature at the drive-in." She almost blows a mouthful of whiskey across the front yard, then laughs until she can't breathe. Finally, when she col¬lects herself, she says,

"You're taking an old man to the dirty movies?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"That's funny." She's still highly amused, her large yellow teeth on full display. A pull of Jimmy, a drag of the cigarette, and she's now under control.

According to the archives of the Ford County Times, the Daisy Drive-In showed its outdoor version of Deep Throat in 1980, and the town of Clanton erupted. There were protests, marches, ordinances, lawsuits attacking ordinances, sermons and more sermons, speeches by politicians, and when the brouhaha was over and the dust settled, the drive-in was still in business, still showing dirty movies whenever it wanted, fully embraced by a federal court's interpretation of the First Amendment. As a compromise, though, the owner agreed to show the XXX stuff only on Wednesday nights, when the church folks were in church. The other nights were heavy on teenage horror flicks, but he promised as much Disney as he could get. Didn't matter. A boy¬cott by the Christians had been in place for so long that the Daisy was generally regarded as a blight on the community.

"I don't suppose I could borrow your car?" I ask, apologeti¬cally.

"Why?"

"Well," I nodded at my sad little Beetle parked at the curb. "It's a bit small."

"Why don't you get something bigger?"

As small as it was, it was still worth more than her tank.

"I've been thinking about that. Anyway, it might be crowded. Just a thought, no big deal. I understand if you don't want to."

"Let me think about it." She rattles her ice and says, "Believe I'll have just a tad more. You?"

"No, thanks." My tongue is on fire and I'm suddenly groggy. I go to bed. She goes to bed. After a long sleep, we meet back on her porch at dusk, and she continues, "I think I'll have a little Jimmy. You?"

"No, thanks. I’m driving."

She mixes one, and we're off. I never expressly invited her to join me and Lyle for our boys' night out, but once I realized she had no intention of the Cadillac leaving without her, I said what the hell. Lyle Spurlock won't care. She confesses, as we sort of float through town in a vehicle that must feel similar to an oil barge going downriver, that she hopes the movies are not too raunchy. She says this with an exaggerated flapping of the eyelids, and I get the impression that Miss Ruby can take whatever filth the Daisy Drive-in can dish out.

I crack a window to allow fresh air a chance to dilute the fumes emanating from Miss Ruby. For the night out, she's chosen to give herself an extra dousing of her various perfumes. She lights a Marlboro but does not crack her window. For a second I fear that the flame might ignite the vapors engulfing the front seat and we could both be burned alive. The moment passes.

As we make our way to Quiet Haven, I regale Miss Ruby with all the gossip I've picked up in the kitchen on the subject of Mr. Lyle Spurlock and his roving eyes and hands. She claims to have heard the rumor, years back, about an elderly gent caught bedding a nurse, and seems genuinely excited about meeting such a character. Another nip of Jimmy, and she declares that she might just remember a Spurlock as a client after all, back in the glory days.

The second shift is run by Nurse Angel, a pious, hard •woman who's currently number two on my shit list and may quite possibly become the first person I get fired here. She immediately informs me that she doesn't approve of my plans to take Lyle to the movies. (I've told no one but Lyle, and now Miss Ruby, which movies we're going to.) I fire back that it doesn't matter what she disapproves of because Ms. Wilma Drell, the number-one Queen Bee, has given approval, said approval not coming forth voluntarily until Mr. Spurlock and his daughter (by phone) had raised more hell than the Queen could take.

"It's in writing," I say. "Check the file. Approved by W. Drell."

She flings some paperwork, mumbles incoherently, frowns as if migraines were attacking. Within minutes, Lyle and I are shuffling out of the front door. He's wearing his nicest slacks and his only jacket, an old shiny navy blazer he's had for decades, and he walks with a determined limp. Outside the building, I grab his elbow and say, "Listen, Mr. Spurlock, we have an unexpected guest with us."

"Who?"

"She goes by Miss Ruby. She's my landlady. I borrowed her car and she came with it, sort of a package deal. Sorry."

"It's okay."

"She's nice. You'll like her."

"Thought we were going to watch dirty movies."

"That's right. Don't worry, they won't bother Miss Ruby. She's not much of a lady, if you know what I mean."

Lyle understands. With a gleam in his eyes, Lyle gets it completely. We stop at the front passenger's door and I introduce them, then Lyle crawls into the cavernous backseat. Before we're out of the parking lot, Miss Ruby is turning around, saying, "Lyle, dear, would you like a little Jim Beam?"

From her large red purse she's already pulling out a quart-size flask.

"I reckon not," Lyle says, and I relax. It's one thing to take Lyle out for a little porn, but if I brought him home sloshed, I could get into trouble.

She leans in my direction and says, "He's cute."

Away we go. I expect Miss Ruby to mention the Sonic, and within minutes she says, "Now, Gill, I'd like a cheeseburger and fries for dinner. How 'bout we run by the Sonic?"

With effort, I manage to fit the oil barge into a narrow slip at the Sonic. The place is packed, and I catch stares from some of the other customers, all sitting in vehicles that are noticeably smaller and newer. I don't know if they're amused by the bright red Cadillac that will barely fit, or by the sight of the odd trio in' side it. Not that I care.

I've done this before, at other homes. One of the greatest gifts I can give to my favorite friends is freedom. I've taken old ladies to churches, to country clubs, to funerals and weddings, and, of course, to shopping centers. I've taken old men to Legion halls, ball games, bars, churches, and coffee shops. They are childishly grateful for these little excursions, these simple acts of kindness that get them out of their rooms. And, sadly, these forays into the real world always cause trouble. The other employees, my esteemed co-workers, resent the fact that I'm willing to spend extra time with our residents, and the other residents become very jealous of the ones lucky enough to escape for a few hours. But trouble doesn't bother me.

Lyle claims to be full, no doubt stuffed with rubber chicken and green Jell-O. I order a hot dog and a root beer, and soon we're floating down the street again, Miss Ruby nibbling on a fry and Lyle way in the back somewhere relishing the open spaces. Abruptly, he says, "I'd like a beer."

I turn in to the lot of a convenience store. "What brand?"

"Schlitz," he says, with no hesitation.

I purchase a Six-pack of sixteen-ounce cans, hand them over, and we're off again. I hear a top pop, then a slurp. "You want one, Gill?" he asks.

"No, thanks." I hate the smell and taste of beer. Miss Ruby pours some bourbon into her Dr Pepper and sips away. She's grin¬ning now, I guess because she has someone to drink with.

At the Daisy, I buy three tickets at five bucks each, no offer to pay from my pals here, and we ease through the gravel lot and select a spot on the third row, far away from any other vehicle. I count six others present. The movie is under way. I mount the speaker on my window, adjust the volume so Lyle can hear all the groaning, then settle low in my seat. Miss Ruby is still nibbling at her cheeseburger. Lyle slides across the rear seat to a spot di¬rectly in the middle so his view is unobstructed.

The plot soon becomes evident. A door-to-door salesman is trying to sell vacuum cleaners. You would expect a door-to-door salesman to be somewhat well-groomed and to at least try to have a pleasing personality. This guy is greased from head to toe, with earrings, tattoos, a tight silk shirt with few buttons, and a lusty sneer that would frighten any respectable housewife. Of course, in this film, there are no respectable housewives. Once our slimy salesman gets in the front door, dragging a useless vacuum cleaner behind him, the wife attacks him, clothes are removed, and all manner of frolicking ensues. The husband catches them on the sofa, and instead of beating the guy senseless with a vacuum cleaner hose, the hubby joins the fun. It's soon a family affair, with naked people rushing into the den from all directions. The family is one of those porn families where the children are the same age as the parents, but who cares? Neighbors arrive, and the scene becomes one of frenzied copulating in ways and posi¬tions few mortals can imagine.

I slide deeper into my seat, just barely able to see over the steering wheel. Miss Ruby nibbles away, chuckling at something on the screen, not the least bit embarrassed, and Lyle opens an-other beer, the only sound from back there.

Some redneck in a pickup two rows behind us lays on his horn every time a climactic moment is featured on film. Other than that, the Daisy is fairly quiet and deserted.

After the second orgy, I'm bored and I excuse myself to visit the men's room. I stroll across the gravel lot to a shabby little building where they sell snacks and have the toilets. The projection room is a wobbly appendage above it. The Daisy Drive-in has certainly seen better days. I pay for a bucket of stale popcorn and take my time returning to the red Cadillac. Along the way, I never consider glancing up at the screen.

Miss Ruby has disappeared! A split second after I realize her seat is empty, I hear her giggle in the backseat. Of course the dome light doesn't work, probably hasn't in twenty years or so. It's dark back there, and I do not turn around. "You guys okay?" I ask, much like a babysitter.

"You betcha," Lyle says.

"There's more room back here," Miss Ruby says. After ten minutes, I excuse myself again, and I go for a long walk, across the let to the very back row and through an old fence, up an in¬cline to the foot of an ancient tree where beer cans are scattered around a broken picnic table, evidence left behind by teenagers too young or too poor to buy tickets to the show. I sit on the rick¬ety table and have a clear view of the screen in the distance. I count seven cars and two pickups, paying customers. The one nearest Miss Ruby's Cadillac still honks at just the right moments. Her car shines from the reflection on the screen. As far as I can tell, it is perfectly still.

My shift begins at 9:00 p.m., and I'm never late. Queen Wilma Drell confirmed in writing that Mr. Spurlock was to return promptly by 9:00, so with thirty minutes to go, I amble back to the car, break up whatever is happening in the backseat, if any¬thing, and announce it's time to leave.

"I'll just stay back here," Miss Ruby says, giggling, her words a bit slurred, which is unusual since she's immune to the booze.

"You okay, Mr. Spurlock?" I ask as I crank the engine.

"You betcha."

"You guys enjoy the movies?"

Both roar with laughter, and I realize they are drunk. They giggle all the way to Miss Ruby's house, and it's very amusing. She says good night as we transfer to my Beetle, and as Mr. Spurlock and I head toward Quiet Haven, I ask, "Did you have

fun?"

"Great. Thanks." He's holding a Schlitz, number three as far as I can tell, and his eyes are half-dosed.

"What'd ya'll do in the backseat?"

"Not much."

"She's nice, isn't she?"

"Yes, but she smells bad. All that perfume. Never thought I'd be in the backseat with Ruby Clements."

"You know her?"

"I figured out who she is. I've lived here for a long time, son, and I can't remember much. But there was a time when most everybody knew who she was. One of her husbands was a cousin to one of my wives. I think that's right. A long time ago."

You gotta love small towns.

Our next excursion, two weeks later, is to the Civil War bat¬tlefield at Brice's Crossroads, about an hour from Clanton. Like most old Southerners, Mr. Spurlock claims to have ancestors who fought gallantly for the Confederacy. He still carries a grudge and can get downright bitter on the subject of Reconstruction ("never happened") and Yankee carpetbaggers ("thievin' bastards").

I check him out early one Tuesday, and under the watchful and disapproving eye of Queen Wilma Drell we escape in my lit' tie Beetle and leave Quiet Haven behind. I stop at a convenience store, buy two tall cups of stale coffee, some sandwiches and soft drinks, and we're off to refight the war.

I really couldn't care less about the Civil War, and I don't get all this lingering fascination with it. We, the South, lost and lost big. Get over it. But if Mr. Spurlock wants to spend his last days dreaming of Confederate glory and what might have been, then I'll give it my best. In the past month I've read a dozen war books from the Clanton library, and there are three more in my room at Miss Ruby's.

At times he's sharp with the details—battles, generals, troop movements—and at other times he draws blanks. I keep the conversation on my latest hot topic—the preservation of Civil War battlefields. I rant about the destruction of the sacred grounds, especially in Virginia, where Bull Run and Fredericksburg and Winchester have been decimated by development. This gets him worked up, then he nods off.

On the ground, we look at a few monuments and battlefield markers. He's convinced that his grandfather Joshua Spurlock was wounded in the course of some heroic maneuver during the bat¬tle at Brice's Crossroads. We sit on a split-rail fence and eat sand¬wiches for lunch, and he gazes into the distance in a forlorn trance, as if he's waiting for the sounds of cannon and horses. He talks about his grandfather, who died in either 1932 or 1934, some¬where around the age of ninety. When Lyle was a boy, his grand¬father delighted him with stories of killing Yankees and getting shot and fighting with Nathan Bedford Forrest, the greatest of all Southern commanders. "They were at Shiloh together," he said. "My grandfather took me there once."

"Would you like to go again?" I ask.

He breaks into a grin, and it's obvious that he'd love to see the battlefield again. "It'd be a dream," he says, moisture in his eyes.

"I can arrange that."

"I want to go in April, when the battle was fought, so I can see the Peach Orchard and the Bloody Pond and the Hornet's Nest."

"You have my promise. We'll go next April." April was five months away, and given my track record, I doubted if I would still be employed at Quiet Haven. But if not, nothing would pre¬vent me from visiting my friend Lyle and taking him on another road trip.

He sleeps most of the way back to Clanton. Between naps, I explain that I am involved with a national group working to pre-serve Civil War battlefields. The group is strictly private, no help from the government, and thus depends on donations. Since I ob¬viously earn little, I send a small check each year, but my uncle, who's stout, sends large checks at my request.

Lyle is intrigued by this.

"You could always include them in your will," I say.

No reaction. Nothing. I leave it alone.

We return to Quiet Haven, and I walk him to his room. As he's taking off his sweater and his shoes, he thanks me for a "great day." I pat him on the back, tell him how much I enjoyed it too, and as I'm leaving, he says, "Gill, I don't have a will."

I act surprised, but then I'm not. The number of people, es¬pecially those in nursing homes, who have never bothered with a will is astounding. I feign a look of shock, then disappoint¬ment, then I say, "Let's talk about it later, okay? I know what to do."

"Sure," he says, relieved.

At 5:30 the following morning, the halls deserted, the lights still off, everyone asleep or supposed to be, I'm at the front desk reading about General Grant's Southern campaign when I'm star¬tled by the sudden appearance of Ms. Daphne Groat. She's eighty-six, suffers from dementia, and is confined to the Back Wing. How she managed to pass through the locked door is something I'll never know.

"Come quick!" she hisses at me, teeth missing, voice hollow and weak.

"What's the matter?" I ask as I jump up.

"It's Harriet. She's on the floor."

I sprint to the Back Wing, punch in the code, pass through the thick locked door, and race down the hall to room 158, where Ms. Harriet Markle has lived since I went through puberty. I flip on the light to her room, and there she is, on the floor, obviously unconscious, naked except for black socks, lying in a sickening pool of vomit, urine, blood, and her own waste. The stench buck¬les my knees, and I've survived many jolting odors. Because I've been in this situation before, I react instinctively. I quickly pull out my little camera, take four photos, stick it back into my pocket, and go for help. Ms. Daphne Groat is nowhere to be seen, and no one else is awake on the wing.

There is no attendant on duty. Eight and a half hours earlier, when our shift began, a woman by the name of Rita had checked in at the front desk, where I was at the time, and then headed to the Back Wing. She was on duty, alone, which is against the rules because two attendants are required back there. Rita is now gone. I sprint to the North Wing, grab an attendant named Gary, and together we swing into action. We put on rubber gloves, sanitary masks, and boots and quickly get Ms. Harriet off the floor and back into her bed. She is breathing, but barely, and she has a gash just above her left ear. Gary scrubs her while I mop up the mess. When the situation is somewhat cleaner, I call an ambulance, and then I call Nurse Angel and Queen Wilma. By this time, others have been awakened and we've drawn a crowd.

Rita is nowhere to be seen. Two attendants, Gary and me, for fifty-two residents.

We bandage her wound, put on clean underwear and a gown, and while Gary guards her bed, I dash to the wing desk to check the paperwork. Ms. Harriet has not been fed since noon the day before—almost eighteen hours—and her meds have also been neglected. I quickly photocopy all the notes and entries because you can bet they'll be tampered with in a matter of hours. I fold the copies and stick them into a pocket.

The ambulance arrives, and Ms. Harriet is loaded up and taken away. Nurse Angel and Ms. Drell huddle nervously with each other and begin flipping through the paperwork. I return to the South Wing and lock the evidence in a drawer. I'll take it home in a few hours.

The following day, a man in a suit arrives from some regional office and wants to interview me about what happened. He's not a lawyer, those will show up later, and he's not particularly bright. He begins by explaining to Gary and me exactly what he thinks we saw and did during the crisis, and we let him ramble. He goes on to assure us that Ms. Harriet was properly fed and medicated—it's all right there in the notes—and that Rita had simply gone outside for a smoke and fell ill, which required her to dash home for a moment before returning, only to find the "unfortunate" situation relative to Ms. Harriet.

I play dumb, my speciality. Gary does too; it's more natural for him, but he's also worried about his job. I am not. The idiot finally leaves, and does so with the impression that he has eased into our little redneck town and skillfully put out yet another fire for good old HVQH Group.

Ms. Harriet spends a week in the hospital with a cracked skull. She lost a lot of blood, and there's probably some more brain damage, though how the hell can you measure it? Regardless, it's a beautiful lawsuit, in the hands of the right person.

Because of the popularity of these lawsuits, and the sheer number of vultures circling nursing homes, I have learned that one must move with haste. My lawyer is an old friend named Dexter Ridley, from Tupelo, a man I turn to on occasion. Dex is about fifty, with a couple of wives and lives under his belt, and he made the decision a few years ago that he could not survive in the business by drawing up deeds and filing no-fault divorces. Dex stepped up a notch and became a litigator, though he seldom actually goes to trial. His real talent is filing big lawsuits, then huffing and puff¬ing until the other side settles. He's got billboards with his smil¬ing face on them scattered around north Mississippi.

I drive to Tupelo on a day off, show him the color photos of Ms. Harriet naked and bleeding, show him the copies of the at¬tendants1 notes, both before the tampering and after, and we strike a deal. Dex kicks into high gear, contacts the family of Har¬riet Markle, and within a week of the incident notifies HVQH that they have a real problem. He won't mention me and my pho¬tos and my purloined records until he has to. With such inside in¬formation, the case will likely be settled quickly, and I'll be unemployed once again.

By order from the home office, Ms. Wilma Drell suddenly be¬comes very nice. She calls me in and tells me that my performance has improved so dramatically that I'm getting a raise. From six bucks an hour to seven, and I'm not to tell anyone else on the floor. I give her a load of sappy thanks, and she's convinced we're bonding now.

Late that night, I read Mr. Spurlock a magazine story about a developer in Tennessee who's trying to bulldoze a neglected Civil War battlefield so he can throw up another strip mall and some cheap condos. The locals and the preservation types are fighting, but the developer has the money and the politics on his side. Lyle is upset by this, and we talk at length about ways to help the good guys. He doesn't mention his last will and testa¬ment, and it's still too soon for me to make a move.

In retirement homes, birthdays are a big deal, and for obvious reasons. You'd better celebrate 'em while you can. There's always a party in the cafeteria, with cake and candles and ice cream, pho¬tos and songs and such. We, the staff, work hard at creating mer¬riment and noise, and we try our best to drag out the festivities for at least thirty minutes. About half the time a few family mem¬bers will be here, and this heightens the mood. If no family is pres¬ent, we work even harder. Each birthday might be the last, but I guess that's true for all of us. Truer for some, though.

Lyle Spurlock turns eighty-five on December 2, and his loud¬mouth daughter from Jackson shows up, along with two of her kids and three of her grandchildren, and along with her custom¬ary barrage of complaints, demands, and suggestions, all in a noisy and lame effort to convince her beloved father that she cares so deeply about him that she must raise hell with us. They bring bal¬loons and silly hats, a store-bought coconut cake (his favorite), and several cheap gifts in gaudy boxes, things like socks and handker¬chiefs and stale chocolates. A granddaughter rigs up a boom box and plays Hank Williams (his alleged favorite) in the background. Another mounts a display of enlarged black-and-white photos of young Lyle in the army, young Lyle walking down the aisle (the first time), young Lyle posing this way and that so many decades ago. Most of the residents are present, as are most of the em¬ployees, including Rozelle from the kitchen, though I know she's there for the cake and not out of any affection for the birthday boy. At one point Wilma Drell gets too close to Lyle, who, off his saltpeter, makes an awkward and obvious grab for her ample ass. He gets a handful. She yelps in horror, and almost everyone laughs as though it's just part of the celebration, but it's obvious to me that Queen Wilma is not amused. Then Lyle's daughter overreacts badly by squawking at him, slapping his arm, and scolding him, and for a few seconds the mood is tense. Wilma disappears and is not seen for the rest of the day. I doubt if she's had that much fun in years.

After an hour the party loses steam, and several of our friends begin to nod off. The daughter and her brood pack quickly and are soon gone. Hugs and kisses and all that, but it's a long way back to Jackson, Daddy. Lyle's eighty-fifth celebration is soon over. I es¬cort him back to his room, carrying his gifts, talking about Get¬tysburg.

Just after bedtime, I ease into his room and deliver my gift. A few hours of research, and a few phone calls to the right people, and I learned that there was indeed a Captain Joshua Spurlock who fought in the Tenth Mississippi Infantry Regiment at the Battle of Shiloh. He was from Ripley, Mississippi, a town not far from where Lyle's father was born, according to my fact-checking. I found an outfit in Nashville that specializes in Civil War mem¬orabilia, both real and fake, and paid them $80 for their work. My gift is a matted and framed Certificate of Valor, awarded to Cap¬tain Spurlock, and flanked on the right by a Confederate battle flag and on the left by the Tenth Regiment's official insignia. It's not meant to be anything other than what it is—a very handsome and very bogus re-creation of something that never existed in the first place—but for someone as consumed with past glory as Lyle, it is the greatest of all gifts. His eyes water as he holds it. The old man is now ready for heaven, but not so fast.

"This is beautiful," he says. "I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"My pleasure, Mr. Spurlock. He was a brave soldier."

"Yes, he was."

Promptly at midnight, I deliver my second gift.

Lyle's roommate is Mr. Hitchcock, a frail and fading gent who's a year older than Lyle but in much worse shape. I'm told he lived a pure life, free from alcohol, tobacco, and other vices, yet there's not much left. Lyle chased women his entire life, caught many of them, and at one time chain-smoked and hit the bottle hard. After years in this work I'm convinced that DNA is at least half the solution, or half the problem.

Anyway, at pill time I juiced Mr. Hitchcock with a stronger sleeping pill, and he's in another world. He won't hear a thing.

Miss Ruby, who I'm sure has been hitting the Jimmy with her usual fealty, follows my instructions perfectly and parks her massive Cadillac next to the Dumpster just outside the back en¬trance to the kitchen. She crawls out of the driver's side, already giggling, glass in hand. From the passenger's side I get my first glimpse of Mandy, one of Miss Ruby's "better" girls, but it's not the time for introductions. "Shhhh," I whisper, and they follow me through the darkness, into the kitchen, into the dimly lit cafe-teria, where we stop for a second.

Miss Ruby says proudly, "Now, Gill, this is Mandy."

We shake hands. "A real pleasure," I say.

Mandy barely offers a smile. Her face says, "Let's just get this over with." She's about forty, a bit plump, heavily made up, but unable to hide the strains of a hard life. The next thirty minutes will cost me $200.

All lights are low at Quiet Haven, and I glance down the south hall to make sure no one is stirring. Then we, Mandy and I, walk quickly to room 18, where Mr. Hitchcock is comatose but Mr. Spurlock is walking the floor, waiting. He looks at her, she looks at him. I offer a quick "Happy Birthday," then close the door and backtrack.

Miss Ruby and I wait in the cafeteria, drinking. She has her toddy. I sip from her flask, and I have to admit that after three months the bourbon is not as bad as it was. "She's a sweetheart," Miss Ruby is saying, thoroughly delighted that she has once again managed to bring people together.

"A nice girl," I say, mindlessly.

"She started working for me when she dropped out of high school. Terrible family. Couple of bad marriages after that. Never had a break. I just wish I could keep her busier. It's so hard these days. Women are so loose they don't charge for it anymore."

Miss Ruby, a career and unrepentant madam, is bemoaning the fact that modern women are too loose. I think about this for a second, then take a sip and let it pass.

"How many girls do you have now?"

"Just three, all part-time. Used to have a dozen, and kept them very busy."

"Those were the days."

"Yes, they were. The best years of my life. You reckon we could find some more business here at Quiet Haven? I know in prison they set aside one day a week for conjugal visits. Ever thought about the same here? I could bring in a couple of girls one night a week, and I'm sure it would be easy work for them."

"That's probably the worst idea I've heard in the past five years."

Sitting in the shadows, I see her red eyes turn and glare at me. "I beg your pardon," she hisses.

"Take a drink. There are fifteen men confined to this place, Miss Ruby, average age of, oh, let's say eighty. Off the cuff, five are bedridden, three are brain-dead, three can't get out of their wheelchairs, and so that leaves maybe four who are ambulatory. Of the four, I'd wager serious money that only Lyle Spurlock is capable of performing at some level. You can't sell sex in a nurs¬ing home."

"I've done it before. This ain't my first rodeo." And with that she offers one of her patented smoke-choked cackles, then starts coughing. She eventually catches her breath, just long enough to settle things down with a jolt of Jim Beam.

"Sex in a nursing home," she says, chuckling. "Maybe that's where I'm headed."

I bite my tongue.

When the session is over, we quickly get through a round of awkward good-byes. I watch the Cadillac until it is safely off the premises and out of sight, then finally relax. I've actually arranged such a tryst once before. Ain't my first rodeo.

Lyle is sleeping like an infant when I check on him. Dentures out, mouth sagging, but lips turned up into a pleasant smile. If Mr. Hitchcock has moved in the past three hours, I can't tell. He'll never know what he missed. I check the other rooms and go about my business, and when all is quiet, I settle into the front desk with some magazines.

Dex says the company has mentioned more than once the pos¬sibility of settling the Harriet Markle lawsuit before it's actually filed. Dex has hinted strongly to them that he has inside informa¬tion regarding a cover-up—tampered-with paperwork and other pieces of evidence that Dex knows how to skillfully mention on the phone when talking to lawyers who represent such compa¬nies. HVQH says it would like to avoid the publicity of a nasty suit. Dex assures them it'll be nastier than they realize. Back and forth, the usual lawyer routines. But the upshot for me is that my days are numbered. If my affidavit and photos and filched records will hasten a nice settlement, then so be it. I'll happily produce the evidence, then move along.

Mr. Spurlock and I play checkers most nights at 8:00 in the cafeteria, long after dinner and an hour before I officially punch the clock. We are usually alone, though a knitting club meets on Mondays in one corner, a Bible club gathers on Tuesdays in an¬other, and a small branch of the Ford County Historical Society meets occasionally wherever they can pull three or four chairs to¬gether. Even on my nights off, I usually stop by at 8:00 for a few games. It's either that or drink with Miss Ruby and gag on her secondhand smoke.

Lyle wins nine games out of ten, not that I really care. Since his encounter with Mandy his left arm has been bothering him. It feels numb, and he's not as quick with his words. His blood pres¬sure is up slightly, and he's complained of headaches. Since I have the key to the pharmacy, I've put him on Nafred, a blood thinner, and Silerall for stroke victims. I've seen dozens of strokes, and my diagnosis is just that. A very slight stroke, one unnoticeable to anyone else, not that anyone is paying attention. Lyle is a tough old coot who does not complain and does not like doctors and would take a bullet before he called his daughter and whined about his health.

"You told me you never made a will," I say casually as I stare at the board. There are four ladies playing cards forty feet away, and believe me, they cannot hear us. They can barely hear each other.

"I've been thinkin' about that," he says. His eyes are tired. Lyle has aged since his birthday, since Mandy, since his stroke.

"What's in the estate?" I ask, as if I could not care less.

"Some land, that's about all."

"How much land?"

"Six hundred and forty acres, in Polk County." He smiles as he pulls off a double jump.

"What's the value?"

"Don't know. But it's free and clear."

I haven't paid for an official appraisal, but according to two agents who specialize in such matters, the land is worth around $500 an acre.

"You mentioned putting some money aside to help preserve Civil War battlefields."

This is exactly what Lyle wants to hear. He lights up, smiles at me, and says, "That's a great idea. That's what I want to do." For the moment, he's forgotten about the game.

"The best organization is an outfit in Virginia, the Confederate Defense Fund. You gotta be careful. Some of these nonprofits give at least half their money to build monuments to honor the Union forces. I don't think that's what you have in mind."

"Hell no."

His eyes flash hot for a second, and Lyle is once again ready for battle. "Not my money," he adds.

"I'll be happy to serve as your trustee," I say, and move a checker.

"What does that mean?"

"You name the Confederate Defense Fund as the recipient of your estate, and upon your death the money goes into a trust so that I, or whomever you choose, can watch the money carefully and make sure it's accounted for."

He's smiling. "That's what I want, Gill. That's it."

"It's the best way—"

"You don't mind, do you? You'd be in charge of everything when I die."

I clutch his right hand, squeeze it, look him firmly in the eyes, and say, "I'd be honored, Lyle."

We make a few moves in silence, then I wrap up some loose ends. "What about your family?"

"What about them?"

"Your daughter, your son, what do they get from your estate?"

His response is a cross between a sigh, a hiss, and a snort, and when they are combined with a rolling of the eyes, I know im¬mediately that his dear children are about to get cut out. This is perfectly legal in Mississippi and in most states. When making a will, you can exclude everyone but your surviving spouse. And some folks still try.

"I haven't heard from my son in five years. My daughter has more money than I do. Nothing. They get nothing."

"Do they know about this land in Polk County?" I ask.

"I don't think so."

This is all I need.

Two days later, rumors race through Quiet Haven. "The lawyers are coming!" Thanks primarily to me, the gossip has been festering about a massive lawsuit under way in which the family of Ms. Harriet Markle will expose everything and collect millions. It's partially true, but Ms. Harriet knows nothing about it. She's back in her bed, a very clean bed, well fed and properly medicated, properly supervised, and basically dead to the world.

Her lawyer, the Honorable Dexter Ridley of Tupelo, Mississippi, arrives late one afternoon with a small entourage that consists of his faithful secretary and two paralegals, both wearing suits as dark as Dexter's and both scowling in the finest lawyerly tradition. It's an impressive team, and I've never seen such ex¬citement at Quiet Haven. Nor have I seen the place as spiffed-up and shiny. Even the plastic flowers on the front desk have been re¬placed by real ones. Orders from the home office.

Dex and his team are met by a junior executive from the com¬pany who's all smiles. The official reason for this visit is to allow Dex the opportunity to inspect, examine, photograph, measure, and in general poke around Quiet Haven, and for an hour or so he does this with great skill. This is his specialty. He needs to "get the feel of the place" before he sues it. Anyway, it's all an act. Dex is certain the matter will be settled quietly, and generously, without the actual filing of a lawsuit.

Though my shift doesn't start until 9:00 p.m., I hang around as usual. By now the staff and the residents are accustomed to seeing me at all hours. It's as if I never leave. But I'm leaving, believe me.

Rozelle, working late, is busy preparing dinner, not cooking, she reminds me, just preparing. I stay in the kitchen, pestering her, gossiping, helping occasionally. She wants to know what the lawyers are up to, and as usual I can only speculate, but I do so with a lot of theories. Promptly at 6:00 p.m., the residents start drifting into the cafeteria, and I begin carrying trays of the vapid gruel we serve them. Tonight the Jell-O is yellow.

At precisely 6:30, I swing into action. I leave the cafeteria and walk to room 18, where I find Mr. Spurlock sitting on his bed, reading a copy of his last will and testament. Mr. Hitchcock is down the hall having dinner, so we can talk.

"Any questions?" I ask. It's only three pages long, at times written clearly and at times loaded with enough legalese to stump a law professor. Dex is a genius at drafting these things. He adds

just enough clear language to convince the person signing that though he or she may not know exactly what he or she is signing, the overall gist of the document is just fine.

"I suppose so," Lyle says, uncertain.

"Lots of legal stuff," I explain helpfully. "But that's required. The bottom line is that you're leaving everything to the Confed¬erate Defense Fund, in trust, and I'll oversee it all. Is that what you want?"

"Yes, and thank you, Gill."

"I'm honored. Let's go."

We take our time—Lyle is moving much slower since the stroke—and eventually get to the reception area just inside the front door. Queen Wilma, Nurse Nancy, and Trudy the recep¬tionist all left almost two hours ago. There is a lull as dinner is being served. Dex and his secretary are waiting. The two para¬legals and the company man are gone. Introductions are made. Lyle takes a seat and I stand next to him, then Dex methodically goes through a rough summary of the document. Lyle loses in¬terest almost immediately, and Dex notices this.

"Is this what you want, Mr. Spurlock?" he asks, the com¬passionate counselor.

"Yes," Lyle responds, nodding. He's already tired of this legal stuff.

Dex produces a pen, shows Lyle where to sign, then adds his signature as a witness and instructs his secretary to do the same. They are vouching for Lyle's "sound and disposing mind and mem¬ory." Dex then signs a required affidavit, and the secretary whips out her notary seal and stamp and gives it her official blessing. I've been in this situation several times, and believe me, this woman will notarize anything. Stick a Xerox copy of the Magna Carta under her nose, swear it's the original, and she'll notarize it.

Ten minutes after signing his last will and testament, Lyle Spurlock is in the cafeteria eating his dinner.

A week later, Dex calls with the news that he's about to meet with the big lawyers from the corporate office and engage in a se¬rious settlement conference. He's decided he will show them the greatly enlarged photos I took of Ms. Harriet Markle lying in a pool of her own body fluids, naked. And he will describe the bogus record entries, but not hand over copies. All of this will lead to a settlement, but it will also reveal to the company my complicity in the matter. I'm the mole, the leaker, the traitor, and though the company won't fire me outright—Dex will threaten them—I've learned from experience that it's best to move on.

In all likelihood, the company will fire Queen Wilma, and probably Nurse Angel too. So be it. I've seldom left a project without getting someone fired.

The following day, Dex calls with the news that the case settled, confidentially of course, for $400,000. This may sound low, given the company's malfeasance and exposure, but it's not a bad settlement. Damages can be difficult to prove in these cases. It's not as if Ms. Harriet was earning money and therefore facing a huge financial loss. She won't see a dime of the money, but you can bet her dear ones are already bickering. My reward is a 10 percent finder's fee, paid off the top.

The following day, two men in dark suits arrive, and fear grips Quiet Haven. Long meetings are held in Queen Wilma's office. The place is tense. I love these situations, and I spend most of the afternoon hiding in the kitchen with Rozelle as the rumors fly. I'm full of wild theories, and most of the rumors seem to originate from the kitchen. Ms. Drell is eventually fired and escorted out of the building. Nurse Angel is fired, and escorted out of the building. Late in the day we hear the rumor that they're looking for me, so I ease out a side door and disappear.

I'll go back in a week or so, to say good-bye to Lyle Spurlock and a few other friends. I'll finish up the gossip with Rozelle, give her a hug, promise to drop in from time to time. I'll stop by Miss Ruby's, settle up on the rent, gather my belongings, and indulge in a final toddy on the porch. It will be difficult to say good-bye, but then I do it so often.

So I leave Clanton after four months, and as I head toward Memphis, I can't help but succumb to smugness. This is one of my more successful projects. The finder's fee alone makes for a good year. Mr. Spurlock's will effectively gives everything to me, though he doesn't realize it. (The Confederate Defense Fund folded years ago.) He probably won't touch the document again before he dies, and I'll pop in often enough to make sure the damned thing stays buried in the drawer. (I'm still checking on several of my more generous friends.) After he dies, and we'll know this immediately because Dex's secretary checks the obitu¬aries daily, his daughter will rush in, find the will, and freak out, and soon enough she'll hire lawyers who'll file a nasty lawsuit to contest the will. They'll allege all manner of vile claims against me, and you can't blame them.

Will contests are tried before juries in Mississippi, and I'm not about to subject myself to the scrutiny of twelve average cit¬izens and try to deny that I sucked up to an old man during his last days in a nursing home. No, sir. We never go to trial. We, Dex and I, settle these cases long before trial. The family usually buys us off for about 25 percent of the estate. It's cheaper than paying their lawyers for a trial, plus the family does not really want the embarrassment of a full-blown bare-knuckle trial in which they're grilled about how much time they didn't spend with their dearly departed.

After four months of hard work, I'm exhausted. I'll spend a day or two in Memphis, my home base, then catch a flight to Miami, where I have a condo on South Beach. I'll work on my tan for a few days, rest up, then start thinking about my next project.