One Good Deed

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.

Ernestine 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.”

“That’s because I do.” He paused and this line of conversation made him think of something else, something important. “Look here, Ernestine, Dickie Dill?”

“What about him?”

“He’s one dangerous man.”

“I know that, Archer.”

“I don’t like the fact that you have to meet with him.”

“It’s only once a month now. I won’t have to see him for quite some time.”

“I don’t like that you have to ever see him.”

“It is my job.” She gave him a piercing look. “Why? Did something happen?”

He started to tell her but then changed his mind. “Next time you have to meet with him, let me know and I’ll be there, too.”

“You don’t have to do that, Archer.”

“I’m not doing it because I have to, it’s because I want to, Ernestine.”

“Thank you. That’s very... sweet of you.”

They spent the rest of the evening listening to music on Crabtree’s Emerson radio.

“I like that Sinatra fellow,” said Archer. “But give me old Bing Crosby any day.”

“I still love listening to the Andrews Sisters,” replied Crabtree nostalgically. “After work, in the rooming house I stayed at during the war, we’d lie around, drinking coffee and smoking, and listen to them all night long.”

“They came over with the USO while we were fighting in Italy. Them and Bob Hope and some others. ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ always got me stomping my feet. And that Patty Andrews, wow, she was some looker—” Archer caught himself. “And a damn fine singer.”

Crabtree looked up at him and smiled. “It’s okay to compliment a person’s looks, Archer. You’re a handsome man, I freely admit that. So long as it’s not all we think about each other.”

“Right.”

Later, they each picked up their books and Ernestine headed off to bed. But about a half hour later Archer put his novel down, picked his hat up, clutched his new key, and left by the back door.

About twenty minutes later, he was knocking on the portal at 27 Eldorado.

Jackie answered his knock dressed in high-waisted jeans, pink slippers, and a checkered shirt tied up high enough to expose her taut midriff. Her hair was curled up in plump rollers.

She did not seem happy to see him. “You think you can just show up any old time and I’ll let you in? I got things to do, too, Archer.”

“I’m sorry, Jackie. I’ve been working at the slaughterhouse during the day.”

“And staying somewhere you won’t tell me at night. I wonder why.”

“I need to talk to you about Pittleman. Can I come in?” He glanced at her rolled-up hair. “Are you getting ready to go out somewhere?”

“No.”

“Then what’s all that for?” he said, pointing at her hair.

“I’m experimenting with a new hairstyle.”

“Women do that?” he said, eyes wide.

“Women do a lot of things to please men. But more so to please other women. At least we like to think so.”

She stepped back to allow him to pass inside.

Jackie poured a rum and Coca-Cola over ice for herself without asking him if he wanted one and sat down on the couch across from him.

“What about Hank?” she said bluntly.

Archer lifted his hat off and perched it on his knee, looking uncomfortable. “I came to tell you that Pittleman was a sick man,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“He had cancer, up here.” Archer tapped his head.

Jackie set her drink down because her hand was shaky. “Is... is that why he had the headaches?”

“I guess so.”

“He never said anything to me about it.”

“Well, I don’t think he told his wife, either. Doc said he didn’t have long.”

“He was already dying when someone killed him? Is that what you’re saying?”

He nodded. “And there’s something else.”

She shot him a glance. “That’s not enough?”

“Remember I said he had money problems?”

“How could I forget? It’s hard to believe, though. I thought Hank was rolling in dough.”

“Well, he was also a gambler. And he owed the casinos in Las Vegas two hundred thousand dollars.”

She looked stunned by this information. “That is crazy talk, Archer.”

“And at the slaughterhouse they could only make half the payroll this week.”

“Let me get this all straight. Someone kills a dying man. And then you’re telling me that a rich man isn’t really rich?”

He nodded again.

Jackie finished off her drink in one gulp and held the cold glass against her cheek.

“And you didn’t know about any of this?” said Archer.

“How could I? He gave me a car and a house and spending money. And he told me his headaches were something he’d always suffered from, even as a child.”

“Man kept his secrets, I suppose.”

Jackie looked at him with a sobering expression. “I guess we all do.”

“What were you expecting from Pittleman?”

She set her drink down, crossed her arms, and scowled at him. “What do you mean by that?” she said coldly.

“You couldn’t marry the man. He was already hitched to Marjorie. But was it just the use of the house and car and folding money?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because the man is dead, Jackie, and we’re trying to figure out why. And some folks think I killed him, that’s why!”

“You playing at being a shamus?” she said in a bemused fashion.

“It’s not playing when you might be looking at a noose around your neck.”

“They’re not going to hang you, Archer.”

“You think the law’s never convicted an innocent man before? Because I’m living proof that they have.”

She started to say something but then caught herself. “Hank was a hard man, Archer. There are plenty of people who might have wanted to kill him.”

“Shaw thinks it might be the Las Vegas crowd because he stiffed them.”

“I guess it could be,” she said doubtfully.

He looked at her closely. “But you don’t think so?”

“I don’t know what to think and that’s the honest-to-God truth.” She looked at him, really looked at him, maybe for the first time tonight. “Do you believe me?”

Archer thought of Shaw’s warning about trusting people, especially pretty women. “As much as you believe me,” he said evenly.

Her face fell. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes, but... not like that.” She sat up. “I’m a little scared, Archer. I mean, I was with Hank a lot, and some people might think... I know things.”

His defenses crumbled in the face of this plea. “Sure, I’ll sleep here on the couch.”

After she went to her bedroom, Archer lay on her couch and stared up at the ceiling. He was now taking his slumber in two different women’s homes but not in their beds, and he wasn’t sure what to think about that. One thing he was fairly certain of: His life was going to get even more complicated before long.