One Good Deed

by David Baldacci

  “Yeah, he was. But listen, Archer, you can’t go around telling folks stuff they don’t know unless you got a damn good reason to do so.”

  Archer shot him a glance. “You think I messed up back there by mentioning the money problems?”

  “I don’t know, son, maybe so.”

  Archer looked chagrined and said nothing more on the trip back.

  Shaw dropped him off near where he had met him.

  “What about Draper?” asked Archer.

  “I’ll check to see what room he’s in. If he’s there, I’ll talk to him. You go get some rest.”

  “You mean that, or you just don’t want me messing things up any more?”

  “Maybe a little of both. You sure you got a place to stay the night?”

  “I’m good.”

  “You gonna go back to butcher hogs tomorrow?”

  “Not sure. I don’t like working for free.”

  Shaw rolled an unlit stogie around in his mouth before sticking it under his hatband. “How about I pay you the same rate as they do, if you go back there?”

  “What, why?”

  “I checked on your Army record. You were a brave man, Archer. Lots of medals and all. And you were a scout.”

  “So what?”

  “So maybe you can be a scout again. My scout. Go back to work at the slaughterhouse tomorrow, and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Well, okay.”

  “But don’t talk unnecessarily,” the lawman admonished. “You never know what people are gonna do with what you tell ’em.” Shaw opened his wallet and held out five dollars. “Here’s an advance. I hear tell you like advances.” He cracked a grin.

  Archer took the money. “You sure this is kosher, Detective?”

  “My job is to catch a killer, Archer. And I’ll do it any way I see fit.”

  Shaw drove off and Archer hoofed it to Ernestine’s. However, she didn’t answer the door. He looked at his watch. She might be out. Maybe over at the Cat’s Meow. Or having a late dinner at the Checkered Past.

  He tried the back door, but it was locked. He took the clasp knife from his pocket and worked the bolt back enough to free it from the doorjamb. He walked into the kitchen and saw pots and pans in the sink. He looked in the fridge and saw a plate wrapped over. The truth occurred to him.

  She made me dinner and I never showed up.

  Archer felt badly about that but couldn’t do anything about it right now.

  Despite washing up in the Derby’s hall bath earlier, he still stank.

  He decided another bath would not be a bad thing.

  He went in search of the bathrobe that Ernestine had provided before and found it in her bedroom closet. As he was about to shut the door, he saw it: The scrapbook that had been under the pillow was now on the shelf in the closet.

  He hauled it down and sat on the floor and turned the pages slowly past what he’d already seen, until he came to something interesting.

  It was a news story about Jewell Crabtree, the widow of Carson and mother of Ernestine. She had climbed into her Chrysler one night, while it was in the garage, and after stuffing a sheet in the tailpipe, started it up and expired on the front seat, leaving behind a note that was addressed to her daughter. There was another picture of Ernestine along with this story, and she was no longer drab or dour. Several years had passed since her father’s execution, and her height and beauty had been realized, but her features were stoic—perhaps too stoic, thought Archer. This version of the woman he could reconcile with the parole officer as he had first met her.

  The last thing in the scrapbook of interest was a letter. Perhaps it was the one mentioned in the news article. It was in a pink envelope with the name Ernestine scrawled in pen on the outside. Archer slipped out the note inside and unfolded it.

  Dear Ernestine,

  My lovely, lovely child. First and foremost, your father loved you very much. And please do not feel any other way with regard to that. What he did, he did out of his love for you and for no other reason. Any action taken in the past should not affect what you do with the rest of your life. Please live your life with that firmly in mind, and please have a happy life, my dear, dear child. Choices were made by many, Ernestine, and many of them were flawed choices. But choices have consequences, and we all must live with those consequences. But take that sad past and turn it into something positive, my dear child, and don’t look back, only forward. Love, your mother.

  He sat back against the bed and contemplated all that he had just read. He had to confess that he couldn’t really make heads or tails of it, but his heart was mightily saddened by the abundance of tragedies in Ernestine Crabtree’s past.

  He put the scrapbook back exactly where he had found it.

  He went into the kitchen, all thoughts of a bath gone. He washed up the pots and pans and utensils in the sink and put them away. He sat down at the table and thought about last night here. He and Ernestine had been alone in the house. A bottle of bourbon had been at hand. He’d been cleaned up and all, smelling about as good as he was ever likely to. He had done his best to impress upon the woman that he was attracted to her. And she had chosen a book in her bed over him in her bed.

  While thinking this, he went to the shelf and found an Agatha Christie novel. He walked back into the kitchen and stood at the sink looking out the little window into the darkness, the book still held unopened in his hand.

  “How did you get in here?”

  Archer spun around to see Ernestine standing there.

  “Back door. It was unlocked.”

  “No, I remember locking it.”

  “Well, it must be broken, opened easy enough.”

  She came forward and glanced at the empty sink. “You…you did the dishes?”

  “It was the least I could do, considering that you made me a dinner I wasn’t here to eat. I’m sorry about that. But I did have the morning coffee and the lunch, and it was much appreciated, Ernestine.”

  She set her purse down on the table and slipped off her dark blue pillbox hat and took off her black wrist-length gloves.

  “Nothing special about feeding a hungry man. As for dinner, I’m sure you had other pressing matters.”

  “Mr. Shaw met me at the truck, and we went out to the Pittlemans’ to talk with his widow.”

  “Then you haven’t eaten dinner?”

  “No, Mr. Shaw was good enough to buy me some before we headed out.”

  She sat down at the table. He did likewise, putting the book in front of him.

  “Did you find out anything important?” she asked.

  “Just that Pittleman was up to his ears in debt. Guess he had a gambling problem, too. Lost more money than I can count over in that Las Vegas place. They got gambling houses there. And brothels! I mean, I just don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “How women can do that.”

  “They might not have any choice in the matter.”

  “I would expect they had a choice and they just made the wrong one. Look at Jackie Tuttle. She told me she chose to be Pittleman’s chattel, like it was her job or something. I still can’t figure that out.”

  “So you believe she made the wrong choice then?”

  “Well, don’t you?”

  “I have no right to judge her, as I haven’t walked in her shoes.”

  Archer thought about this for a bit and once more came away with the depth of the woman’s wisdom. He nodded. “I guess you’re right about that.”

  Crabtree said, “And now? With Pittleman gone?”

  “That ride might have run out for Jackie. And who knows if Pittleman left his wife a dime when all is said and done.”

  “It sounds like a dilemma all right.’”

  “But Jackie is one smart gal. If anyone can survive this, she can.”

  “You care for her, don’t you?”

  Archer was startled by this question. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to her. I think…”

  �
�You think what?”

  “I think she got a raw deal in life and deserves to be happy in spite of that.”

  Crabtree looked at him with those mile-deep eyes, and for a moment Archer could see himself plunging through their depths to who knew where.

  “That speaks well of you, Archer.”

  He took out his Lucky Strikes and offered her one, but she declined. He lit up and said, “You got a man in your life, Ernestine?” Before she could say anything, he put up a hand. “I know that’s a personal question, and you can just tell me to shove off. But I was just wondering. I never had a steady gal. I left home, roamed a bit, then went to college. Then I volunteered and spent years of my life fighting a war across the ocean. Then I got into trouble and there went more years of my life. Now?” He picked up the book. “Maybe these will be my friends. Keep me company at night.”

  “Books are wonderful, Archer, but they can’t be the only things in your life. Humans are built for companionship, at least they should be.”

  “So, you got somebody?”

  “I have someone I care for, yes.”

  “Does he live in Poca City?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a lucky man, then.” He rose and took the book. “I’m gonna read a bit and then get to bed. Butchering hogs takes it outta you.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure it does.”

  Ernestine rose and disappeared into her bedroom, while Archer put his smoke out in the sink, stripped down to his skivvies, and lay on the pulled-out wall bed. He put the book on his chest but didn’t open it. He just lay there wondering when anything in the world would begin to make sense to him.

  Chapter 29

  HOW YOU KNOW THAT MAN, ARCHER?” said Dickie Dill with a snarl accenting his query.

  Archer was outside the slaughterhouse eating the lunch that Ernestine had prepared for him. Before he’d left for work, he’d found her in the kitchen making him a hot breakfast, which he’d devoured before heading out. And per Shaw’s instructions, he had kept his eyes and ears open while working there.

  “What man is that, Dickie?”

  Dill was cutting an apple into spirals with his switchblade and somehow managing to do it in a menacing fashion. He stuck a piece into his mouth and chewed with his few tobacco-stained and crooked teeth, mostly gumming the pulp and swallowing it with an effort.

  “That policeman what’s-his-name.”

  “Lieutenant Detective Irving Shaw of the state police.”

  “Yeah, him. What you doing with a cop?”

  Dickie tossed the apple core and lit a Chesterfield, blowing his smoke right at Archer.

  “Just looking into the murder of Hank Pittleman.”

  “Shoot, man don’t pay his workers, he deserves to die.”

  “You confessing?”

  Dill took a puff of the Chesterfield and looked at him funny, his mouth caught between a grin and a grimace. “You pullin’ my leg, ain’t’cha?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “You hang around cops, folks think shit.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you ain’t one of us.”

  “I’m an ex-con, you’re an ex-con. Nothing can change that, Dickie. We’re bad boys. Forever.”

  “But still. Gotta watch out, Archer.”

  “I’m always watching out.”

  Especially for you, thought Archer.

  “You still at the Derby then?”

  Archer started to say no, but then realized Dill would inquire as to where he was lodging, and he didn’t want any inkling of his staying with Ernestine to get out to this loathsome man. Shaw’s telling him about the murders of two women by Dill’s hand had reinforced many times over his already instinctual desire to keep the man far away from his parole officer. Or any woman. Or anybody else, for that matter.

  “Yeah, but I’ll be moving on soon. So Pittleman owns this place?”

  “What about it?” Dill tapped his cigarette out on the bench next to Archer, uncomfortably close.

  “So, you know anybody here that worked directly for him?”

  “What you mean by directly?”

  “Meaning more than killing and butchering hogs.”

  “Why you want to know?”

  “Just wondering.”

  Dill grinned in a way that never came close to reaching his eyes. “That was you in the joint too, Archer, thinking ’bout shit too much. You got to learn to leave things be, boy. Ain’t healthy otherwise.”

  “So, is that a no?”

  Dill made a show of closing up his switchblade. “That means it ain’t your business. And put it outta your goddamn head.”

  They went back to work, Dill sledgehammering and Archer cutting and sawing.

  The man next to Archer, who had shown Archer the ways with the tools of butchering said, “Heard you talking to Dill.”

  “That right?”

  “You asking about Pittleman?”

  “I was, yeah.”

  “He was an odd bird.”

  “So you knew him?”

  “There were some here who knew him. He had his fingers in lots of pies, they say.”

  “Man had a lotta businesses, that’s true.”

  “You know a man named Malcolm Draper?”

  “I’ve met him. Why?”

  “He’s around here a lot too. And he ain’t butchering hogs.”

  “He runs Pittleman’s businesses.”

  “He runs something, all right.”

  Archer was about to ask another question when Dickie Dill came into Archer’s workspace holding his sledgehammer.

  “Hey, Archer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thought I’d give you a look-see at what it is I do here.”

  Another man came in dragging a fat hog by a leather cord. The terrified beast, perhaps sensing what was about to befall it, was squealing and pulling against the tether with all its strength. Its hooves were digging into the wooden floor and creating an unsettling clatter as it struggled to survive.

  All the men in the butchering room, including Archer, stopped what they were doing and looked that way.

  The other man faced the hog, knelt down, and pulled the leather cord to the floor, forcing the poor beast’s head down and keeping it stationary.

  Dill circled around behind the hog and raised his sledgehammer, the look on his face one of unadulterated excitement.

  A moment before metal hit skull, Archer closed his eyes.

  The sound of the sledgehammer crushing bone was nearly as horrible as the dying squeal made by the unfortunate animal.

  When he reopened them, the hog was lying dead on a floor full of hog scraps, bleeding from its crushed head, but also from its nose and mouth. Its one blood-filled and lifeless eye looked up at the man who had just killed it.

  Dill held up his homicidal tool in triumph.

  “And now you know how it’s damn well done, boy.”

  The message conveyed was perfectly clear to every man in the place. And most particularly to Archer.

  “Knowledge is a good thing, Dickie,” said Archer, drawing another funny look from Dill.

  Archer went back to his butchering.

  When pay time came, their wages were short by half. When some of the men began to protest, a couple of large steady-eyed fellows carrying shotguns walked into their midst and calm quickly returned.

  Archer had not sat next to Dill during the ride back, but the latter had kept his gaze on Archer the whole way. The men spent the trip back to town complaining about the short wages. The gent who’d taught Archer the cutting method leaned in and whispered, “That man Dill ain’t right in the head. Think somebody hit him with a sledgehammer maybe when he was a baby.”

  “Well, if they didn’t back then, somebody might want to think about doing it now,” replied Archer.

  After the truck dropped them off, Archer started walking away, looking once over his shoulder to make sure Dill had headed off in the opposite direction.

  Ernesti
ne had arrived at her house ahead of him. She was cooking up some chicken in a pan on her electric stove when he walked in the back door.

  “Funny,” she said, a smile playing over her lips. “I had somebody look at the lock today and they said it was just fine. Though it did show signs of being breached.”

  Archer took off his hat, glanced at the lock, and said, “Well, you can never be too careful.”

  She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a key. “How about I give you one of these instead?”

  After a dinner of fried chicken and corn on the cob and soft peas and doughy rolls washed down with lemonade, Archer proclaimed it one of the best meals of his life.

  “How was the slaughterhouse?” she asked, after her smile showed that his compliment had pleased her.

  “I have no plans to make it a career, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She laughed. “I hope not. I think you’re meant for bigger and better things.”

  “We only got half our wages, though, so the money problems for Pittleman are real enough.”

  “That is totally astonishing to me. He seemed so wealthy.”

  “I’ve found that looks can be deceiving.”

  She glanced up to see him staring pointedly at her.

  “You have something you want to say?” she asked, giving him a curious glance.

  “Look at you. I mean, a man could just see your…well, your beauty and think that was all there was. They wouldn’t know anything about all the books you’ve read, all the things you know. That you want to write a book of your own. And that you help people that need helping, like me. I mean, they wouldn’t know any of that.”

  “You’re right, they wouldn’t. And what do you think about that?”

  “I think it’s sad. Like the fellow who wrote those nasty things or the sheriff who wants you to whatever, or the jerk in the hall who wolf-whistled. They just look at you and see one thing.”

  She leaned forward, and those enormous eyes of hers wrapped themselves around the man. “And how about you, Archer? When you look at me what do you see?”

  He didn’t hesitate in answering. “I see someone I’d like to be good friends with my whole life.”

  His answer seemed to startle her for a moment. “I believe you mean that.”