Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

To her credit, Crabtree didn’t even flinch. “So, you followed me?”

“I followed him because he was following you. I wouldn’t have let him hurt you. Turns out, you didn’t need me.” He glanced at her purse. “You got the snub-nose in there now?”

“In my line of work, I rarely go anywhere without it.”

“Why’d you choose that ‘line of work’ in the first place?”

She took a few moments to light her smoke, tapping her ash alongside his.

“It’s a job. And I do help people. The ones like Dickie Dill and Bullock are hopeless cases, I will freely admit that.” She paused and took a long draw on her Pall Mall. “But you’re not, Archer, not by a long shot, if I’m any judge.”

“How’s the story you’re writing coming?”

“Slowly. But I have a lot of material.”

“Where do you get that?”

“Life.”

“So, where’d you live before coming here?” he asked, bending his matchstick in half and depositing it in the black ashtray sitting between them.

In response, Crabtree waved the waitress over.

She stood next to the table, pad and pen in hand. She was in her fifties, tired and worn-out looking, with gray hair partially covered by the cap that was part of her uniform — a dark brown short-sleeved one-piece with a frilly, stained apron built into the front.

“What are you all having?” she said curtly.

Archer glanced at Crabtree, who said, “I’ll have the beef stew.”

“To drink?”

“Lemonade.”

She wrote this down and turned to Archer. “You, sir?”

“Steak rare, with the potatoes and green beans. And coffee to drink. Black. And for dessert, how about a slice of that coconut cream pie I see behind the glass over there.”

She wrote this down and departed.

Crabtree took another puff of her cigarette. “I was born and raised in Texas. I left when I was seventeen. When the war started, I worked building airplanes.”

“Really, which kind?” he said with interest.

“Quite a few actually. The last one I worked on was the B-29 bomber at a plant in Georgia.”

He nodded appreciatively. “The Superfortress, they called it. Seen them in the skies when I was over there. And didn’t one of them drop the A-bombs on the Japs?”

“Yes, I believe that’s right.”

“Building airplanes. That’s impressive, Miss Crabtree.”

“I wanted to do my part, as I’m sure you did.”

“You still have family in Texas?”

“No. I have no family left. None.” She stared down at the table.

He nodded, felt sorry for her obvious uncomfortableness, and decided to say no more for now. They waited in silence until their food came. They ate with only the occasional glance at each other. In the middle of it, Archer excused himself to use the washroom.

Later, when he’d finished off his steak and vegetables, he eyed the slice of pie the waitress had set off to the side of the table.

“I’d be honored if you’d split the pie with me,” he said.

“No, I really couldn’t,” said Crabtree, setting down her utensils.

“One bite of pie isn’t going to kill anybody.”

She sighed and looked unsure but reached for her fork.

“It is good,” she said as they ate away at it.

“Lot better than what they fed us in the war. It was either rotted or too hard for the teeth.”

“What did you do then?”

“Scrounged off the countryside.”

“You mean you stole from people?”

“I never stole from anybody. Lots of places were abandoned. If I put a hunk of bread or an apple or some raw carrots in my pocket, I don’t think anybody minded.”

Crabtree wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Well, I’m just glad the war’s over.”

“You and me both.”

“Thank you for the pie. I should go now. I will pay my bill separately, of course.”

“Already paid the bill when I went to use the john.”

“Now why did you do that?”

“I knew if I’d offered, you wouldn’t let me, so...”

“It’s against the rules for me to—”

“You tell me how it’s wrong for a man to buy a woman a meal? I mean, you’re helping me out with all the parole stuff. This is a way of thanking you.”

“It’s my job. It’s what I’m paid to do. It is not done out of friendship or kindness.”

“I paid for your dinner out of an act of kindness. Do you want ex-cons to be kind and thoughtful or not?”

“Well, when you put it that way, the answer seems obvious, I suppose. So thank you very much for dinner.”

“Good, now it’s a fine evening. We can walk off dinner.”

“I... I really should be—”

“I can at least walk you home.”

She glanced at him sharply. “If you saw Dan Bullock, you know where I live.”

He nodded. “So what happened to him? You never said.”

“He was sent back to prison based on my written account and the knife that he had with his fingerprints on it. I called the police as soon as I got in my house. They picked him up trying to hitch a ride out of town.”

“I think he’s right where he belongs, then.” He stood, put on his hat, and looked down at her. “You ready?”

She picked up her purse and hat, and they set off together.

The air was crisp, which was a nice change, though the sky was clear to the horizon and probably beyond. Archer kept glancing at his companion curiously as she walked along rigidly and uncomfortably.

Crabtree said, “So, with Pittleman dead, that means you no longer have a job?”

“The jury’s still out on that, so to speak.”

“How so?”

“I have an opportunity to still make it pay off, only I have to handle things delicately.”

“With Lucas Tuttle?”

“Right. I’m going out to meet with him at some point.”

“Why not right away?”

“Well, with Mr. Pittleman being murdered and all, it’s probably smart to let things quiet down a little before I go making money off something connected to him.”

“Oh, I guess I can see that.” She suddenly eyed him sharply. “Archer, you didn’t have anything to do with the man’s death, did you?”

“I swear on a stack of Bibles that I didn’t.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a bit. Her look had told Archer all he needed to know. She and Jackie both thought he might have killed the man.

“Did you finish that book you were reading, by, who was it again?”

“Virginia Woolf. And yes, I did. It was wonderful.” She paused. “The writing of hers I like best isn’t a novel or a short story, but an essay entitled A Room of One’s Own .”

“What’s it about?”

“A woman working in a man’s world, essentially.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“Perhaps.”

“I read a lot in prison. I like detective stories. You heard of Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, and that little fellow from Belgium?”

“Yes, I have. They’re quite entertaining.”

“And maybe I can make a living doing that sort of work,” said Archer. He had thought of this before and had decided to try it out on her.

“From convict to detective? Quite a leap.”

“I was a scout in the Army. My job was to look at things, take in a bunch of information, and then take a course of action. Probably close to what Detective Shaw is doing right now, don’t you think?”

She looked impressed with his logic. “I think you might be right.”

They eventually arrived at her house.

“You own it?”

“No, I’m renting it for the time being.”

“It’s really pretty.”

She smiled. “It wasn’t so pretty when I got here, but I’ve had some things repaired. Though the door to my bedroom still jams. I can never fully close it.”