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  Tuttle shook his head dismissively at this comment. “He has her trapped in a prison of the mind’s making, Archer. Far stronger than steel bars with no predetermined release date, and no judge to whom to appeal.”

  Archer rubbed his chin, thinking about his sixty dollars. “Just to be clear, you have the money for the repayment?”

  “I have, but not one penny will the man receive so long as my daughter remains absent from her home. I can only imagine the ways in which he has defiled her.”

  Archer glanced at the Remington. “I have to say I’m kind of surprised you haven’t taken out your anger on him directly.”

  “And with what result, Archer? Do you think me a simpleton?”

  “You want to explain that?”

  “If I were to shoot that foul being, my freedom would be forfeited, if not my life. And if I did not succeed in killing him, he would sue me for all I have. Then, he would have not only my Jackie, but all my worldly possessions and the land that my father and his father before him have built into a tidy industry. Indeed, in the depths of my mind, I think it no coincidence that he has seduced my daughter in such a manner in the hopes that I would attempt to take out any murderous intentions I might have, just so he could confiscate it all.”

  “You’re saying he planned all this?” Archer said skeptically.

  “To me, the connection is as inevitable as the eastern rise of the sun on the rotation of the earth’s axis.”

  “I understand from Mr. Pittleman that he’s currently married.”

  “That is indeed the case.”

  “And his wife has no issue with her husband being with your daughter?”

  “I think Marjorie Pittleman takes great issue, but her options are limited, seeing that he controls the purse strings.”

  “Hank Pittleman does seem to be the controlling type. And he does have a lot of money apparently.”

  Tuttle raised the over-under to its original position. “So, what are your current intentions?”

  “Seems to me there’s only one solution.”

  “What’s that, I wonder, Archer?”

  “If I can get your daughter to leave Pittleman, will you repay the loan?”

  “And exactly how do you propose to do that?”

  “You’ll have to let me work through it.”

  “And then you’ll be able to collect your commission?”

  “About that, got a question.”

  “I’m listening, Archer.”

  “What’s it worth to you, to have your daughter away from this man?”

  Tuttle’s features turned a shade darker and the pair of green eyes flamed with phosphorous intensity. “You would charge money to a father to free his daughter of an abomination?”

  Archer sat forward and twirled his hat. “Look at it my way. From what you’re telling me, Pittleman is not a man of his word. Now, suppose I get the loan repaid. Why do I think the forty dollars in my pocket will be the last cash I ever see from him? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind doing the right thing for the right thing’s sake. Hell, I did that over in Italy and Germany. But a man has to eat. And he has to have a roof over his head. You see my point?”

  Tuttle’s finger danced over the trigger of the Remington.

  “How much then?”

  “Let’s make it sixty dollars. That way, I’ll be made whole in case Pittleman doesn’t come through. I think that’s fair and square.”

  “But if he does come through, do I get a refund of my contribution to your economic stability?”

  Archer rubbed at his cheek and glanced at the Remington. “Well, that would come under the title of risk, Mr. Tuttle. And a man has to be fairly compensated for accepting it.”

  “So, no refund then?”

  “Honestly, no sir.”

  “I’ll give you three days. Then I’ll come looking for Pittleman and you.”

  “I’ll be sure to hold you to that, sir.”

  It was an unexpected reply that made Tuttle fully lower his shotgun.

  “Desiree here will show you out, Archer.”

  Archer turned to see a woman standing there as Tuttle passed by them both and disappeared down the hall.

  Desiree was in her forties, medium height, bland, brown hair with black framed specs over dull eyes, but her facial features were etched in stone and she had an air of efficiency about her. She was dressed in a quiet gray jacket and skirt and black pumps with heels sharp enough to pierce his skull. A small string of fake pearls lay against her light blue blouse.

  “Mr. Archer,” she said, putting out a hand. He rose and shook it. “This way, sir.”

  As they walked along Archer said, “So what is it that you do here, ma’am?”

  “I assist Mr. Tuttle as his secretary.”

  “He seems like a real sweetheart, when he’s not pointing his shotgun at my privates.”

  “It pays well, and it requires little interaction with anything other than my typewriter.”

  “You know Jackie Tuttle?”

  “I knew her when she was here, yes.”

  “I met her in town last night. She was with Hank Pittleman.”

  The eyes behind the lenses swelled a bit. “I expect she was.”

  “Mr. Tuttle wants her back. He doesn’t want her with Pittleman.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “I bet you are. So, if you don’t mind my asking, why’d she leave home?”

  “I do mind you asking.”

  “Well, to explain things, Mr. Tuttle wants me to convince Jackie to leave Pittleman. If I knew a little more about the situation, I might be able to accomplish that.”

  Desiree stopped and looked up at him. “And bring her back here?”

  “I never said I would bring her back here. I just said I’d try to get her to leave Pittleman. I mean, he’s married and all anyway. Doesn’t seem right.”

  “How refreshingly moral of you, Mr. Archer.”

  “You can drop the mister. I’m just Archer.”

  “All right, Archer. I appreciate your honesty and frankness. The fact is Jackie never told me why she was leaving. Though it was around the time her mother died.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Isabel.”

  “Pretty name. What’s that, Spanish?”

  “She was from Brazil. Mr. Tuttle traveled there for business when he was younger, and they met. They married and came back here, where they had Miss Tuttle.”

  “Was Isabel sick? Is that how she died?”

  “No. She died in an accident.”

  “Sorry to hear that. What kinda accident?”

  “It was just a horrible, horrible accident. I’ll leave it at that.”

  “Were she and Jackie close?”

  “Isabel adored her daughter and that adoration was returned.”

  “Maybe that’s why she left. Because she was so heartbroken about her mother.”

  Desiree looked at him funny and said, “I’m sure that was part of it.” She hesitated. “Would you like to see a picture of Isabel?”

  “Sure.”

  Desiree led him down another hall and opened a door into a large and comfortable sitting room with several oval windows that looked out onto the stark fields behind the house.

  Archer took it all in. Big, solid furniture, colorful rug on the Spanish tile floor, paintings on the wall depicting countryside and wildlife, and a stone fireplace that rose to the ceiling. A mantel of petrified wood fronted the stone with a framed photo on it.

  “Mr. Tuttle sure has nice things,” he noted.

  “He’s had his ups and downs, but now things are looking up.”

  Archer didn’t think the woman sounded too happy about that.

  “This is Isabel.”

  Desiree had lifted the framed photo off the mantel and held it out to him.

  Archer gripped the frame and stared at the woman in the snapshot. She was dark-haired and olive-skinned, and Archer could not remember seeing a lovelier countenance. It wasn’t
just the beautiful features, it was the spark of life in the eyes that made his own pair seem dull and unresponsive by comparison.

  “So she died about a year ago? That’s when Mr. Tuttle said Jackie had left home.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  She took the photo from him and replaced it on the mantel.

  Twirling his hat, Archer said, “Why’d you really bring me in here and show me that picture?”

  “I just thought you’d like to see Miss Tuttle’s mother.”

  “Okay,” said Archer. “And I’m Harry Truman.”

  She looked him up and down. “I thought Truman was older and shorter.”

  He fiddled with his hat some more. “What do you think about Mr. Tuttle wanting her to come back home?”

  “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “And if you did?”

  “She’s a grown woman. She should be able to make her own decisions.”

  “What sort of accident again?”

  “I told you that—”

  “I know Jackie and I like her, and I was just wondering, that’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t really know all the details. Just that it was very tragic. Now, I have some dictation to type up. I’ll show you out.”

  “I can find my own way, thanks. You should probably get to your typewriter. Don’t want Tuttle pointing his shotgun at you because you got behind in your typing. It’s a little unsettling.”

  Archer left the tidy house, put on his hat, and wondered what the hell all that had been about.

  Chapter 7

  A HITCHED RIDE BACK with a mother and her bucktoothed, runny-nosed son in a dented Studebaker, with no wheel caps and a rattling sound that signaled the engine was close to throwing a rod, brought Archer to Poca City before the dinner hour. He used the down-the-hall shower to clean off the dust and put his only clothes back on. He set off now to do something about that wardrobe predicament. His long legs took him down the street to a haberdashery about three blocks from his hotel that he had passed on his earlier ramblings.

  The old gent in there seemed to be thinking about closing up for the day and contemplating his dinner when Archer strolled in.

  “Need some fresh duds,” he said.

  The fellow was dressed like a walking billboard for his line of business, down to the cufflinks and the pocket square aligned with an engineer’s precision. “I can sure see that, young man. What can I do you for?”

  “To start, let’s get a copy of what I got on now, only better.”

  “Well, that’s fine, since I only got better. But can I see your money first? Just a common courtesy from folks I don’t know, is all. This is a respectable establishment.”

  “I deal with no other kind.”

  The show of the twin twenties was all it took to capture the man’s undivided interest. And it took only an hour to complete the selling and buying. With Archer’s physique and height, nothing needed to be altered, and the man had his girl cuff both pairs of pants on her sewing machine right then and there.

  “That’s a damn sight miracle,” said the man of the fine fit. It was a single-breasted Hart, Schaffner & Marx model of a medium blue color with narrow pinstripes. His wide-knotted tie was a bloodred, and the command collar on his Alden dress shirt softened the thickness of his neck. The leather belt holding up his pants was black and braided.

  “I like the hat,” said Archer as he peered in the mirror at his new felt snap-brim with a dented crown and a burgundy silk band. He had bypassed the recommendation of a rabbit hair trilby headpiece. His white pocket square had a two-point fold.

  “Shoes good? Those wingtips are the very finest leather. You’ll need to keep them conditioned and shined regularly.”

  “I’ll break ’em in.”

  The man handed him a bag and a hanger with the extra pair of slacks on them. “Two pairs of underwear, same number of socks. And the extra pair of trousers, pleated and cuffed.”

  “Right,” said Archer. “I’m good to go.”

  His Jacksons had been drastically reduced, although Archer had been surprised that he’d been able to afford the new clothes and shoes for less than forty dollars. The man told him he hadn’t been open that long and was looking to build up his business and thus was giving Archer a deal.

  “You look fine in the new duds, so talk my place up to everybody, you hear me?” said the man, and Archer promised that he would. He walked out the door wearing his new clothes. The girl had put his old suit, shirt, and shoes in another bag.

  He dropped all this off at the Derby, hung up his old things and new spare pants, and headed out to eat some dinner. The restaurant was named the Checkered Past. Whoever had come up with the names of the places here had a sense of humor, Archer would grant them that.

  The sign out front promised steaks and fat potatoes at good prices and coffee until midnight. He entered and took his seat at a table with a red-and-white-checkered cloth covering it and matching napkins. He ordered his steak rare and his coffee piping hot, and afterward sampled the peach cobbler, which was good, the best he’d ever had perhaps. He laid down his coins for the meal, and then plotted out his next steps on the way back to the Derby.

  He got up the next morning, cleaned up in the bath down the hall, and headed down to the front desk. “You know where Hank Pittleman has his house?”

  The clerk, the same gent who had checked him in the first night, scratched his furry forearms and said, “Why you want to know that?”

  “Have business with the man and he told me he spends Saturday and the Sabbath at his home with his wife.”

  “Well?”

  “I need a way to get out there.”

  “Can always walk.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Take you a good four hours.”

  “Any way I can hitch a ride with somebody?”

  The man stroked his chin and looked Archer up and down. “Actually, got a delivery going out there this morning. You help with that, it’ll pay for the price of the ride. I can fix it up.”

  “When does it leave?”

  “Hour from now.”

  “Where from?”

  “Alley behind the hotel.”

  “Okay, I’m gonna grab some breakfast then.”

  “Do what you want. Hey, now, where’d you get those clothes? Those sure ain’t the duds you were wearing when you got here.”

  “I bought some new things.”

  “With what?”

  “Same what I paid for the room. Cash.”

  “Where’d you get that kind of moolah?”

  “Department of Prisons gave it to me.”

  “Thought you was one of them when you checked in. But are you shitting me? They give prisoners money?”

  “Well, I promised ’em I wouldn’t kill anybody else if they did.”

  Archer fell silent and stared at the man with a look that he hoped meant business.

  “W-well, you be at the alley in an hour.”

  “I will, friend.”

  Archer got a cup of coffee and a fried egg and toast at a hole-in-the-wall a block down from the hotel and read a discarded newspaper while doing so. The Soviet Union had recently detonated its first nuclear weapon. While Archer had been in prison, something called NATO had been established. The newspaper Archer had been reading at the time said the creation of NATO would make sure there were no more wars.

  They must have forgotten to tell old Joe Stalin that, thought Archer.

  He met the truck and driver behind the hotel.

  The man told him his name was Sid Duckett. Around sixty years old, he was about three inches taller than Archer and outweighed him by maybe fifty pounds. He looked like he could lift the truck he’d be driving, but then told Archer he’d thrown out his back and welcomed the help in exchange for a ride out. He had on faded jeans that showed off his wide hips and bow legs, a cotton shirt tucked in, a wide leather belt with a buckle the size of a paperweight, dusty boots, and a greasy snap-brim hat wi
th a fake bird feather sticking from the band.

  “Well, get to it then while I check my paperwork,” said Duckett.

  “What are we hauling?”

  He pointed to a large stack of wooden crates piled next to the hotel’s tradesmen entrance.

  “What, all that?”

  “All that, buddy, if you want the ride.”

  Archer took off his hat and coat, and rolled up his sleeves. A half hour later, after much grunting and heaving, and words of unhelpful advice from Duckett, the truck was loaded.

  Archer rolled down his sleeves and picked up his jacket and hat.

  “Let’s go,” hollered Duckett from the front seat. “Time’s a-wasting, fella.”

  Archer climbed in next to him and they set off.

  “Guess you folks don’t use much talcum powder around here,” noted Archer.

  “What’s that?” replied Duckett, looking puzzled.

  “Just worked my butt off, but the air’s so dry I didn’t even break a sweat.”

  They drove for an hour and not once did the landscape change from flat and brown, or the sky from clear to something else. Archer didn’t recall even seeing a bird passing over.

  Archer eyed this for a while before saying, “See here, does it always look this way?”

  “What?”

  Archer pointed out the windshield. “The land around here.”

  Duckett eyeballed what they were passing. “Sometimes we get a bit of snow.”

  “But other than that?”

  “I don’t like change,” said Duckett gruffly. “When things are the same, you got no surprises.”

  “I’m into variety myself,” replied Archer.

  “Well, you’re in the wrong damn place, brother, least when it comes to the weather.”

  “Does that mean there are surprises around here not having to do with the weather?”

  Duckett eyed him suspiciously. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “My momma told me that was the only way to learn.”

  “Maybe your momma should have told you not to be so damn nosy.”

  They pulled off the road and shortly came to a set of wrought iron gates.

  Duckett honked the horn and a dark-skinned, strongly built man with small features, dressed in worn olive-green dungarees, a faded striped shirt, and work boots, rushed out from somewhere and opened them.