One Good Deed

Chapter 7

A hitched ride back with a mother and her bucktoothed, runny-nosed son in a dented Studebaker, with no wheel caps and a rattling sound that signaled the engine was close to throwing a rod, brought Archer to Poca City before the dinner hour. He used the down-the-hall shower to clean off the dust and put his only clothes back on. He set off now to do something about that wardrobe predicament. His long legs took him down the street to a haberdashery about three blocks from his hotel that he had passed on his earlier ramblings.

The old gent in there seemed to be thinking about closing up for the day and contemplating his dinner when Archer strolled in.

“Need some fresh duds,” he said.

The fellow was dressed like a walking billboard for his line of business, down to the cufflinks and the pocket square aligned with an engineer’s precision. “I can sure see that, young man. What can I do you for?”

“To start, let’s get a copy of what I got on now, only better.”

“Well, that’s fine, since I only got better. But can I see your money first? Just a common courtesy from folks I don’t know, is all. This is a respectable establishment.”

“I deal with no other kind.”

The show of the twin twenties was all it took to capture the man’s undivided interest. And it took only an hour to complete the selling and buying. With Archer’s physique and height, nothing needed to be altered, and the man had his girl cuff both pairs of pants on her sewing machine right then and there.

“That’s a damn sight miracle,” said the man of the fine fit. It was a single-breasted Hart, Schaffner & Marx model of a medium blue color with narrow pinstripes. His wide-knotted tie was a bloodred, and the command collar on his Alden dress shirt softened the thickness of his neck. The leather belt holding up his pants was black and braided.

“I like the hat,” said Archer as he peered in the mirror at his new felt snap-brim with a dented crown and a burgundy silk band. He had bypassed the recommendation of a rabbit hair trilby headpiece. His white pocket square had a two-point fold.

“Shoes good? Those wingtips are the very finest leather. You’ll need to keep them conditioned and shined regularly.”

“I’ll break ’em in.”

The man handed him a bag and a hanger with the extra pair of slacks on them. “Two pairs of underwear, same number of socks. And the extra pair of trousers, pleated and cuffed.”

“Right,” said Archer. “I’m good to go.”

His Jacksons had been drastically reduced, although Archer had been surprised that he’d been able to afford the new clothes and shoes for less than forty dollars. The man told him he hadn’t been open that long and was looking to build up his business and thus was giving Archer a deal.

“You look fine in the new duds, so talk my place up to everybody, you hear me?” said the man, and Archer promised that he would. He walked out the door wearing his new clothes. The girl had put his old suit, shirt, and shoes in another bag.

He dropped all this off at the Derby, hung up his old things and new spare pants, and headed out to eat some dinner. The restaurant was named the Checkered Past. Whoever had come up with the names of the places here had a sense of humor, Archer would grant them that.

The sign out front promised steaks and fat potatoes at good prices and coffee until midnight. He entered and took his seat at a table with a red-and-white-checkered cloth covering it and matching napkins. He ordered his steak rare and his coffee piping hot, and afterward sampled the peach cobbler, which was good, the best he’d ever had perhaps. He laid down his coins for the meal, and then plotted out his next steps on the way back to the Derby.

He got up the next morning, cleaned up in the bath down the hall, and headed down to the front desk. “You know where Hank Pittleman has his house?”

The clerk, the same gent who had checked him in the first night, scratched his furry forearms and said, “Why you want to know that?”

“Have business with the man and he told me he spends Saturday and the Sabbath at his home with his wife.”

“Well?”

“I need a way to get out there.”

“Can always walk.”

“How far is it?”

“Take you a good four hours.”

“Any way I can hitch a ride with somebody?”

The man stroked his chin and looked Archer up and down. “Actually, got a delivery going out there this morning. You help with that, it’ll pay for the price of the ride. I can fix it up.”

“When does it leave?”

“Hour from now.”

“Where from?”

“Alley behind the hotel.”

“Okay, I’m gonna grab some breakfast then.”

“Do what you want. Hey, now, where’d you get those clothes? Those sure ain’t the duds you were wearing when you got here.”

“I bought some new things.”

“With what?”

“Same what I paid for the room. Cash.”

“Where’d you get that kind of moolah?”

“Department of Prisons gave it to me.”

“Thought you was one of them when you checked in. But are you shitting me? They give prisoners money?”

“Well, I promised ’em I wouldn’t kill anybody else if they did.”

Archer fell silent and stared at the man with a look that he hoped meant business.

“W-well, you be at the alley in an hour.”

“I will, friend.”

Archer got a cup of coffee and a fried egg and toast at a hole-in-the-wall a block down from the hotel and read a discarded newspaper while doing so. The Soviet Union had recently detonated its first nuclear weapon. While Archer had been in prison, something called NATO had been established. The newspaper Archer had been reading at the time said the creation of NATO would make sure there were no more wars.

They must have forgotten to tell old Joe Stalin that, thought Archer.

He met the truck and driver behind the hotel.

The man told him his name was Sid Duckett. Around sixty years old, he was about three inches taller than Archer and outweighed him by maybe fifty pounds. He looked like he could lift the truck he’d be driving, but then told Archer he’d thrown out his back and welcomed the help in exchange for a ride out. He had on faded jeans that showed off his wide hips and bow legs, a cotton shirt tucked in, a wide leather belt with a buckle the size of a paperweight, dusty boots, and a greasy snap-brim hat with a fake bird feather sticking from the band.

“Well, get to it then while I check my paperwork,” said Duckett.

“What are we hauling?”

He pointed to a large stack of wooden crates piled next to the hotel’s tradesmen entrance.

“What, all that?”

“All that, buddy, if you want the ride.”

Archer took off his hat and coat, and rolled up his sleeves. A half hour later, after much grunting and heaving, and words of unhelpful advice from Duckett, the truck was loaded.

Archer rolled down his sleeves and picked up his jacket and hat.

“Let’s go,” hollered Duckett from the front seat. “Time’s a-wasting, fella.”

Archer climbed in next to him and they set off.

“Guess you folks don’t use much talcum powder around here,” noted Archer.

“What’s that?” replied Duckett, looking puzzled.

“Just worked my butt off, but the air’s so dry I didn’t even break a sweat.”

They drove for an hour and not once did the landscape change from flat and brown, or the sky from clear to something else. Archer didn’t recall even seeing a bird passing over.

Archer eyed this for a while before saying, “See here, does it always look this way?”

“What?”

Archer pointed out the windshield. “The land around here.”

Duckett eyeballed what they were passing. “Sometimes we get a bit of snow.”

“But other than that?”

“I don’t like change,” said Duckett gruffly. “When things are the same, you got no surprises.”

“I’m into variety myself,” replied Archer.

“Well, you’re in the wrong damn place, brother, least when it comes to the weather.”

“Does that mean there are surprises around here not having to do with the weather?”

Duckett eyed him suspiciously. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“My momma told me that was the only way to learn.”

“Maybe your momma should have told you not to be so damn nosy.”

They pulled off the road and shortly came to a set of wrought iron gates.

Duckett honked the horn and a dark-skinned, strongly built man with small features, dressed in worn olive-green dungarees, a faded striped shirt, and work boots, rushed out from somewhere and opened them.

“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.