One Good Deed

by David Baldacci

  “Holy Lord,” exclaimed Archer. “This is one man’s home?” He stared up at the behemoth that loomed before them like the rise of mountains from the plains.

  Duckett nodded. “Yeah, why?”

  “What does one man want with all that?” said Archer.

  Duckett aimed a glare his way. “Don’t tell a man what to do or not do with his money. Mr. Pittleman wants a place like this, well then he can damn well build it. And he did.”

  “I wasn’t saying otherwise. Just voicing an opinion.”

  “Man single-handedly made Poca City into something. I grew up here. Wasn’t shit here. Man changed that. Why I got a job. Don’t be bad-mouthing him with your opinions less you want trouble.”

  “I’m the sort who doesn’t care for trouble, pal. Had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

  “Damn good thing, because the trouble I’m talking about starts with a capital T.”

  “Well, if a man’s going there, he better make it count,” replied Archer, drawing a sharp glance from Duckett.

  “Thanks, Manuel,” Duckett called out to the man who’d opened the gates.

  After he drove through, Duckett said, “You can get out here if you want.”

  “What about unloading the truck?” said Archer.

  “I do that at the trucking warehouse Mr. Pittleman has. It’s about a quarter mile away. You can see it from the rear of the house. Has its own road off the main one, but I can get to it from here. They got men there to help unload.”

  “Well, the deal was I help you at both ends, so let’s get to it.”

  Duckett looked at him with an odd expression. “Didn’t expect that. Thought you’d duck out if you could.”

  “I didn’t duck out fighting a war. Not starting now.”

  Duckett said defensively, “I was too old to fight. But did my part here.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “What was it like over there?”

  “Not too bad if you didn’t end up dying.”

  They drove to the warehouse, which was a large sprawling structure about forty feet high with an A-framed shingle roof. Two double metal slide doors fronted it. Over the doors was stenciled, HP TRUCKING.

  “For Hank Pittleman?” noted Archer.

  “Well, ain’t you a smart one,” said Duckett. “You must ’a gone to college.” He backed the truck up and they climbed out.

  A smaller door set next to the double ones opened, and a medium-height, sturdily built man around forty with a pencil mustache riding over a slash of mouth came out. He shook hands with Duckett and was introduced as Malcolm Draper, Pittleman’s business manager. Duckett told him why Archer was there. Draper wore a slick three-piece worsted wool suit, polished shoes, and a gray hat with a black band. His eyes were beady enough to make Archer instantly distrust the gent. And the Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver he carried in a holster dangling near his crotch didn’t endear him, either.

  Archer pointed at the gun. “Never seen a man in a three-piece suit and collared shirt wear a holstered gun like that.”

  Draper said, “We have valuable property in there. We take precautions.”

  “Archer fought in the war,” noted Duckett.

  “So did a lot of men,” said Draper dismissively. “Ain’t nothing special.”

  “Did you fight in the war?” Archer asked him.

  “I got asthma.”

  “Well, ain’t that special,” replied Archer.

  The metal doors slid open and two men came out with a metal-and-wood trolley, and they all helped unload the truck. Then the men rolled the loaded trolley through the open double doors and into the warehouse.

  Archer caught a glimpse of boxes and crates stacked nearly as high as the ceiling.

  “Lotta stuff,” he commented to Duckett and Draper.

  Draper said, “No railroad lines near here. Only way to haul freight is by truck.”

  “I can see that.”

  A few minutes later Duckett dropped Archer off at Pittleman’s house and said, “How you getting back?”

  “Figure that out later. Thanks for the ride.”

  Duckett said, “Can I give you a dollar for the help?”

  Archer waved this off. “I’m good, friend. But thanks anyway.”

  Duckett flipped him two Walking Liberty half-dollar coins. “Don’t never turn down money, friend.”

  Duckett put the truck in gear and drove off.

  Archer watched Manuel close the gates behind him.

  Then he slapped his hat against his thigh to knock off the dust and headed to the house.

  Chapter 8

  THE PLACE SEEMED EVEN LARGER than Poca City’s Courts and Municipality Building, with more imagination in the design and better materials, Archer observed. The layout was not so much medieval-castle-like, at least to Archer’s limited familiarity with architecture, as it was similar to the grand mansions he’d seen pictures of and built by the likes of the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers.

  Wide, curving flower beds were planted on both sides of the walk going up to the house. Yellow and red and pink buds cascaded all around these beds, so they must be getting water from somewhere, he figured. It seemed like vast attention had been paid to all the landscaping outside, and Archer assumed that attention to detail would carry through to the interior.

  He knocked on the door and a few moments later could hear footsteps approaching.

  An elderly woman with stringy gray hair dangling from under a cap and attired in a black-and-white maid’s uniform opened the door.

  “Yes?” she asked dully, her face as fine a representation of a sourpuss as he was ever likely to eyeball. And he had seen plenty in his time.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Pittleman. Name’s Archer. He knows me.”

  “Just wait here,” she said without a sliver of interest.

  She stalked off after leaving the door open. Archer took the opportunity to step through and look around. Archer had never seen such opulence, even when he’d been in the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York, before the doorman had run a uniformed Archer out for loitering around with a female guest apparently beyond the boundaries of good taste.

  He was confronted by tapestry-shrouded and gilt-tasseled chairs set against the far wall; curtained French doors leading off to who knew where; a row of grandfather clocks with fancy faces and fancier inner workings that he could see; and marble tables with flower-filled, hand-painted vases topping them. Twin suits of armor, a foot taller than him, were set on pedestals on either side of the front door. Far above him were other doors set in the wall with iron grilles fronting them. He imagined they were like fake balconies to look down from, but the first wrong step would be a doozy. Long grass and Oriental rugs covered stretches of the stone and timbered floor. The walls were covered with paper that looked like silk, though Archer couldn’t imagine even someone like Pittleman being able to afford acres of that commodity, but what did he know about such things?

  Unfortunately, despite the vast size of the space, he could feel the walls closing in on him. The oxygen seemed sucked from around him and replaced with pure carbon dioxide. He hadn’t had so much trouble making his lungs function since a German sniper had missed Archer’s head by the width of the Lucky Strike he’d been in the process of lighting. He had dipped his head to ignite his smoke at the exact moment the bullet struck. That slight change in position meant the round entered and exited his helmet instead of finishing its business in his brain. Realizing his near death, he’d laughed for a good ten minutes and then chucked up vomit into a bucket for ten minutes more. He’d never smoked any other brand from that day forward, since those smokes had more than lived up to their name.

  He heard footsteps approaching again, but these were planted more firmly than the old woman’s. Pittleman came into view. He was dressed casually in pleated and cuffed gray slacks and an open-collared shirt, which showed a glimpse of his undershirt and also highlighted his bloated belly and soft shoulders. His trousers were held
up by a braided leather belt that looked expensive and probably was. He was holding a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. His hair was just as neatly combed, but in the light of day Archer could see clearly the sun splotches spread over the man’s face like clumps of dirt on an otherwise pristine, if saggy, carpet. And under his eyes were pouches filled with blue veined wrinkles, like the tracings on a dime store map.

  He doubted Jackie Tuttle would look any less alluring in the daytime instead of in a dark, smoky bar. But still, that was reason enough to drink in the absence of light.

  “What in the hell are you doing here, Archer?”

  “Came to report on Mr. Tuttle.”

  “You got the Cadillac, boy?” He glanced toward the front door.

  “No, sir, but I’m working on it. Mr. Tuttle told me a few things and I just wanted to run them by you.”

  Pittleman looked him up and down. “New clothes?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I guess I see where my forty dollars went. You gonna disappoint me?”

  “I hope not to.”

  “Come on back.”

  He turned and led Archer down a broad hallway festooned with paintings, murals, and the heads of unfortunate animals.

  “You hunt?” asked Archer, looking at the frozen countenance of what appeared to be a water buffalo.

  “I do, just not critters.”

  Archer looked confused until Pittleman saw this and laughed. “Lots of things in life more important than these here things to hunt, Archer.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll let you find out for yourself. Hope it’s not a lesson you come to regret.”

  He led him into a room with glass walls and a glass ceiling, all supported by steel beams. In the center of the room was a table and three upholstered chairs with medieval scenes stitched on them. Leggy potted plants were arrayed around the room. A dark davenport was against one wall with light-colored pillows, and a menagerie of birds printed upon them. Floor lamps with shirred paper shades and graced with various designs both architectural and animal were strategically placed.

  Sitting in one of the chairs was, Archer supposed, Mrs. Pittleman. She was around sixty, white-haired, large, big-boned, and matronly with flat cheeks, a chunk of nose, and ears that stuck out. Her eyes, covered by a pair of pince-nez, were set too close together for symmetry. She wore a dress of little style and shape; it might as well have been a blanket laid over her. But it probably cost a small fortune, Archer thought, just like everything else in the place. Archer doubted she had been beautiful even in her youth, but there was refinement and intelligence in her eyes and features. He believed her soul might be far more attractive than the outside of her. But that might just be wishful thinking. Thinking the best of people often was, he had learned.

  “Marjorie, honey, this is Archer. He’s been doing some work for me.”

  She inclined her head but offered no verbal greeting.

  Pittleman sat down, drank his coffee, and folded up his newspaper.

  “Take a seat, Archer.”

  Archer sat uncomfortably on two knights jousting.

  Pittleman said, “So you been out there and talked to him? Why? Did he catch you trying to take the Cadillac? If so, why aren’t you dead or at least gravely injured? I don’t pay good money for a half-ass effort, soldier.”

  “I went yesterday afternoon. Knocked on the door and talked to him.”

  Pittleman shook his head in confusion and poured another cup of coffee from a silver-plated pot with a long, curved spout. A platinum cigarette case was on the table lying open. Inside were gold-tipped, needle-thin smokes. Next to that was a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson snub-nosed revolver with walnut grips and a hair trigger manually filed down to make it so.

  “You like that little belly gun?” asked Archer.

  “Nice gat. Drops what I hit, can’t ask for more.”

  With hiked eyebrows Archer said, “How often do you drop things?”

  “Depends on the target and my mood.”

  “With that hair trigger do you even bother fanning the hammer?”

  “I shoot slow, but I don’t miss. Isn’t that right, Marjorie?”

  She didn’t respond, but Archer didn’t think Pittleman expected her to.

  Pittleman took a drink of his coffee and the movement revealed on his wrist a watch encrusted with six diamonds and twin sapphires. Archer saw the name LONGINES etched on the face underneath the glass. He looked down at his own timepiece and reminded himself that they both told the same story despite being separated by a truckload of dollars.

  Pittleman said, “So why the hell did you go out there and see Tuttle in broad daylight? You think he was going to just hand you the keys to the damn Caddy? You can’t be that cockeyed, boy!”

  “No, sir. I just wanted to verify that he owed the money.”

  “I already verified that to you, son. Are you simple? Did I make a mistake hiring you?”

  “Well, he did verify it. And he has the money to pay the debt off. Which I think you probably want more than the car. Am I right about that? I mean, you said it wouldn’t come close to paying off the debt and interest and such.”

  “You are right about that. So what?”

  “Well, there’s one little sticking point on the debt.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Archer glanced at Marjorie and did not proceed.

  Pittleman looked confused for a moment before exclaiming, “Good Lord, is it Jackie we’re talking about?”

  Archer shot another glance at Marjorie, who was now drinking her coffee and leafing through a magazine with a placid expression. She could be in church marching silently through her catechisms, he thought.

  “That’s what he said. He wants her back.”

  “She’s an adult, in case you and her daddy didn’t notice. She can decide on her own.”

  “But he won’t pay back—”

  “Which is why I told you to get the goddamn car, Archer. Hell, boy, I didn’t need you to go out there and ask the man what his problem was in paying me back my money. I know what it was. He doesn’t like the fact that his daughter is now seeing me. Now go paste that in your new hat bought with my money.”

  “So you know all that then?”

  “Let me tell you something else I know, son. Jackie’s current status doesn’t give Lucas Tuttle a pot to piss in when it comes to a legal obligation owed to yours truly.”

  “Why not take him to court then?” asked Archer.

  Pittleman sat back in stark wonderment. “What, and subject my dear wife here to gossip of a perverse nature? To dredging up facts in a court of law that might prove painful to her? No sir.” He patted his wife’s hand. “I love her too much to put her through that.”

  “I can see that,” said Archer slowly, when in truth he could see none of it. He eyed the three-initial monogram on the man’s shirt cuff.

  “Got a problem with something?” said Pittleman when he caught him looking there.

  “You afraid you might put on another man’s shirt by mistake?”

  “Funny guy, huh? If I’d known that when I hired you, maybe I wouldn’t have. Now get your ass out there, Archer, and take back my collateral by hook or crook. And if you don’t, you’re going to owe me forty dollars with interest. And I might leave you naked on the street, son, with more wounds than you got fighting the Krauts. Where you staying?”

  “Derby Hotel.”

  “Mighty fine place,” said Pittleman, with another sly glance in Marjorie’s direction. “You need money to keep staying there. And you sure know how to get it, don’t you?”

  He turned back to his paper.

  “Got another question,” said Archer.

  “We’re done here,” replied Pittleman as he picked up the belly gun and examined it, the barrel pointing in Archer’s general direction.

  Archer next looked at Marjorie, who was still leafing through her Saturday Evening Post magazine, apparently mesmerized
more by the words therein than by her husband’s admitted adultery.

  Pittleman glanced at her. “You need anything, honey? Just tell me, if you do now.”

  She graced him with a smile. “I’m just fine, Hank.”

  “Hell, I know you’re fine. Just ask any man.” He glanced at Archer. “And why are you still here, son? Have I not made myself as clear as the sky outside?”

  Archer rose and tipped his hat at the woman. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Pittleman.”

  She nodded absently at him, her gaze holding on the magazine.

  He walked to the door, looked back at the odd couple, and could only shake his head.

  On his way out, he glimpsed a young woman in a maid’s uniform scampering up the stairs. She looked back, saw him watching, and gave him a wide smile. He tipped his hat and returned the smile. She hiked her eyebrows fetchingly, then disappeared from sight.

  He waved to Manuel, who opened the gate for him. He passed through and headed for the road. He walked for a while, the dust collecting on him like metal fragments to a magnet. He finally hitched a ride on a slow-moving Model A heading to Poca City and driven by a man dressed all in black who said he was a circuit preacher. He told Archer he needed to repent his ways, regardless of what they were, and gave him a pamphlet from a wooden box in the back that was entitled “The Devil Is Inside You.”

  Archer got back to town over an hour later and threw the pamphlet away in the first trash can he spotted.

  I know the devil’s inside me and maybe I like it that way.

  He went back to the Derby and washed off the dust in the hall bath. He went in search of and bought a bottle of Blue Bird gin and two packs of Lucky Strikes and a box of matches. He walked back to his room and debated what to do.

  Tuttle was not giving up the money if Jackie stayed with Pittleman.

  Pittleman was going to do nothing about that situation.

  So the only way for Archer to make any money off this was to take the damn Cadillac.

  But all the others who had attempted it had failed. Or maybe died trying if the Remington had anything to say about it. He didn’t even know where the man kept the sedan. Maybe in one of the outbuildings he’d glimpsed when he was there.