One Good Deed(22)

He heard footsteps approaching again, but these were planted more firmly than the old woman’s. Pittleman came into view. He was dressed casually in pleated and cuffed gray slacks and an open-collared shirt, which showed a glimpse of his undershirt and also highlighted his bloated belly and soft shoulders. His trousers were held up by a braided leather belt that looked expensive and probably was. He was holding a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. His hair was just as neatly combed, but in the light of day Archer could see clearly the sun splotches spread over the man’s face like clumps of dirt on an otherwise pristine, if saggy, carpet. And under his eyes were pouches filled with blue veined wrinkles, like the tracings on a dime store map.

He doubted Jackie Tuttle would look any less alluring in the daytime instead of in a dark, smoky bar. But still, that was reason enough to drink in the absence of light.

“What in the hell are you doing here, Archer?”

“Came to report on Mr. Tuttle.”

“You got the Cadillac, boy?” He glanced toward the front door.

“No, sir, but I’m working on it. Mr. Tuttle told me a few things and I just wanted to run them by you.”

Pittleman looked him up and down. “New clothes?”

“Yes sir.”

“I guess I see where my forty dollars went. You gonna disappoint me?”

“I hope not to.”

“Come on back.”

He turned and led Archer down a broad hallway festooned with paintings, murals, and the heads of unfortunate animals.

“You hunt?” asked Archer, looking at the frozen countenance of what appeared to be a water buffalo.

“I do, just not critters.”

Archer looked confused until Pittleman saw this and laughed. “Lots of things in life more important than these here things to hunt, Archer.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll let you find out for yourself. Hope it’s not a lesson you come to regret.”

He led him into a room with glass walls and a glass ceiling, all supported by steel beams. In the center of the room was a table and three upholstered chairs with medieval scenes stitched on them. Leggy potted plants were arrayed around the room. A dark davenport was against one wall with light-colored pillows, and a menagerie of birds printed upon them. Floor lamps with shirred paper shades and graced with various designs both architectural and animal were strategically placed.

Sitting in one of the chairs was, Archer supposed, Mrs. Pittleman. She was around sixty, white-haired, large, big-boned, and matronly with flat cheeks, a chunk of nose, and ears that stuck out. Her eyes, covered by a pair of pince-nez, were set too close together for symmetry. She wore a dress of little style and shape; it might as well have been a blanket laid over her. But it probably cost a small fortune, Archer thought, just like everything else in the place. Archer doubted she had been beautiful even in her youth, but there was refinement and intelligence in her eyes and features. He believed her soul might be far more attractive than the outside of her. But that might just be wishful thinking. Thinking the best of people often was, he had learned.

“Marjorie, honey, this is Archer. He’s been doing some work for me.”

She inclined her head but offered no verbal greeting.

Pittleman sat down, drank his coffee, and folded up his newspaper.

“Take a seat, Archer.”

Archer sat uncomfortably on two knights jousting.

Pittleman said, “So you been out there and talked to him? Why? Did he catch you trying to take the Cadillac? If so, why aren’t you dead or at least gravely injured? I don’t pay good money for a half-ass effort, soldier.”

“I went yesterday afternoon. Knocked on the door and talked to him.”

Pittleman shook his head in confusion and poured another cup of coffee from a silver-plated pot with a long, curved spout. A platinum cigarette case was on the table lying open. Inside were gold-tipped, needle-thin smokes. Next to that was a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson snub-nosed revolver with walnut grips and a hair trigger manually filed down to make it so.

“You like that little belly gun?” asked Archer.

“Nice gat. Drops what I hit, can’t ask for more.”

With hiked eyebrows Archer said, “How often do you drop things?”

“Depends on the target and my mood.”

“With that hair trigger do you even bother fanning the hammer?”

“I shoot slow, but I don’t miss. Isn’t that right, Marjorie?”

She didn’t respond, but Archer didn’t think Pittleman expected her to.

Pittleman took a drink of his coffee and the movement revealed on his wrist a watch encrusted with six diamonds and twin sapphires. Archer saw the name LONGINES etched on the face underneath the glass. He looked down at his own timepiece and reminded himself that they both told the same story despite being separated by a truckload of dollars.

Pittleman said, “So why the hell did you go out there and see Tuttle in broad daylight? You think he was going to just hand you the keys to the damn Caddy? You can’t be that cockeyed, boy!”

“No, sir. I just wanted to verify that he owed the money.”

“I already verified that to you, son. Are you simple? Did I make a mistake hiring you?”

“Well, he did verify it. And he has the money to pay the debt off. Which I think you probably want more than the car. Am I right about that? I mean, you said it wouldn’t come close to paying off the debt and interest and such.”