Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

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.