One Good Deed

by David Baldacci

  Tuttle poked him in the chest. “Bring my daughter back to me, Archer. And collect your money, which I’ve just upped to two hundred dollars.”

  Archer looked stunned. “Why the increase?”

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  He motioned to the door, and Archer slowly climbed out. The chauffeur, who had gotten his Coke and was sipping it while perched on a fire hydrant, observed this, jumped up, and got back into the car, and the Cadillac drove off.

  “Archer?”

  Archer turned around to see Jackie Tuttle staring at him from across the way.

  Jackie Tuttle wasn’t really looking at Archer, though. He could see that now. She was looking over his shoulder, at the Cadillac rolling down the street.

  She pulled her gaze away and walked over to him. Then she took a whiff and drew back, holding a hand to her nose. “You stink, do you know that?”

  He looked down at himself. “Well, butchering hogs doesn’t exactly make you smell pretty.”

  “Is that what you’re doing now?”

  “Got my butt kicked out of the hotel.”

  “Where are you staying then?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Look, you can stay with me, Archer.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?” She smiled. “It would give us certain advantages of privacy.”

  “How’d you think that would look, especially to Mr. Shaw with the way things are?”

  Her smile faded. “Right, I see your point.” She looked down the street. “Was that my father?”

  “I think you know it was.”

  “Did you speak with him?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s increased the offer to two hundred dollars if you come back home.”

  “What else did he say?” she blurted out.

  He drew a step back. “What? Nothing.”

  She lurched forward and grabbed his jacket. “Are you lying to me?”

  “No.”

  She let go of him and her hostile look faded. “Well, good. How about I feed you then? I can see your belly pushing inward from here.”

  However, he was still reacting to her dizzying emotional swing and didn’t answer.

  Apparently his unsettled features showed his dilemma, because she smiled disarmingly and said, “My father drives me a little crazy, Archer.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Maybe more than a little.”

  “So, let’s go eat.”

  “I don’t have the cash, and I’m not letting you buy me a meal again.”

  “Then how about I cook for you?”

  He looked askance at her.

  She said, “You doubt I can?”

  “No. I just…Well, what would you be thinking of making?”

  “I like my food fried, Archer. So chicken and okra and green tomatoes, for certain. And I have a bottle of wine. You ever have that spirit?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “My mother introduced me to it. Wine from Argentina was her favorite. I don’t have that. But I have a bottle of red wine from France.”

  “France! How the hell did you manage that?”

  “I didn’t. Hank did. He gave it to me.”

  “You okay with us drinking it?”

  “We can toast him, if you want. But I mean to drink it sooner rather than later. He said some people wait years, even decades, to uncork a bottle.”

  “Never heard of such a thing. Couldn’t be any good after all that time.”

  “They say it is, but I’m not that patient. Why don’t you meet me in an hour’s time at my house? Then dinner will be ready.”

  He thought of his arrangement with Ernestine and said, “I’ll come up to your back door. And I can’t stay all that long. I have to go to work in the morning.”

  “Right. Killing hogs.”

  “Well, in my case, just butchering ’em.”

  “That’s a hairsplitter if ever I’ve heard one, Archer.”

  Chapter 25

  IT WAS SIXTY-ONE MINUTES LATER that Archer found himself knocking on the woman’s back door. She answered it wearing an apron over her dress.

  “Well, if the smell is any factor, this meal will be pretty fine,” he said.

  He watched her working the skillets on the three-burner stove, which had an electric icebox next to it. When the food was done, shortly after he arrived, they sat down in a small dining room stuffed with too much furniture. She’d lit candles that threw the room into shadowy relief.

  The chicken was crispy on the exterior—nearly burned, in fact—and moist on the inside.

  “Best chicken I ever had,” proclaimed Archer with all honesty.

  “Eat what you want, I have plenty.”

  The okra and tomatoes had been coated in crumbles and fried in lard. After two helpings of everything, Archer finally had to push himself back from the table. “Okay, no more room left and that’s a fact.”

  They had both tried the wine and didn’t cotton to it, but when they tried it again later, it tasted different.

  “How’d that happen?” Archer wanted to know.

  “Hank told me something about it breathing.”

  “Okay.”

  “He went over there a couple years ago. Took Marjorie with him. They toured some of the wine country in France and Italy.”

  He looked at her, puzzled. “Didn’t think there’d be any left after the war.”

  “He did say there was damage, for sure. But they managed to bring back a few bottles.”

  They finished the wine, and Archer rose and put on his hat.

  “Sure you don’t want to stay?”

  “I’ve made other arrangements.”

  “Really? Well, excuse me.”

  “Don’t be like that. I already explained why I can’t stay here. Shaw would hang me for sure. Thanks for the dinner. It was really nice of you, Jackie.”

  “Don’t start being kind to me when I’m mad at you.”

  “You ever gonna tell me what happened to your mother?”

  Her eyes blazed. “Why? Did my father mention her? Tell me the truth, Archer. I made you dinner after all.”

  “Okay, Jackie, okay.” He leaned against the sideboard and chose his words carefully. “He said she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, well, something like that. Anyway, he also said that, well, that she could be hot-headed. And sometimes.…”

  “Yes?”

  “Sometimes he was afraid of her.”

  “What else?”

  “And that sometimes you and she didn’t get along all that well. That mother-daughter relations are complicated.”

  “They are complicated. But I loved my mother.”

  “I’m sure you did.” He decided to change the subject because he didn’t like the direction it was taking, and he wanted to gauge the woman’s reaction to something. “Did you know that Pittleman was running out of money?”

  Jackie slowly stood. “Who told you that?”

  “Shaw. He found a bucketful of past-due bills that Pittleman had tossed into the trash.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “Saw it for myself.”

  “But Hank was rich. Everybody knew that.”

  Archer shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you.”

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about.” She fell silent for a few moments, apparently doing that very thing while he watched her closely. “So, are you going back to the slaughterhouse tomorrow?”

  “It’s my job, till I find something better. And that would be just about anything.”

  She walked him to the back door. “See you around, Archer.” Despite his stench, she gave him a peck on the cheek.

  He circled back around and came out on the main road. It took him about thirty minutes to walk over to Ernestine’s bungalow. The lights were on, and when he knocked at her back door, she answered it right away. She had changed into a pair of high-waisted r
oyal-blue trousers with buttons on one side and wide cuffs at the bottom, a long-sleeved white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a light blue cardigan over that, and a pair of dark blue slip-on loafers. The woman’s blond hair was still down around her shoulders, though she had clipped part of it back.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I had my fill, thanks.” He took a whiff of himself. “You, um, you mind if I wash up a bit? The…the business today was a little, uh, smelly.”

  “Of course. I can run a bath for you.”

  “A bath? You have one of them?”

  “Yes. I’ll get it going for you. And I have a robe you can wear.”

  “Thank you, Miss Crabtree.”

  She said shyly, “Look, we’re not in the office now, just call me Ernestine.”

  “And I’m Archer, no ‘mister’ necessary.”

  She ran the bath and told him when it was ready.

  He sank into the hot water to which she’d added something that made the water bubble and feel soothing against his skin.

  She knocked on the door. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s wonderful, Ernestine. I mean really swell. Best I’ve ever had.”

  She laughed on the other side of the wood. “It’s only a bath, Archer.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t had a bath since around 1941.”

  He finished up and put the robe on. When he came out Ernestine had lowered the wall bed and made it up for him; she was now sitting in an adjacent chair and reading a book. She got up and closed the volume. “It’s all ready for you.”

  He glanced in the direction of her bedroom. “Thank you. Is your, um, bedroom door doing okay?’”

  “It’s doing just fine, thank you.”

  He was imagining Ernestine in all sorts of ways, hair down, skirt up, even naked like Jackie. It seemed he just damn well couldn’t help doing so. Archer cursed himself. He was no better than the man who’d wolf-whistled at her.

  She followed his gaze and said, “Well, I’m sure you’re exhausted.” She held up her book and said, “I actually wanted to finish this tonight. I’ll just do so in my bed.”

  “What’s that you’re reading?”

  “It just came out recently. It’s entitled 1984. By an English writer, George Orwell. Well, that’s his pseudonym. His real name is Eric Blair.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a dystopian novel set in 1984, hence the name.”

  “Long time from here.” He added in a puzzled fashion, “Dystopian?”

  “It’s about life in 1984 as the writer sees it. The people are oppressed, the government knows all. People spy on each other. No one has any free thought.”

  “I think we just fought a war to stop that from happening.”

  “I think we did, too. Let’s hope it was enough.”

  “Guess you’re right about that.” He stared at her for a long moment, his initial lustful desire dying away. Not because he didn’t find her attractive, because he did. It was because Archer wasn’t sure he deserved anybody as intelligent as she obviously was. And yet he had become perhaps even more intrigued by who she was than by what her beauty inspired in him physically.

  “Look, Archer, you don’t have to check in this week. I obviously know what you’re up to…and where you’re staying. I’ll mark it down as your having reported in and all.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Good night, Ernestine. Hope you enjoy your book.”

  “Good night, Archer.”

  Chapter 26

  THE NEXT MORNING Archer found hot coffee in the percolator waiting for him in the kitchen, a paper bag with an apple, a soft roll, some beef jerky, and a hard chunk of cheese inside, and a note from Ernestine wishing him a good day. He looked around for the woman but didn’t see her. She might have already left for work. He wanted to call out to her or go knock on her bedroom door and thank her, but he decided against that. He sat at the table, drank his coffee, and put the note in his pocket.

  He took a moment to look around the small space. Then he closed his eyes and, in his mind, allowed himself the fiction of believing that this was his tidy little home and his dear, loving wife had made him this strong cup of coffee and packed him a nice lunch, before he set out to work to earn the daily bread to support him and her and a passel of kids with sensible names and fascinating futures awaiting them all.

  He opened his eyes and stared in surprise into his coffee cup. Archer had never before engaged in personal fantasy in any form. He had been raised by stoic God-fearing parents who labored hard and disciplined their only child just as hard. He had volunteered to serve his country, fought in and survived a world war. He had been too busy trying to stay alive to be fantasizing about not dying. Then he had roamed a bit and fallen into a situation that had resulted in his serving time in a rough prison where the rules of civility did not exist, and the guards were sometimes worse than the men they were overseeing. This was the only time he had allowed himself to diverge from the starkness of reality, the good and the bad of it. It felt surprisingly real and personal and satisfying. For about ten seconds.

  Then Archer took his paper bag, opened the door, and went to butcher hogs.

  Archer did his cutting with a more practiced hand that day. But when he was done, he was as covered with hog fragments as the day before, maybe more so because he had been more productive wielding the knives and saws. He wasn’t as sore, though, on the ride home, as his hard muscles had quickly adjusted to his labor.

  And the lunch in the paper bag had helped.

  Dickie Dill rose from his seat on the truck, stared down the man next to Archer, and took his space when the man vacated it.

  “What’s up, Dickie?” said Archer, his eyes hooded, but his peripheral vision squarely on the little man, looking for any hint of a knife coming out.

  “Guess you think you done me a favor yesterday.”

  “That’s the way I looked at it. You’re not back in prison, right?”

  “Maybe so. But you do that again, I’ll cut you up like you do them hogs.”

  “Thanks for the fair warning.”

  That seemed to take all the anger and venom from the man. He settled down, pulled a pickle wrapped in wax paper from his pocket, and started chewing on it.

  “We’re supposed to get paid tomorrow,” said Dill.

  “I know. I’m counting on it.”

  “Thing is, I hear tell there’s trouble ’bout that.”

  Archer glanced sharply at him. “Come again?”

  “Word is they ain’t got the money to pay all they owe us.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “From folks who’d know, that’s where.”

  “But look at all the hogs going through that place. They must be making money hand over fist.”

  “Not what I heard.”

  “Who owns the place, then?”

  “Hank Pittleman, least he did.”

  This didn’t come from Dill. It came from the man on Archer’s other side who had evidently been listening.

  Archer gaped. “Pittleman owned the slaughterhouse?”

  “Yes sir, he sure did,” said the man, an older gent in filthy coveralls and wearing an equally dirty fedora, an unlit smoke dangling over his plump lower lip, the cigarette jerking up and down as he spoke.

  Archer looked at Dill, who had made no comment on this.

  The older man added, “And like this here feller just said, folks say they ain’t got the money to make full payroll. Heard it too, myself.”

  “So why are we working then?” said Archer.

  “’Cause we ain’t got nothing else,” said the man simply with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “And they might pay some of what they owe. I ain’t walking away from cash money, little though it might be.”

  “Kick in the nuts, ask me,” said Dill, finishing his pickle and wiping his hands on his pants. “I’m gonna cut somebody up they try and pull that s
hit on me.”

  Archer didn’t even attempt to quash this notion from Dill. Part of him wanted Dill to cut somebody and then end up back in prison, where Archer firmly believed he still belonged.

  He got back to town and jumped off the truck.

  And found Irving Shaw waiting for him.

  The detective was wearing a brown suit and freshly laundered shirt, though his haggard features told of sleepless nights and the burden of solving a murder. He pushed back his homburg and eyed Archer closely.

  “Heard you got work at the slaughterhouse. How’re the hogs doing?”

  “Not too good, actually, considering their only job is to die. Why are you here?”

  Shaw caught the eye of Dickie Dill, who was watching him closely, his knifelike hands curled into fists.

  Shaw apparently didn’t like what he saw in Dill because he pulled back his jacket so that both his pointed silver star and his .45 were showing prominently.

  “Don’t I know you, fella?” he said to Dill.

  “Nope,” said Dill. “Leastways, I ain’t know you.”

  Shaw kept his eye on the little man for an uncomfortably long moment. “Well, I got business with this here gent, so you be on your way then.”

  Dill turned and walked off with a group from the truck, but Archer caught him glancing back a couple of times and then whispering something to the men with him.

  Archer turned back to Shaw.

  The lawman said, “Also heard you got kicked out of the Derby. Where you staying?”

  “Around.”

  “But at least you’re earning some money.”

  “Thought I was, but now I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just heard that the slaughterhouse might not make full payroll tomorrow. And that it’s owned, or was owned, by Hank Pittleman.”

  Shaw took off his hat and rubbed at his hair. “Well, that jells squarely with what I’ve been finding out.”

  “You mean Pittleman not paying his bills?”

  “Not just that. But let’s go somewhere and talk. You hungry?”

  “If you’re buying. I don’t have a cent to my name.”

  Shaw looked at his clothes, took a whiff, and his face contorted.