One Good Deed(72)

“I’ve found that looks can be deceiving.”

She glanced up to see him staring pointedly at her.

“You have something you want to say?” she asked, giving him a curious glance.

“Look at you. I mean, a man could just see your…well, your beauty and think that was all there was. They wouldn’t know anything about all the books you’ve read, all the things you know. That you want to write a book of your own. And that you help people that need helping, like me. I mean, they wouldn’t know any of that.”

“You’re right, they wouldn’t. And what do you think about that?”

“I think it’s sad. Like the fellow who wrote those nasty things or the sheriff who wants you to whatever, or the jerk in the hall who wolf-whistled. They just look at you and see one thing.”

She leaned forward, and those enormous eyes of hers wrapped themselves around the man. “And how about you, Archer? When you look at me what do you see?”

He didn’t hesitate in answering. “I see someone I’d like to be good friends with my whole life.”

His answer seemed to startle her for a moment. “I believe you mean that.”

“That’s because I do.” He paused and this line of conversation made him think of something else, something important. “Look here, Ernestine, Dickie Dill?”

“What about him?”

“He’s one dangerous man.”

“I know that, Archer.”

“I don’t like the fact that you have to meet with him.”

“It’s only once a month now. I won’t have to see him for quite some time.”

“I don’t like that you have to ever see him.”

“It is my job.” She gave him a piercing look. “Why? Did something happen?”

He started to tell her but then changed his mind. “Next time you have to meet with him, let me know and I’ll be there, too.”

“You don’t have to do that, Archer.”

“I’m not doing it because I have to, it’s because I want to, Ernestine.”

“Thank you. That’s very…sweet of you.”

They spent the rest of the evening listening to music on Crabtree’s Emerson radio.

“I like that Sinatra fellow,” said Archer. “But give me old Bing Crosby any day.”

“I still love listening to the Andrews Sisters,” replied Crabtree nostalgically. “After work, in the rooming house I stayed at during the war, we’d lie around, drinking coffee and smoking, and listen to them all night long.”

“They came over with the USO while we were fighting in Italy. Them and Bob Hope and some others. ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ always got me stomping my feet. And that Patty Andrews, wow, she was some looker—” Archer caught himself. “And a damn fine singer.”

Crabtree looked up at him and smiled. “It’s okay to compliment a person’s looks, Archer. You’re a handsome man, I freely admit that. So long as it’s not all we think about each other.”

“Right.”

Later, they each picked up their books and Ernestine headed off to bed. But about a half hour later Archer put his novel down, picked his hat up, clutched his new key, and left by the back door.

About twenty minutes later, he was knocking on the portal at 27 Eldorado.

Jackie answered his knock dressed in high-waisted jeans, pink slippers, and a checkered shirt tied up high enough to expose her taut midriff. Her hair was curled up in plump rollers.

She did not seem happy to see him. “You think you can just show up any old time and I’ll let you in? I got things to do, too, Archer.”

“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.”