Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

Dill turned and walked off with a group from the truck, but Archer caught him glancing back a couple of times and then whispering something to the men with him.

Archer turned back to Shaw.

The lawman said, “Also heard you got kicked out of the Derby. Where you staying?”

“Around.”

“But at least you’re earning some money.”

“Thought I was, but now I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just heard that the slaughterhouse might not make full payroll tomorrow. And that it’s owned, or was owned, by Hank Pittleman.”

Shaw took off his hat and rubbed at his hair. “Well, that jells squarely with what I’ve been finding out.”

“You mean Pittleman not paying his bills?”

“Not just that. But let’s go somewhere and talk. You hungry?”

“If you’re buying. I don’t have a cent to my name.”

Shaw looked at his clothes, took a whiff, and his face contorted.

Archer grimaced. “You try butchering hogs all day and see how the hell you smell.”

“Come on then, and let’s get your belly full up and my sinuses cleared out.”

They each had rare steaks and hard potatoes and coffee and pie at the Checkered Past. As they ate, they talked.

Shaw said in a low voice, “Man was head over heels in debt. Those past-due bills I found in the trash were just the tip of the iceberg.”

“How can that be, I wonder?” said Archer.

“Part of it is from gambling.”

“Gambling? Where?”

“They got places around here, Archer. None of ’em legal, but they’re around. And then we found out Pittleman’s been traveling to this place called Las Vegas. You heard of it?”

Archer shook his head. “Hold on a minute. First night I met Pittleman, he mentioned the place. Said the likes of Poca City couldn’t compete with Los Angeles and Frisco and that Vegas place.”

“That’s interesting. Well, it’s in Nevada. They got gambling casinos out there. And showgirls. And brothels too.”

“Brothels?”

“Prostitution, son. It’s legal out there.”

“The hell you say. I never knew that.”

“And the boys that run those casinos, we’re talking criminals, gangsters, make John Dillinger look like a choirboy.”

“And Pittleman got in with them? And he owes them money? You think they sent somebody here to kill him then?”

“It’s possible, Archer. From what I’ve learned, those boys don’t take no for an answer when it comes to dollars owed. I guess they figure if they let one customer stiff ’em, everybody would try.”

“So what are you gonna do? If they sent somebody out from Nevada, doubt they’re still around.”

“Doubt that, too.”

“What now?”

“Figure as soon as we finish up here, we’ll take a ride out to see Marjorie Pittleman.”

“What for?”

“If her husband was into all these shenanigans, she might know about it. We’ve been all over his office at the Derby but there might be something helpful at his house. You know the lady. So you game?”

“I’m game for anything that keeps me from going back to prison. But right now this is all clear as mud.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time and it’s pretty muddy for me too, son.”

Shaw had a big four-door buick that he pushed hard as they roared down the road. Earlier, after they’d finished their dinners, he’d escorted Archer to the Derby Hotel and let him wash up in the hall bath. As he was driving, Shaw said, “I called ahead, so the lady’s expecting us. Right now, tell me about that fella on the truck with you.”

“His name’s Dickie Dill.”

Shaw’s eyes took on a hint of recognition. “Dickie Dill. Damn. I knew I’d seen that cuss before.”

“Where?”

“Investigating a murder, well, actually two murders, this was way back. Must’ve been ten years ago, before the war. That Dill killed two women sure as I’m sitting here. But we couldn’t prove it.”

“I thought you always got your man, Mr. Shaw?”

“Hell, son, even lawmen lie sometimes to make themselves look better.”

“Well, any consolation, he was in prison for a long while. Just got out a few months ago, so they must’ve got him for something else. He’s small but mean as hell. He’s not a man you want to cross.”

“I’ll cross him if he steps a foot outta line,” said Shaw fiercely.

They reached the gates of the Pittleman estate, and Manuel opened them so they could pass through.

“Hold on,” said Archer. He was pointing at a long-hooded car parked in the drive. “That’s Lucas Tuttle’s car.”

“You sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. That’s his driver sitting in the front seat.”

“Wonder what he’s doing here?”

The front door opened as he said this, and Lucas Tuttle appeared there.

Archer saw that he was putting a sheaf of papers into his suit jacket pocket.

“Let’s ask him.”

They faced off with Tuttle at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door.

Tuttle had on a checkered sport coat, contrasting charcoal slacks, and black-and-white leather lace-up shoes. His bow tie held a pattern of black-and-white swirls. His crown-dented fedora covered the snowy hair. The bowl end of a pipe stuck out of his breast jacket pocket.

“Archer, what are you doing here?” he asked.

Shaw stepped forward and showed his badge. “He’s with me. I’m Lieutenant Detective Irving Shaw, with the state police.”

“You certainly look like an officer of the law,” said a clearly unimpressed Tuttle.

“Can I inquire as to what you’re doing here?”

As he asked this, Archer glanced toward the front of the house. In a window next to the door, he saw Malcolm Draper staring out at them. When he saw that Archer had spotted him, the man abruptly moved away.

Tuttle said, “I was here paying my respects to Marjorie on the death of her husband.”

“I understand that you owe her a debt.”

“And who do you hear that from?” said Tuttle, glowering at Archer.

“Never mind. Did you pay her?”

“I have Mr. Archer here working on that for me. So you can ask him about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Just a minute there, fella,” said Shaw. “You want to tell me where you were between the hours of midnight and six a.m. on the day Hank Pittleman was found murdered?”

“I was in Houston, Texas, with about ten other gentlemen. We were up conducting business until nearly three in the morning. So unless you think I can fly like that Superman fellow, I think you and I have no further business.”

“You get me the names and addresses of these ten gents.”

“I’ll gladly have my secretary provide them. Never let it be said that Lucas Tuttle was not a good partner to the law.”

He tipped his hat, walked to his car, climbed in, and they drove off.

“I don’t like that man,” said Shaw. “He’s too smart and smug for his own good.”

“I don’t much like him, either,” said Archer. “Especially when he’s pointing a shotgun at my crotch.”

Shaw knocked on the front door while Archer stood beside him looking awkward.

“So those two gals, Marjorie and Jackie, met head-to-head, did they? How’d that work out?”

“Don’t try to figure out women, Mr. Shaw. You would just be wasting your time.”

“Hell, boy, I know that. I got a wife and a daughter. But see, my job requires me to do just that. Figure people out.”

“You been out here before, then?” asked Archer.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Because you didn’t start jawing at the size of this place.”

Shaw grinned at this comment. “Well, I sure did the first time I came out here. This house looks as big as some of the German factories I dropped bombs on.”