Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

He put the scrapbook back exactly where he had found it.

He went into the kitchen, all thoughts of a bath gone. He washed up the pots and pans and utensils in the sink and put them away. He sat down at the table and thought about last night here. He and Ernestine had been alone in the house. A bottle of bourbon had been at hand. He’d been cleaned up and all, smelling about as good as he was ever likely to. He had done his best to impress upon the woman that he was attracted to her. And she had chosen a book in her bed over him in her bed.

While thinking this, he went to the shelf and found an Agatha Christie novel. He walked back into the kitchen and stood at the sink looking out the little window into the darkness, the book still held unopened in his hand.

“How did you get in here?”

Archer spun around to see Ernestine standing there.

“Back door. It was unlocked.”

“No, I remember locking it.”

“Well, it must be broken, opened easy enough.”

She came forward and glanced at the empty sink. “You... you did the dishes?”

“It was the least I could do, considering that you made me a dinner I wasn’t here to eat. I’m sorry about that. But I did have the morning coffee and the lunch, and it was much appreciated, Ernestine.”

She set her purse down on the table and slipped off her dark blue pillbox hat and took off her black wrist-length gloves.

“Nothing special about feeding a hungry man. As for dinner, I’m sure you had other pressing matters.”

“Mr. Shaw met me at the truck, and we went out to the Pittlemans’ to talk with his widow.”

“Then you haven’t eaten dinner?”

“No, Mr. Shaw was good enough to buy me some before we headed out.”

She sat down at the table. He did likewise, putting the book in front of him.

“Did you find out anything important?” she asked.

“Just that Pittleman was up to his ears in debt. Guess he had a gambling problem, too. Lost more money than I can count over in that Las Vegas place. They got gambling houses there. And brothels! I mean, I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“How women can do that.”

“They might not have any choice in the matter.”

“I would expect they had a choice and they just made the wrong one. Look at Jackie Tuttle. She told me she chose to be Pittleman’s chattel, like it was her job or something. I still can’t figure that out.”

“So you believe she made the wrong choice then?”

“Well, don’t you?”

“I have no right to judge her, as I haven’t walked in her shoes.”

Archer thought about this for a bit and once more came away with the depth of the woman’s wisdom. He nodded. “I guess you’re right about that.”

Crabtree said, “And now? With Pittleman gone?”

“That ride might have run out for Jackie. And who knows if Pittleman left his wife a dime when all is said and done.”

“It sounds like a dilemma all right.’”

“But Jackie is one smart gal. If anyone can survive this, she can.”

“You care for her, don’t you?”

Archer was startled by this question. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to her. I think...”

“You think what?”

“I think she got a raw deal in life and deserves to be happy in spite of that.”

Crabtree looked at him with those mile-deep eyes, and for a moment Archer could see himself plunging through their depths to who knew where.

“That speaks well of you, Archer.”

He took out his Lucky Strikes and offered her one, but she declined. He lit up and said, “You got a man in your life, Ernestine?” Before she could say anything, he put up a hand. “I know that’s a personal question, and you can just tell me to shove off. But I was just wondering. I never had a steady gal. I left home, roamed a bit, then went to college. Then I volunteered and spent years of my life fighting a war across the ocean. Then I got into trouble and there went more years of my life. Now?” He picked up the book. “Maybe these will be my friends. Keep me company at night.”

“Books are wonderful, Archer, but they can’t be the only things in your life. Humans are built for companionship, at least they should be.”

“So, you got somebody?”

“I have someone I care for, yes.”

“Does he live in Poca City?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a lucky man, then.” He rose and took the book. “I’m gonna read a bit and then get to bed. Butchering hogs takes it outta you.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sure it does.”

Ernestine rose and disappeared into her bedroom, while Archer put his smoke out in the sink, stripped down to his skivvies, and lay on the pulled-out wall bed. He put the book on his chest but didn’t open it. He just lay there wondering when anything in the world would begin to make sense to him.

“How you know that man, Archer?” said Dickie Dill with a snarl accenting his query.

Archer was outside the slaughterhouse eating the lunch that Ernestine had prepared for him. Before he’d left for work, he’d found her in the kitchen making him a hot breakfast, which he’d devoured before heading out. And per Shaw’s instructions, he had kept his eyes and ears open while working there.

“What man is that, Dickie?”

Dill was cutting an apple into spirals with his switchblade and somehow managing to do it in a menacing fashion. He stuck a piece into his mouth and chewed with his few tobacco-stained and crooked teeth, mostly gumming the pulp and swallowing it with an effort.

“That policeman what’s-his-name.”

“Lieutenant Detective Irving Shaw of the state police.”

“Yeah, him. What you doing with a cop?”

Dickie tossed the apple core and lit a Chesterfield, blowing his smoke right at Archer.

“Just looking into the murder of Hank Pittleman.”

“Shoot, man don’t pay his workers, he deserves to die.”

“You confessing?”

Dill took a puff of the Chesterfield and looked at him funny, his mouth caught between a grin and a grimace. “You pullin’ my leg, ain’t’cha?”

“Maybe I am.”

“You hang around cops, folks think shit.”

“Like what?”

“Like you ain’t one of us.”

“I’m an ex-con, you’re an ex-con. Nothing can change that, Dickie. We’re bad boys. Forever.”

“But still. Gotta watch out, Archer.”

“I’m always watching out.”

Especially for you , thought Archer.

“You still at the Derby then?”

Archer started to say no, but then realized Dill would inquire as to where he was lodging, and he didn’t want any inkling of his staying with Ernestine to get out to this loathsome man. Shaw’s telling him about the murders of two women by Dill’s hand had reinforced many times over his already instinctual desire to keep the man far away from his parole officer. Or any woman. Or anybody else, for that matter.

“Yeah, but I’ll be moving on soon. So Pittleman owns this place?”

“What about it?” Dill tapped his cigarette out on the bench next to Archer, uncomfortably close.

“So, you know anybody here that worked directly for him?”

“What you mean by directly ?”

“Meaning more than killing and butchering hogs.”

“Why you want to know?”

“Just wondering.”

Dill grinned in a way that never came close to reaching his eyes. “That was you in the joint too, Archer, thinking ’bout shit too much. You got to learn to leave things be, boy. Ain’t healthy otherwise.”

“So, is that a no?”

Dill made a show of closing up his switchblade. “That means it ain’t your business. And put it outta your goddamn head.”

They went back to work, Dill sledgehammering and Archer cutting and sawing.