One Good Deed Page 9

  “Okay.”

  “So you want to go drinking and dancing?”

  “I’ll have to take a rain check on that.”

  She did not look pleased by his refusal. “I might not ask again.”

  “I understand that. Look, you have any idea where your father keeps the Caddy?”

  She stepped away from him. “Do I look like a patsy? First, you give me the cold shoulder, and now you ask me to make your job easier, Archer? Why should I? Give me one reason.”

  “I can’t think of a single one, Jackie.”

  This frank answer seemed to soften the hardened edge she had adopted. “Well, he used to keep it in the barn.”

  “Used to?”

  “Would you keep it in the same place if a bunch of men had tried to take it?”

  “Right. So where, then?”

  She put a fist on her hip and stared at him. “There’s a building about a quarter mile behind the barn. My father stores old farm equipment there. If I were you, I’d look there.”

  “Any idea where he might keep the car keys?”

  “No.”

  “That’s okay. I know how to hotwire a car.”

  “Do you now? How is that, I wonder?”

  “The Germans weren’t always good about leaving the keys behind when they abandoned their vehicles, so the Army taught me what to do.”

  “Good old Army,” she said. “Providing skills you can use your whole felonious life.”

  “Thanks, Jackie, for the information.”

  “Don’t thank me, Archer, it’s your funeral.”

  He thought she would just turn and leave, but she didn’t. She rose up on her heeled tiptoes, hugged him tight, and pressed her ruby-red lips against his cheek, leaving her mark upon him. She smelled of gin and lime, and also lavender and maybe the moisturizer she used after climbing naked from the bathtub. She slowly withdrew her body from his, her hands sliding down his shoulders, along his obliques, and then around his waist.

  “See you around, Archer.”

  “Yeah.”

  She turned and left him there on the street.

  Right now, he couldn’t have hit a German with a bazooka at a foot’s distance. He took off his new hat and slapped it hard against his thigh, giving himself a sting from the blow. Not so much to rid himself of the ubiquitous dust, but to make himself feel some hurt for allowing a lovely young woman who wanted to drink and dance and maybe do other things with him get off scot-free thinking he was a lame SOB from the east of here.

  He went back to the hotel and slept until one in the afternoon dreaming of tubs and moisturizer and a host of college co-eds applying same and who all looked like Jackie Tuttle. He had dinner at a place cheaper than the Checkered Past. After that he stopped at a hardware store, where he bought a clasp knife and a Ray-O-Vac flashlight with batteries for the grand total of a buck-fifty from a man in a dirty undershirt with a bib tucked in gnawing on a chicken leg and holding a Pabst Blue Ribbon in the other mitt. Both these tools would come in handy.

  Later that night, he glanced at the still cloudless sky, wondering if actual weather had been somehow suspended over Poca City. He then turned to look at the road where the bus had dropped him. It seemed like at least a year ago, but not in the way of accomplishment, since he had none. He set off to see about taking back a 1947 Cadillac sedan without dying in the face of the Remington.

  He had had the good sense to change into his old clothes from prison. He reasoned that if he did get killed they could bury him in the new duds instead of the old, blood-splattered ones, and there’d be nothing Hank Pittleman could do about it.

  Archer angled his hat just so and set off to snatch a Caddy.

  Chapter 10

  HE MANAGED TO HITCH A RIDE on a Peterbilt long-haul truck. The tobacco-chewing driver said he was taking freight all the way to Nevada and could do with some company for a bit. For a good hour he and Archer sat in the cab and talked about the war—the driver had served in the Navy—and the New York Yankees probably winning the World Series again.

  “Hell, I can see ’em winning a bunch in a row, the lineup they got,” said the driver.

  “What about that player with the Dodgers?” said Archer. “Jackie Robinson?”

  The man nodded. “That colored boy can hit something fierce, I’ll give him that, and run like the durn wind.” He spit his chew into a Maxwell House coffee can riding next to him on the seat. “Won Rookie of the Year in ’47.”

  “Heard he might be the National League MVP this year,” said Archer.

  “Maybe so, fella, maybe so.”

  Then they had turned to politics, speculating that maybe Dwight D. Eisenhower would run for president when Truman was all said and done.

  “I like old Ike,” said the driver.

  “Make a good campaign slogan,” opined Archer.

  He had the man drop him off about a mile before Tuttle’s, figuring he didn’t want any witnesses to what he was planning.

  Archer walked the rest of the way. A silky darkness had fallen by the time he got to the mailbox, with the air turning chilly. He made the turn at the fork and squatted down, studying the house and the barn and the flat, tilled fields beyond. Channeling his instincts as an Army scout, Archer looked at what needed looking at and formulated a plan. The Caddy clearly wasn’t in the house. The barn was the next logical choice, but Jackie had warned him off that. But still. He had to be sure.

  He skittered over to the barn, found the door unlocked, which did not give him any ease, and decided to approach the place from another entry point. A side window succumbed to the nudges of his knife, and he entered there and shone his Ray-O-Vac flashlight around. It was quickly apparent that the car wasn’t in here. But there was another vehicle. He ran his light over it. It was a four-door, long-hooded, burgundy automobile with a beige cloth top and whitewall tires. He opened the door and looked at the license and registration cards on the steering post. It was in Tuttle’s name, and the car was a 1938 Cadillac LaSalle. It was a beautiful car, just not the Cadillac he was looking for.

  After a bit of a trudge over uneven ground, he found the outbuilding right where Jackie said it would be. But there was nothing inside except ancient pieces of farm equipment, including a strange-looking device that had several cone-shaped nodules fronting it. He shone his flashlight over it and read off the words, ALLIS-CHALMERS CORN-PICKER. This farming business was more complicated than he had thought. Frustrated now, he left the shed, and squatted on his haunches, pondering what to do next.

  His nostrils twitched due to some disturbance in the air. He took a long whiff and then gave a short cough. He rose and followed this scent down a dirt road that wended its way through the shallow-rooted Loblolly pine trees. The smell grew stronger the further in he went.

  He finally arrived at a wide clearing, with dirt underfoot. And smack in the middle of this flat blackened ground was the source of the smell.

  The vehicle had been set aflame. The chassis was still there, but the tires had burned away, as had the interior. What was left wasn’t much, to be sure.

  Archer walked over to it and looked around. The original color of the vehicle couldn’t be determined, the paint also having burned away. The license and registration cards on the steering post had long since been consumed. He hustled around to the back and knelt down. He had to use his knife to scrape away burned fragments, which allowed him to read the plate number.

  It was the 1947 Cadillac, all right.

  He stood, an undeniable truth now vexing him: Pittleman’s collateral no longer existed.

  His trip had been wasted.

  Well, that was a kick in the gut, almost near to what the over-under shotgun could have provided. He walked back to the main road and looked around. He didn’t see a vehicle light in either direction. He took to his heels and returned to the Derby after midnight.

  In his agitation, Archer took the stairs two at a time. He unlocked the door to his room, tossed his old hat down in the corner,
opened the window, drew his chair up to it, lit a Lucky Strike, and sat there looking out while he smoked. If he couldn’t get the Cadillac, and Tuttle wouldn’t repay the loan without his daughter back, Archer was fresh out of ideas as to how to earn his commission. And he wasn’t certain that this latest calamity might not cost him his life, at either the muzzle of Pittleman’s snub-nosed gat or the twin barrels of Tuttle’s Remington.

  He burned down two more Luckys and took more than a swallow of his Blue Bird gin, and ended up sleeping in his old clothes. He awoke the following morning with no plan going forward. With his money dwindling and his prospects bleak, he opted for coffee and a slice of toast and a fried egg in the little café attached to the hotel.

  He strolled around town as Poca City woke up, thinking about the burned-out Caddy. He figured that Tuttle must have done the deed to spite Pittleman. It seemed to Archer that the sedan had been burned some time ago. It had been cold to the touch, only the burned smell had lingered. That odor could stay for a very long time, Archer knew from his combat days. Archer was certain it had been destroyed before he’d even gone out to meet with Tuttle. The man must have had a nice laugh at his expense, knowing that the loan collateral no longer existed.

  Whether consciously or not, his strides took him to the blocky Poca City Courts and Municipality Building. He walked up to the correct floor and knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” said the stern voice.

  He swung the door open, and there sat Ernestine Crabtree clacking away on her Royal typewriter. She had a pencil stuck through her hair bun. She stopped typing when she saw him.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “It’s not your time yet.”

  She was attired in a similar fashion as before. Prim dress, same shell glasses, low chunky heels that he could once more see through the kneehole, thick stockings, but very nice ankles and calves.

  He noted a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.

  He came in, pulled the chair in front of her, and sat down.

  “I could use some advice, Miss Crabtree.”

  “About what?”

  He eyed the lit smoke.

  She saw this and said, “No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “No problem, brought my own.”

  He pulled out his pack of Luckys, tapped it against the desk, shook out a cigarette, and lit it. She took her smoke from the ashtray and had a puff, too.

  “What advice?” she said curiously.

  “You know my debt collection job?”

  “Yes, you mentioned it.”

  “Well, I’ve gone out there twice now.”

  “Who owes the debt?”

  “Lucas Tuttle.”

  “Wait, the other night, weren’t you with—”

  “That’s right. Jackie Tuttle. You know her?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. Did you collect the money?”

  “Well, no. Lucas Tuttle says he has the money to pay Hank Pittleman back.”

  “Hank Pittleman?”

  “You know him?”

  She shook her head a second time. “But I know he is very wealthy and owns a lot of property around town.”

  “Anyway, Tuttle won’t pay back the debt unless Jackie comes back home.”

  “And she doesn’t want to do this?”

  “No.”

  “Then how will you collect the money?”

  “Well, Mr. Tuttle signed over as collateral for the loan his 1947 Cadillac.” He added, “It’s all legal. Pittleman showed me the papers. And Mr. Tuttle confessed to owing the money.”

  “So you could take the car in repayment of the loan?”

  “I could, except I found out last night the man burned it up.”

  She sat forward and put her cigarette down. “He burned up his own car?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Where does that leave you?”

  “In a pickle of sorts. You know Mr. Pittleman advanced me forty dollars. And if I can’t get the loan repaid or the car now, I’m sort of up the creek, so to speak.”

  “You mean Pittleman will want his forty dollars back?”

  “Right.”

  “But surely you still have the money.”

  “Well, I spent some of it.”

  “How much?”

  “Actually, most of it.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “You spent nearly forty dollars since we last met!”

  “Well, I bought some new clothes to replace these. I wore these to prison some years ago. And I have to eat and all. Though I earned a dollar doing some lifting, I’m not eager to use my back for my daily bread.”

  She shook her head and looked cross. “See, this is why I was prepared to have you go out on job interviews. If you had, you wouldn’t be in this kind of dilemma.”

  “Yeah, I see that. But I can’t take it back now.”

  “But it’s not too late, you know. You can earn money other ways. I can help you with that.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And it may come to that. And for that I thank you.” He smoked down his Lucky and then ground it in the speckled glass ashtray. “What book were you reading at dinner?”

  “It was by Virginia Woolf. Have you ever heard of her?”

  Archer shook his head.

  “She was from England. She died back in 1941. I admire her work greatly. And her, personally.”

  “I might try something of hers then.”

  “I could loan you a book here and there. If you’ll really read it.”

  “I guarantee you I will. I like detective stuff the best. But I’ll read most anything. So you’re trying to write, too?”

  “Again, I just…scribble.” She paused and considered him in an appraising light. “Dan Bullock? You were afraid he was going to try something with me, weren’t you?”

  “Well, he was, wasn’t he?”

  “It wasn’t the first time a parolee has…approached me.”

  “I would expect not. But that doesn’t make it right. And, well, there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  In answer, he took out the paper he’d found on her office floor and explained that fact to her before handing it over. “I wouldn’t normally give such trash to a lady, but maybe it’s best you know about it.”

  She only briefly glanced at it before tossing it into the waste bin next to her desk.

  “You’re right, it is trash.”

  “You get many of those?” he asked quietly.

  She glanced up at him. “It unfortunately comes with the territory. Please don’t give it another thought.”

  He nodded, sensing that she was done with this topic. “So any advice for me?”

  “Mr. Archer, it’s not my job to get you out of jams you got yourself into.”

  He cracked a grin.

  “I’m being serious.”

  “I know you are. It’s just that I’ve been in jams mostly my whole life.” He rose and put his hat on. “I’ll get outta this one, too.” He tipped his hat. “Hope you have a nice day.”

  She half rose from her seat and started to say something, but Archer was already gone. Crabtree rushed over to the door, opened it, and watched him walk with purpose down the hall and out of sight. She slowly closed the door and went back to her typewriter. But the Royal never clacked once, because she never touched the keys.

  Chapter 11

  THAT NIGHT, ARCHER, dressed in his new clothes, walked down the street and took up his post across the street from the Cat’s Meow. It was near on eight, and he assumed that Pittleman and Jackie might already be in there. After having had dinner with the woman he felt a pang of jealousy that she was in the company of another man, particularly a man like Hank Pittleman.

  While he stood there, Archer thought about what he would discuss with Pittleman when he came out of the bar. He wanted the man to have a few drinks in him before he did so. He didn’t think he was going to get a second chance with the gent. But the fact was the collateral was no more, so perhaps Pittleman would
have another plan. At the very least, he couldn’t blame Archer for Tuttle’s torching his own Caddy.

  Like any good scout, Archer was prepared for the unexpected, but he had not anticipated what would happen next.

  “Mr. Archer?” said the surprised voice.

  He turned to find Ernestine Crabtree standing there on the pavement, not six feet away, staring at him. Like his, her clothes were different from what she had started the day with.

  The dress that had fallen well below the knee had been replaced with a fresher model in a startling petrol blue paired with a black jacket with a high-back collar. Her dimpled knees showed clearly below the starkly raised hem. And the thick nylons had been replaced with their sheer, silk cousins. The low heels were gone, and her height had shot up to within about two inches of his by virtue of her spiked, strappy footwear. The knotted bun had vanished, and she had on a black fascinator hat with a sticking-up bow and attached short veil. Her blond tresses fell straight down and skimmed her shoulders like a stage curtain against the floor. Her face, freed from being pulled at by the hair and covered by the shell glasses, had now relaxed into a thing of startling beauty, the eyes wide and holding considerable depth. And the paint on her face, lips, and nails rivaled Jackie’s for its vitality.

  Archer could only stare openmouthed at her for a few seconds. “Miss Crabtree, what in the world are you…? Well, you look…different.”

  She glanced down at herself, and the woman’s pleased look gave her inner feeling away.

  “I’m…meeting someone.”

  “Where would that be, I wonder?” said Archer as he made a show of eyeing the Cat’s Meow, which was the only place down this way worth going to, and that still had its lights on and its door unlocked.

  “Where that would be is none of your business. What are you doing here?”

  “Just stretching my legs and getting some fresh air.”

  “You wouldn’t possibly be thinking of going into that bar?”

  “What bar would that be?”

  “The Cat’s Meow, right there.”

  “Oh, is that what that is, a bar?”

  “Of course, it’s a—” She paled a bit and looked down at her peep toe shoes.