Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

Archer felt he was back in Italy threading his way through a bombed-out village as he slipped along in the hopes of uncovering some information to help him and his fellow soldiers. He knew very well what Bullock was doing. He just didn’t know the exact particulars of his intentions in following a woman late at night. But he knew that none of them were good for Crabtree.

They had entered a neighborhood of cute bungalows with little shutters on the windows and tiny brown lawns. Archer thought it seemed like a nice place to call home. Bullock seemed to like these surroundings better for his purposes; he picked up his pace, closing the distance between him and his prey. There was no one else around.

Except for Archer, twenty yards behind.

Bullock took something from his pocket. Under the moonlight, Archer saw a flash of metal.

It was a knife.

Archer started to sprint forward.

He needn’t have bothered.

When Bullock was still five feet from his target, Crabtree turned. From her sizeable envelope purse the woman had taken a walnut-gripped .38 Colt Detective Special snub-nosed with a three-inch barrel. She took aim at Bullock’s broad chest as the big man came to a stop so fast he nearly toppled over.

“What in the hell!” he cried out.

Crabtree calmly looked him over and noted the knife in his right hand. “Mr. Bullock, first, drop the knife before I put a large hole in you.”

He immediately did so.

“Second, I hope you see that this means your parole is hereby revoked. The authorities will be coming to arrest you just as soon as I tell them what you’ve done.”

A pale Bullock took a step back. “Look here, ma’am, I don’t want to go back to no Carderock.”

“Then why were you following me, with a knife?”

“I—”

“Clear out!” she barked, startling the man. “Now!”

He turned and sprinted off.

Crabtree watched him go until she could see him no longer. She bent down and, using a handkerchief, picked up the knife and put it in her purse. She continued on into one of the bungalows. A light came on in the hall, and then another in the front room on the right side of the bungalow.

Archer drew closer and assumed this was probably her bedroom. He could see her silhouette against a lowered window shade. Then she drew the curtains across it, cutting off his view.

He turned and hustled back to the Cat’s Meow, his already high respect for Crabtree growing immeasurably.

He had barely taken up position behind the sycamore tree when the door to the bar opened and out staggered Hank Pittleman, with Jackie on his arm. Yet, she seemed to be carrying him more than he was carrying himself, and it was apparently a struggle for the woman.

While Archer was standing there, Pittleman turned and slapped her across the face, knocking her beret off. The sudden blow almost caused Jackie to fall over and take him with her.

Archer had stayed his hand in the bar when Pittleman had acted the same. And he’d held his objection because of the look Jackie had given him. But not this time, he decided. He rushed across the street and came up beside the pair.

Pittleman didn’t seem to have the capacity to recognize him or anyone else, but as he lifted his hand to take another swing at Jackie, Archer smoothly put his hand under the man’s arm, blocking him from doing so. Jackie, her cheek reddened where he’d struck her, looked over, smiled, and mouthed, Thank you .

She bent down and retrieved her hat. Instead of attempting to put it back on, she simply shoved it into her jacket pocket.

“What the hell!” snapped Pittleman. Then he clutched at his head and spit something up. Archer had to move his foot out of the way to avoid getting his new shoes besmirched by the man’s vomit.

“Too much to drink?” he asked Jackie as Pittleman started to rattle nonsense once more.

“How’d you guess?”

“You okay where he—”

“I’m fine. I’ve been hit a lot harder than that.”

They lurched along with Pittleman talking mostly incomprehensibly.

“Where are we taking him?” asked Archer.

“He’s got a place in town.”

He nodded, and they kept walking, cradling the gimpy-legged Pittleman between them.

It surprised Archer when Jackie led him to the Derby Hotel.

“What, this is where he stays?”

“Yes. He’s on the top floor.”

Archer’s jaw slackened another few degrees. “What room?”

“Two of them they’ve put together for him: 615 and 617.”

“I’m in 610.”

Jackie looked over at him, her features full of possibility. “Why, that’s right down the hall, Archer.”

When Pittleman failed completely to continue standing even with assistance, Archer took off his hat and said, “Hold this for me, Jackie.”

He squatted down and hefted Pittleman into the air over his shoulder with one clean thrust of his legs.

“You are a strong man, Archer,” she said approvingly.

“Yeah, well, at least I’m something. Lead the way.”

With the load he was carrying, Archer forced himself to ride the elevator up, though he closed his eyes while doing so. They got to the room and Jackie dug into her purse for the key. She stuck it in the lock while Archer stood there with Pittleman slung over his shoulder like a carcass kill. Jackie swung the door wide and waved Archer in.

He strode in, saw the bed, and deposited Pittleman there. Quiet snores were now emanating from him. Archer looked around as Jackie handed him back his hat.

“What’s he need two rooms for?”

“He doesn’t need them. He just wanted them.”

“Well, that makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Makes sense to him. And didn’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“Hank owns the hotel.”

Archer took a step back and looked down at the sleeping mess of a man. “Hell, what doesn’t he own?”

“Not much.”

Archer looked her over. If anything, her dress was even tighter and more revealing than the one from the other night. Jackie caught him eyeing her and sat on the edge of the bed, taking all the time in the world to cross one gleaming stockinged leg over the other.

“Well, he’s taken care of, now what?”

He looked down at her. “Any ideas?”

“We can go to your room for a drink.”

“I had some gin, but it’s gone now.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a small flask. “Problem solved.”

“Last gal I saw with a flask pulled it out of her stockings.”

Her smile was wide, warm, and inviting and caused Archer to go weak-kneed.

She edged her skirt high enough to get his undivided attention. “Well, as you can see, I am wearing stockings. But, I’ll keep that in mind for next time, Archer.”

“You’re counting on a next time?”

“I like math. I can count really high.” She rose. “In fact, to 610. Let’s go.”

“Okay to leave him like that?”

“I leave him like that all the time.”

They made the short walk to Archer’s room after she locked Pittleman’s door behind them. He opened the door to his room and let her go in first. He shut the door behind him and pocketed the key.

She picked up two short glasses off the scarred dresser and poured out a portion of the contents of the flask into each one. Archer observed that she measured with precision.

“You like things just so,” he noted.

“Just so,” she replied, handing him a glass and then clinking hers against his.

She pressed the glass against her injured cheek.

“You’re gonna have a bruise there,” he said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Back in the bar that night?” He looked down at her wrist.

“Men have to show off, Archer. If they can’t do it with their brains, and most often they can’t, they do it with the fact that they’re stronger than women. Hank’s not stupid, but he’s no better than most men when it comes to that.”