Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

“I’m sorry, Jackie. I’ve been working at the slaughterhouse during the day.”

“And staying somewhere you won’t tell me at night. I wonder why.”

“I need to talk to you about Pittleman. Can I come in?” He glanced at her rolled-up hair. “Are you getting ready to go out somewhere?”

“No.”

“Then what’s all that for?” he said, pointing at her hair.

“I’m experimenting with a new hairstyle.”

“Women do that?” he said, eyes wide.

“Women do a lot of things to please men. But more so to please other women. At least we like to think so.”

She stepped back to allow him to pass inside.

Jackie poured a rum and Coca-Cola over ice for herself without asking him if he wanted one and sat down on the couch across from him.

“What about Hank?” she said bluntly.

Archer lifted his hat off and perched it on his knee, looking uncomfortable. “I came to tell you that Pittleman was a sick man,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“He had cancer, up here.” Archer tapped his head.

Jackie set her drink down because her hand was shaky. “Is... is that why he had the headaches?”

“I guess so.”

“He never said anything to me about it.”

“Well, I don’t think he told his wife, either. Doc said he didn’t have long.”

“He was already dying when someone killed him? Is that what you’re saying?”

He nodded. “And there’s something else.”

She shot him a glance. “That’s not enough?”

“Remember I said he had money problems?”

“How could I forget? It’s hard to believe, though. I thought Hank was rolling in dough.”

“Well, he was also a gambler. And he owed the casinos in Las Vegas two hundred thousand dollars.”

She looked stunned by this information. “That is crazy talk, Archer.”

“And at the slaughterhouse they could only make half the payroll this week.”

“Let me get this all straight. Someone kills a dying man. And then you’re telling me that a rich man isn’t really rich?”

He nodded again.

Jackie finished off her drink in one gulp and held the cold glass against her cheek.

“And you didn’t know about any of this?” said Archer.

“How could I? He gave me a car and a house and spending money. And he told me his headaches were something he’d always suffered from, even as a child.”

“Man kept his secrets, I suppose.”

Jackie looked at him with a sobering expression. “I guess we all do.”

“What were you expecting from Pittleman?”

She set her drink down, crossed her arms, and scowled at him. “What do you mean by that?” she said coldly.

“You couldn’t marry the man. He was already hitched to Marjorie. But was it just the use of the house and car and folding money?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because the man is dead, Jackie, and we’re trying to figure out why. And some folks think I killed him, that’s why!”

“You playing at being a shamus?” she said in a bemused fashion.

“It’s not playing when you might be looking at a noose around your neck.”

“They’re not going to hang you, Archer.”

“You think the law’s never convicted an innocent man before? Because I’m living proof that they have.”

She started to say something but then caught herself. “Hank was a hard man, Archer. There are plenty of people who might have wanted to kill him.”

“Shaw thinks it might be the Las Vegas crowd because he stiffed them.”

“I guess it could be,” she said doubtfully.

He looked at her closely. “But you don’t think so?”

“I don’t know what to think and that’s the honest-to-God truth.” She looked at him, really looked at him, maybe for the first time tonight. “Do you believe me?”

Archer thought of Shaw’s warning about trusting people, especially pretty women. “As much as you believe me,” he said evenly.

Her face fell. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes, but... not like that.” She sat up. “I’m a little scared, Archer. I mean, I was with Hank a lot, and some people might think... I know things.”

His defenses crumbled in the face of this plea. “Sure, I’ll sleep here on the couch.”

After she went to her bedroom, Archer lay on her couch and stared up at the ceiling. He was now taking his slumber in two different women’s homes but not in their beds, and he wasn’t sure what to think about that. One thing he was fairly certain of: His life was going to get even more complicated before long.

The next morning, Archer left a note for Jackie and returned to Ernestine’s before the woman got up, using his key to get in. He figured she’d be sleeping in, since she didn’t work on Saturdays, and he turned out to be right. He opened her bedroom door a crack and saw her still in bed, her novel lying open beside her.

He made his own breakfast, left Ernestine a note, and headed over to the Derby. Shaw had mentioned that he was staying there but hadn’t told Archer which room. He wanted to tell the detective what had happened at the slaughterhouse. Archer was afraid that Dill was going to do something at some point. But there was something else bothering Archer about the change in Dill. The little man had become more focused in his aggression, and Archer sensed some purpose behind the man’s normally mean-spirited disposition.

Archer walked over to the front desk where the same man who had evicted him was parked behind the counter reading a newspaper. When he saw Archer coming, he dropped the paper and backed away.

“What do you want with me?”

“Hold on, pal. Just want to know if Mr. Shaw’s in his room.”

“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him today.”

“It was 201?”

“No, 304.”

“Oh, that’s right. Thanks.”

The man picked up his newspaper but shot suspicious glances at Archer as he walked quickly away.

He ran the three flights up and approached Number 304. He knocked on the door and received no answer.

“Hey, Mr. Shaw,” he called out, his mouth close to the wood. “It’s me, Archer. We have to talk. Found some things out.”

No sound. No nothing.

He walked back down the stairs. Shaw had told him he was married and had kids. After this was over, he would presumably go back home to them.

Who do I have to go home to?

First, he didn’t have a home. And, second, even if he did, there would be no one in it other than him. He hadn’t accomplished much in his life so far. And maybe he was running out of opportunities to improve upon that dismal record.

He checked his watch and left. It was about time for the truck to pick them up. The slaughterhouse worked every day but the Sabbath, he’d been told. Surprisingly, Dill wasn’t there. Archer asked around, but no one knew where the little man had gotten to. They just seemed collectively relieved that he was not among them.

Archer worked all day and rode back on the truck with the other exhausted men. At least tomorrow there would be no work. When he got off and was heading down the street, Shaw’s big Buick pulled up alongside him.

“Hey, been looking for you,” said Archer.

“Been outta town. Get in.”

Archer climbed in.

“Why were you looking for me?” asked Shaw.

Archer told him about Dill and the threats and his wanting to know what Archer was doing with Shaw.

The detective took this all in with a few nods.

“Now, where have you been?” asked Archer.

“To see a doctor and an insurance man.”

“You sick?”

“Not for me. Hank Pittleman’s.”

“I’m not following.”

“Let’s go get some grub. And I could use some coffee.”