One Good Deed

by David Baldacci

  “Long enough. This was in the Big House, ’cause the son of a bitch was a snitch for Hoover and the G-men. Woulda done a lot longer ’cept the guards got too scared ’a me.” The man did not appear to be joking.

  Dill pulled Archer aside. “Buddy ’a mine got put back in Carderock.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Dan Bullock. You saw him at the Checkered Past. He told me you gave him some good advice. Only the man got all cockeyed and didn’t take it.”

  “Hey, I’m always looking out for people like us.”

  Dill grinned. “You always were okay in my book, Archer.”

  But there was something in the little man’s features that made the hair on Archer’s neck stand up and salute. A man like Dickie Dill did not understand nuance. And when he put his arm around Archer’s shoulders, the steely fingers bit in a little too deep, relaying critical information his mouth had not.

  An old Ford truck with a sputtering radiator pulled up. Its open rear bed had wood slats on the sides and rough wooden bench seats. The driver came out and dropped the rear gate, and the men climbed on one by one. Dill sat next to Archer as the truck pulled away.

  “What’cha gonna be doing at the slaughterhouse?” asked Dill.

  “Don’t know yet. Guess whatever needs doing.”

  “If it’s killing the hogs, I’ll show you how.”

  “Thanks. Hey, saw you rolling the dice back there.”

  Dill’s friendly expression faded. “So what? You ain’t thinkin’ ’bout snitchin’ on me to Miss Crabtree?”

  Dill plucked something from his pocket. Archer saw it was the man’s switchblade.

  This was the Dickie Dill he remembered and loathed.

  Archer leaned over and whispered, “All’s I’m saying is you better watch yourself around games of chance. You remember inside Carderock?”

  “Hell, that game was fixed by that bastard Riley.”

  “Yeah, it was. And just like with Riley, you crapped out five times in a row back there except for your first roll, where you got your eleven and sweetened the pot and then crapped out right after. And the man who took your money palmed the dice after each throw. He sees you as a patsy for sure. So next time he asks you to play, just tell him, ‘no dice.’ Funny, huh?”

  Something seemed to go off in Dill’s head and he looked viciously over at the man who’d taken his dollar. “I’m gonna cut the bastard up.”

  “No, you’re not. Remember, third time’s the charm. You’re not going back to prison. Now, put the blade away. You’re not even supposed to have a weapon, Dickie. That’ll get you put right back in Carderock.”

  Dill slowly slid the knife back into his pocket, but he kept shooting looks at the other man the whole ride out.

  Archer could smell the place about two miles before they arrived there. The stench made his nostrils seize up. Dill noted this and chuckled, as did two other men on the truck.

  “Hellfire, Archer, after a while you can’t smell nothin’,” said Dill. He touched his nose. “Goes dead in there.”

  “Well, I like to smell things.”

  “Like Miss Crabtree’s perfume?” said Dill with a wicked look.

  “We already talked about that, Dickie.”

  “Man can damn well dream.” He licked his lips, his lascivious look turning Archer’s stomach as he thought about what a man like Dill would do to a woman like Ernestine Crabtree given the chance. He was glad he had fixed the woman’s bedroom door. But then he heartened himself by thinking that Crabtree might just shoot the little bastard before he could do her any harm.

  The slaughterhouse was a large, one-story cement block building with hog pens on three sides, teeming with very much living stock.

  When Archer asked about this, Dill said ominously, “Ain’t for much longer,” as they marched through a door after climbing off the truck. “This here is where the hogs come to die,” he added gleefully.

  They were processed in by a burly foreman wearing a long white coat and safety hat. The man told Archer, “Yeah, she called. Pays five dollars a day. Get your money end of the day on Friday.”

  “Look, can I get an advance, friend?” said Archer.

  “You trying to be funny or stupid, or what?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Coat, gloves, helmet, and goggles in that room over there. Find what fits.”

  “So, what’s my job? Not crushing hog skulls, I hope.”

  “Naw. We got enough of those. You’re gonna be sawing up the meat and racking it. You just watch the fellers in there to get the hang of it.”

  “Why the hat, goggles, and all the rest?”

  The man laughed. “You’ll see why. Now beat it.”

  Archer put on a long white coat that was stained with blood, and a helmet, goggles, and gloves.

  Dill, similarly dressed, came over to him. “Hey, you wanna watch me bash some hogs in the head? Got a guy who ropes ’em by the neck, holds ’em steady like, then I come in from the rear, so’s not to spook ’em, and bam! Hog brains all over.”

  “No thanks, Dickie, I’ll take your word for it.”

  Archer was led to the room where he’d be working. There were long wooden tables all over and hog parts of all descriptions hanging from ceiling hooks connected to a powered conveyor belt.

  An older gent showed him how to use the saws and knives, how to make the cuts, and then how to rack the parts on the hooks.

  “They kill ’em and then slit their throats to bleed ’em out. They boil ’em next, that makes the hair and skin a lot easier to get off. Then they split ’em in half and hang ’em up for a while, let the meat get right. Then it comes our way to carve up. When the hooks are full, the belt takes ’em to the cold room.”

  After watching Archer a few times, he deemed him ready to do the work on his own.

  Within the hour, Archer was covered in blood, bits of bone, cartilage, and hog meat. He had to keep wiping his goggles clear from foul things and the film of humidity, for it was uncommonly warm in here. And more than once he suffered a coughing spell because of some foreign matter getting inside him. His gloves were soon soaked in blood and other unsavory detritus. By the end of his shift his arms, back, and legs ached with the sawing and slicing and the lifting of the heavy carcasses onto the hooks.

  A horn sounded and the men instantly stopped what they were doing, midslice, or mid–brain bash, for that took place in the next room over. Archer had heard nothing but the squeals and terrified sounds of hogs about to die and then dying, for it was clear that the suffering beasts were not always killed instantly with the first blow from the sledgehammer.

  As Archer was taking off his coat, helmet, gloves, and goggles in the locker room, he asked the older man who’d helped him, “How long you been doing this?”

  The man closed the door of his locker. “Too damn long, son. Too damn long.”

  I feel that way after one day.

  There was a sudden commotion in the next room. Shouts and cries and the sounds of a struggle.

  Archer rushed into the next room with a group of workers to find the man who had cheated Dill at craps holding his shoulder and looking pale and nauseous while Dill circled him holding a sledgehammer.

  “You lying, cheating sack ’a shit,” bellowed Dill.

  Archer looked around and saw the man who had checked him in standing idly by. It was apparent that no one was going to step in and help the injured fellow.

  Archer pushed through the crowd and stood in front of the man.

  “Dickie, I told you this was a bad idea. Now, put down the sledgehammer and just walk away. Or else your butt is going back to prison. You know what happened with your buddy and Miss Crabtree.”

  “Yeah, you keep telling me that, Archer. But why do I think you got the hots for that broad yourself? You just calling me off so’s you get her all by your lonesome.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with you going after this man.”

  “Son of a bitch cheated me,”
Dill snarled. “You said so yourself.”

  Archer glanced at the man, but kept one eye on Dill. “And I think you taught him his lesson, right, friend?”

  The injured fellow mutely nodded. Archer could see that the man’s shoulder had been shattered by Dill’s blow. “In fact, he needs a hospital.”

  “What he needs is a grave,” barked Dill. “Now get outta my way.”

  “Not going to do that, Dickie.”

  “Then you’re a dead man too.”

  Dill came at him, the hammer raised high. Dill was deceptively strong, Archer knew that, and tenacious as hell. But the man had not fought in a world war for years where every day was an act of survival.

  Archer didn’t retreat from the attack as most would have. He sprang forward and slammed his shoulder into Dill’s gut before he could bring the sledgehammer down. Archer was a good sixty pounds heavier than Dill, and the physics of that competition meant that Dill was launched backward into a wall, and the hammer flew from his grasp.

  Archer picked it up and stood over the fallen man. Dill put his hands up in a defensive posture, but Archer shook his head and tossed the hammer down.

  “I’ve no intent to hurt you, Dickie. Just wanted to make my point.”

  He turned to look at the crowd. “Nobody here saw anything.” Then he pointed to the manager. “And get that man to a hospital or else there’s gonna be trouble.”

  The man came out of his lethargy, gripped the injured man’s good arm, and hustled him from the room.

  Archer helped Dill up. “You okay?”

  Dill did not look the least bit friendly. “You better watch yourself.”

  “I do, all the time.”

  When the truck dropped Archer off back in Poca City, he walked down the street, still rubbing hog shit off his person.

  Chapter 24

  HE HURRIED UP TO ERNESTINE’S OFFICE after checking the time. She was still there, waiting for him. When he opened the door she rose from her chair.

  “You look exhausted,” she said, eyeing his stained clothes and haggard features.

  “Yeah, well, it’s pretty hard work.”

  “Was it very awful?”

  He started to tell her about the fight with Dill, but then decided not to. It would just give the woman something else to worry about. And his well-being really should not be her burden.

  “Wasn’t too bad. And I appreciate the job.”

  She held out his bag, and his suit clothes and shirt on a hanger. “Here’re your things. I…I took them home at lunchtime and pressed them for you.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Miss Crabtree, but I thank you for that,” he replied, taking the things from her.

  “So where will you stay?” she asked.

  “That’s a good question. They don’t pay till the end of the week, so…”

  They stood there looking awkwardly at each other.

  She dipped her head and said, “This is out of the norm, but…but you’re welcome to sleep at my place for a bit. I’ve got a wall bed in the living room.”

  “Well, that’s really nice of you. But I couldn’t put you out like that. It wouldn’t be right. And I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “You not only paid for my dinner, but you fixed my bedroom door without charge. This will actually settle that debt and make things right.”

  “Are you…are you sure?”

  She looked up at him and attempted a smile. “Yes, Mr. Archer, I am.”

  “Well, okay.” He tacked on a relieved smile.

  “I will ask that you wait until dark to come over. I…I don’t want my neighbors.…”

  “I can come in through the back door, say around nine?”

  “That would be fine. Thank you.”

  He left her there and headed down to the street. Once his feet hit the pavement he looked around. His stomach was about as empty as it had ever been. The other fellows at the slaughterhouse had brought their lunches in little tins and were allowed exactly fifteen minutes to eat them. And not a one of them, Dill included, had seen fit to offer any to Archer.

  He managed to earn fifty cents by helping an elderly man carry some crates up the stairs of his little shop and then swept the room and caulked a window and cleaned and reinstalled the spark plugs on the straight-6 engine of the man’s Ford delivery truck. This was another Army-inspired skill that had come in handy off the battlefield.

  He used the money to buy a hunk of cheese and a couple rolls that barely dented his hunger. He gulped down two large glasses of water to rid him of the foul taste from the slaughterhouse.

  He was walking down the street toward a bench he figured he would sit on until the time came for him to head to Ernestine’s. That was when he noticed the four-door, long-hooded burgundy Cadillac rolling slowly by. He had seen the vehicle before, in Tuttle’s barn. The driver was a man in his forties wearing a cap and buttoned black vest and pigskin gloves. In the back seat was Lucas Tuttle.

  Tuttle must’ve seen him sitting there because the car came to a stop, the window rolled down, and Tuttle leaned out and waved him over.

  Archer left his things on the bench and walked over to the car.

  “Mr. Tuttle,” he said, eyeing the driver, who was watching him in the side mirror.

  “Climb on in here, Archer, want to talk to you.”

  Archer went around to the other side and got in.

  “Damn, son, what have you been doing with yourself?” said Tuttle, holding his nose.

  “Earning a living, the hard way.”

  Tuttle nodded and then sat back against the seat. “Bobby?” he said to the driver. “Go get yourself a Coke. I have business with Archer here.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Tuttle.” The man got out and walked off, revealing black breeches covering his legs with dark gaiters below that. A formal chauffeur’s getup if ever there was one, thought Archer. It was like you saw at the pictures, where everybody was rich except the servants.

  Tuttle was dressed in a worsted wool dark brown suit with a red bow tie and a matching pocket square, and polished brown-and-white shoes.

  “You look like you’ve been to church, though it’s not the Sabbath,” said Archer.

  Tuttle laughed. “Not much of a churchgoer, Archer. Like to rely on myself, not some deity that folks wrote about in a book. I had some business meetings out of town. And business is looking good.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “So, what’s the status of your business? You said you were working on it. Are you going to disappoint me, Archer? I will tell you right now I do not like to be disappointed.”

  Archer scanned the Cadillac’s interior looking for the shotgun, but didn’t see it.

  “Well, I hope not to disappoint you or me, sir.”

  “So, then?”

  “With Pittleman dead, it’s gotten a little complicated, so to speak.”

  “Or perhaps it’s gotten easier.”

  “I don’t know about that. I do know that you torched the Caddy.”

  Tuttle didn’t seem fazed by this. “An unfortunate accident. They happen a lot on farms.”

  “Is that right?” Archer wanted to ask him about Isabel’s accident, but decided now was not the right time.

  “I want my daughter back home.”

  “I’m trying, but it might be because her mother died there. She left about the same time. I wonder why.”

  Tuttle’s face darkened. “Do you know how my wife died?”

  Now that the man had brought up the subject himself, Archer said, “Just that it was an accident, but nobody told me the details.”

  Tuttle glanced out the window. “Yes, they say it was an accident.”

  “You saying it wasn’t?”

  Tuttle stared back at him. “I…I don’t know, Archer. All I want is my daughter home. And if you can persuade her to do that, you will have earned your money.”

  “Okay, but Jackie loved her mother and her mother loved her right back.”

  “And wh
o told you that?” asked Tuttle sharply.

  “Your secretary, that Desiree woman.”

  “Ah, yes. Right. I suppose she would see it that way.”

  “It’s not true?”

  “Mr. Archer, there is no more complex relationship in the world than that of a mother and her daughter.”

  “I think you might be right about that. But are you saying they didn’t get along?”

  “Jackie is supremely headstrong, smart, opinionated, unlike any other woman I know—other than her mother, that is, for my daughter took after Isabel in a fierce way. And women from South America, Archer, are hot-blooded, full of fire and fight. It was what attracted me to her in the first place. She was the only woman of my acquaintance who could hold her own with me. Actually, more than hold her own.”

  “But if she didn’t die in an accident, what happened then?”

  Tuttle looked out the window again. “Sometimes it’s better not knowing the truth. Do you believe that, Archer?”

  “Well, I think the truth is important. But I guess the truth can hurt too.”

  “You’ve laid out the dilemma precisely. The truth not only can hurt, but also can have the capacity to destroy. Do you understand that?”

  “What sort of truth are you talking about?”

  “My wife was a beautiful creature, Archer. Beautiful beyond comparison. I could hardly believe it when she agreed to become my wife, for I was a young man just making his way. But tropical beauty such as she possessed sometimes affects the mind in ways that can be dangerous.”

  “You mean…?” prompted Archer.

  “I mean that sometimes I became frightened of my own wife. You see me with my shotgun, and you think I’m a little touched in the head and prone to violence. But with me it’s just bluster, Archer. With Isabel, it was something more.” He paused. “And beauty was not the only thing that Jackie inherited from her mother.”

  “Hold on, now, Jackie is a good person.”

  “Keep in mind that you’ve known her a short time. I’ve known Jackie her entire life.”

  It was not lost on Archer that Jackie had pretty much said the same thing to him, only in the context of Archer’s knowing her father for such a short time. “What exactly are you trying to say, Mr. Tuttle? I’d like the straight dope without all the gobbledygook.”