The Shrimper
1969
A
t beer time the Dog-Gone served up better gossip than the diner. The sheriff and Joe stepped inside the elongated, jam-packed beer hall and up to the bar, made from a single longleaf pine, which extended down the left side of the room, seemingly out of sight into the dim. Locals—all men, since women weren’t allowed—bunched up to the bar or sat at scattered tables. The two barkeeps roasted hot dogs; fried shrimp, oysters, and hush puppies; stirred grits; poured beers and bourbon. The only light emitted from various flashing beer signs, giving off an amber glow, like campfires l*****g whiskered faces. The clonks and clinks of billiard balls sounded from the back quarter.
Ed and Joe eased into a midbar cluster of fishermen, and as soon as they ordered Millers and fried
