One Good Deed(47)

She tousled his hair. “Well, I can see your point. But it still makes me so mad. It wasn’t that long ago where we couldn’t even vote. Women have to scrounge around the edges for our share, and let the men think they’re so far above us, we’re just happy to be along for the ride. It won’t always be that way, but it’s the way it is now.”

“Is that your psychology education talking?”

“That and my common sense and living in this world.” She snuffed out her smoke in a tall glass of melted ice. “So now I’m up a creek without a paddle or a damn canoe.”

“What will you do now?”

“I’m not going back to my father, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” She lit another cigarette. “What about you?”

“I’m not sure how I collect the debt now and get paid.”

“Way I see it, you have options. Hank’s dead. My father can pay the money back in good conscience since I’m no longer with Hank. Then you can collect the money Hank promised you from Marjorie. I’ll vouch for the deal that Hank made with you. I was there after all. I think she’ll listen to reason. I mean, five thousand dollars is a lot of money. And if she wants it back, you have to get paid.”

“I could go out and see your father. You think he knows about what happened?”

“Of course he does. But I wouldn’t go out there just yet.”

“Why not?”

“Hank was murdered, Archer. You rushing around trying to cash in on his death will not be missed by Mr. Shaw.”

Archer looked at her statement from several angles and pronounced her words starkly plausible. “So maybe I should just lie low for a bit. Shaw already thinks I might’ve killed Pittleman.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t?”

“You’re thinking I’m a killer and yet you just let me in your bed?”

“Well, it was as pleasurable for me as it was for you. And you didn’t murder me. So let some time pass and then you can take my car while the Nash is still my car and go see my father.”

“You okay with me seeing your old man?”

“So long as I don’t have to go back to the son of a bitch, I’m okay with just about anything, Archer.”





Chapter 18



THAT NIGHT ARCHER WAS SITTING ALONE at a table in the Checkered Past restaurant looking over his menu. The place was packed, and he had grabbed the last available table. He glanced up from his menu when she walked in. Ernestine Crabtree had reverted to her office look, meaning an exceedingly modest dress in a drab range of charcoal with a coat sporting big flap pockets that widened her hips. Her hair was once more wound in a fiercely tight bun, the shell specs fronted her face, and she had on not a stitch of powder or lipstick. Her tall heels had shrunk by several inches, and her nylons were thick and scratchy looking. She was holding a wide-brimmed cartwheel hat the color of a robin’s egg, which served to brighten her appearance a bit. Still, Archer had to almost look twice to make sure it was the same woman.

As there were no empty tables, she looked ready to leave when Archer raised his hand.

“Miss Crabtree,” he called out.

The woman glanced sharply in his direction and stiffened when she laid eyes on Archer.

Her gaze darted to the door, but he moved to checkmate her by crying out, “Got a seat for you right here.” He indicated the empty chair opposite him.

She vacillated in the doorway of the eatery and, finally, perhaps her hunger taking precedent over her good sense, she strode across the room and sat quickly in the seat he had indicated. She might have thought if she rushed this through, no one would notice that a parole officer was about to eat with a parolee, at least that was Archer’s observation.

She set her hat down on the table.

Archer had set his hat on his chairback. He slipped it on, then lifted it off, tipped it in her direction, and returned it to the chairback.

“Good to see you.”

“Um, yes.”

He passed her his menu.

She avoided looking at him and focused on the choices for dinner.

“You eat here a lot?” asked Archer. “I mean, I saw you the other time of course.”

“I eat here sometimes.”

She seemed to decide on her supper and set the menu down. When it appeared she could no longer avoid setting eyes on him, Crabtree lifted her gaze to his and said, “I heard about Hank Pittleman. They say he was murdered, in his room at the Derby Hotel.”

“He was.”

“Does that help you or hurt you?” she asked bluntly.

“I was sitting here thinking about that myself.”

“And what have you concluded?”

“That it’s not a simple answer one way or another.”

“I guess I can see that.”

He cocked his head. “Can you now?”

“The man who is owed the debt is dead. Is the debt still owed? Legally, yes. But pragmatically? And what if his widow isn’t aware of the liability? Men often don’t tell their wives anything about their business, believing, wrongly, that they won’t understand. Now Lucas Tuttle may decide he never has to pay it back. In which case, you probably won’t be compensated. But the upside might be that you won’t have to pay back the forty dollars to Pittleman’s estate.”