Дэвид Балдаччи: One Good Deed

With furtive glances, the old men watched him coming. Archer shuffled along rather than walked. For long distances in prison, meaning longer than a walk to the john, you had your feet shackled. And so, you shuffled along. It was demeaning, to be sure, and that was the whole purpose behind it. Archer meant to rid himself of the motion, but it was easier said than done.

He could feel their gazes tracking him, like silent parasites sucking the life out of him at a distance, him in his cheap, wrinkled clothes with his awkward gait.

Prison stop. Look out, gents, ex-con shuffling on by.

He nodded to them as he and his filthy shoes grew closer to the cherubic fountain and the bent checker-playing men. Neither nodded in return. Poca City apparently was not that sort of place.

He reached the harder pavement in front of the hotel, swung the front door wide and let it bang shut behind him. He crossed the floor, the plush carpet sucking him in, and tapped a bell set on the front desk. As its ringing died down, he gazed at a sign on the wall promising shined shoes fast for a good rate. That and a shave and a haircut, and a masculine aftershave included.

A middle-aged man with a chrome dome and wearing a not overly clean white shirt with a gray vest over it and faded corduroy trousers came out from behind a frayed burgundy curtain to greet him. His sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were about as hairy as any Archer had ever seen. It was like fat, fuzzy caterpillars had colonized there. His nails could have used a scrubbing, and he seemed to have the same coating of dust as Archer.

“Yes?” he said, running an appraising glance over Archer and clearly coming away not in any way, shape, or form satisfied.

“Need a room.”

“Figgered that. Rates on the wall right there. You okay with that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

The man gave him a look while Archer felt for the wrinkled dollars in his pocket.

“Three nights.”

The man put out his hand and Archer passed him the money. He put it in the till and swung a stiff ledger around.

“Please sign, complete with a current address.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s the law.”

The law seemed to be everywhere these days.

Archer reluctantly took up the chubby pen the man handed him. “What’s the address of this place?”

“Why?”

“Because that’s my current address, is why.”

The man harrumphed and told him.

Archer dutifully wrote it down and signed his name in a flourish of cursive.

The man eyed the signature upside down. “That’s really your name?”

“Why? You mostly get Smiths and Jones here with ladies on their arms for short stays?”

“Hey, fella, this ain’t that kind of a place.”

“Yeah, I know, you’re all class. Like the naked babies set in marble outside.”

“Look it, where you from?” said the man, a scowl now crowding his face.

“Here and there. Now, here.”

The man slid open a drawer and pulled out a fat, brass key.

“Number 610. Top floor. Elevator’s that way.” He pointed to his left.

“Stairs?”

“Same way.”

As Archer started off, the man said, “Wait, don’t you have no bags?”

“Wearing ’em instead of carrying ’em,” replied Archer over his shoulder.

He took the stairs, not the elevator. Elevators were really little prison cells, was his opinion. And maybe the doors wouldn’t open when he wanted them to. What then?

One thing prison took away from you, hard and clear, was simple trust.

He unlocked the door to 610 and surveyed it, taking his time. He had all the time in the world now. After counting every minute of every hour of every day for the last few years, he no longer had to. But still, it was a tough habit to break. He figured he might actually miss it.

He checked the bed: flimsy, squeaky. His in prison had been concrete masquerading as a mattress, so this was just fine. He opened a drawer and saw the Gideon Bible there along with stationery and a ballpoint pen.

Well, Jesus and letter writing are covered.

He took off his jacket and hung it on a peg, placing his hat on top of it. He slipped out his folding money. He laid the bills out precisely on the bed, divided by denomination. There was not much there after he’d laid out the dough for the room. The DOP had been stingy, but in an effective way.

He would have to work to survive. This would keep him from mischief. He wasn’t guessing about this.

Archer took out his parole papers. It was right there in the very first paragraph.

Gainful employment will keep you from returning to your wayward ways, and thus to prison. DO NOT FORGET THIS.

He continued running his eye down the page.

First meeting was tomorrow morning at nine a.m. sharp. At the Poca City Courts and Municipality Building. That was a long name, and it somehow stoked fear in Archer. Of rules and regulations and too many things for him to contemplate readily. Or adhere to consistently.

Ernestine Crabtree was her name. His parole officer.

Ernestine Crabtree . It sounded like quite a fine name.

For a parole officer.

He opened his window for one reason only. His window had never opened in prison. He sucked in the hot, dry air and surveyed Poca City. Poca City looked back at him without a lick of interest. Archer wondered if that would always be the case no matter where he went.

He lay back on the bed. But his Elgin wristwatch told him it was too early to go to bed. Probably too late to get a drink, though number 14 on his DOP don’t list was no bars and no drink. Number 15 was no women. So was number 16, at least in a way, though it more specifically referred to no “loose” women. The DOP probably had amassed a vast collection of statistics that clearly showed why the confluence of parolees and alcohol in close proximity to others drinking likewise was not a good thing. And when you threw in women, and more to the point, loose women, an apocalypse was the only likely outcome.

Of course, right now, he dearly wished for a libation of risky proportion.

Archer put on his jacket and his hat, scooped up his cash, and went in search of one.

And maybe the loose women, too.

A man in his position could not afford to be choosy. Or withholding of his desires.

On his first day of freedom he deemed life just too damn short for that.

He found it only a short distance from the hotel. Not on the main drag of Poca City, but down a side street that was only half the length of the one he’d left — but it was far more interesting, at least to Archer’s mind.

If the main street was for checker playing and marble musical babies, this was where the adults got their jollies. And Archer had always been a fan of the underdog with weaknesses of the flesh, considering how often he fell on that side of the ledger.

The marquee was neon blue and green with a smattering of sputtering red. He hadn’t seen the likes of such since New York City, where it had been ubiquitous. Yet he hadn’t expected a smidge of it in Poca City.

THE CAT’S MEOW.

That’s what the neon spelled out along with the outline of a feline in full, luxurious stretch that seemed erotic in nature. To Archer, Poca City was getting more interesting by the minute.

He pushed open the red door and walked in.

The first thing he noted was the floor. Planked and nailed and slimed with the slop of what they’d been serving here since the place opened, he reckoned. His one shoe stuck a bit, and then so did the other. Archer compensated by picking up the force of his steps.

The next thing of note was the crowd, or the size of it anyway. He didn’t know the population of the town, but if it had any more people than were in here, it might qualify as a metropolis.