One Good Deed, Page 2

  Archer had instantly seized on her as the real power, and thus had focused all of his attention there. His contriteness was genuine, his remorse complete. He stared into her large, brown eyes and said his piece with heartfelt emphasis contained in each word, until he saw quivering at the corners of those eyes, the false bird and fox start to shake. When he’d finished and then answered all her questions, the consultation among the board was swift and in his favor as the men quickly capitulated to the woman’s magisterial decree.

  And that had been the price of freedom, which he had gladly paid.

  The Derby Hotel was where the DOP said it would be. Point for those folks, grudgingly. Its architecture reminded him of places he’d seen in Germany. That did not sit particularly well with him. Archer hadn’t fought all those years to come home and see any elements of the vanquished settled here. He trudged across the macadam, the collected heat of the day wicking up into his long feet. Though the sky was now dark, it was still cloudless and clear. The air was so dry he felt his skin try to pull back into itself. Archer also thought he saw dust exhaled along with breath. A pair of old, withered men were bent over a checkerboard table incongruously perched in the shadow of a large fountain. The thing was built principally of gray-and-white marble with naked, fat cherubs suspended in the middle holding harps and flutes, and not a drop of water coming out of the myriad spouts.

  With furtive glances, the old men watched him coming. Archer shuffled along rather than walked. For long distances in prison, meaning longer than a walk to the john, you had your feet shackled. And so, you shuffled along. It was demeaning, to be sure, and that was the whole purpose behind it. Archer meant to rid himself of the motion, but it was easier said than done.

  He could feel their gazes tracking him, like silent parasites sucking the life out of him at a distance, him in his cheap, wrinkled clothes with his awkward gait.

  Prison stop. Look out, gents, ex-con shuffling on by.

  He nodded to them as he and his filthy shoes grew closer to the cherubic fountain and the bent checker-playing men. Neither nodded in return. Poca City apparently was not that sort of place.

  He reached the harder pavement in front of the hotel, swung the front door wide and let it bang shut behind him. He crossed the floor, the plush carpet sucking him in, and tapped a bell set on the front desk. As its ringing died down, he gazed at a sign on the wall promising shined shoes fast for a good rate. That and a shave and a haircut, and a masculine aftershave included.

  A middle-aged man with a chrome dome and wearing a not overly clean white shirt with a gray vest over it and faded corduroy trousers came out from behind a frayed burgundy curtain to greet him. His sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were about as hairy as any Archer had ever seen. It was like fat, fuzzy caterpillars had colonized there. His nails could have used a scrubbing, and he seemed to have the same coating of dust as Archer.

  “Yes?” he said, running an appraising glance over Archer and clearly coming away not in any way, shape, or form satisfied.

  “Need a room.”

  “Figgered that. Rates on the wall right there. You okay with that?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  The man gave him a look while Archer felt for the wrinkled dollars in his pocket.

  “Three nights.”

  The man put out his hand and Archer passed him the money. He put it in the till and swung a stiff ledger around.

  “Please sign, complete with a current address.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the law.”

  The law seemed to be everywhere these days.

  Archer reluctantly took up the chubby pen the man handed him. “What’s the address of this place?”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s my current address, is why.”

  The man harrumphed and told him.

  Archer dutifully wrote it down and signed his name in a flourish of cursive.

  The man eyed the signature upside down. “That’s really your name?”

  “Why? You mostly get Smiths and Jones here with ladies on their arms for short stays?”

  “Hey, fella, this ain’t that kind of a place.”

  “Yeah, I know, you’re all class. Like the naked babies set in marble outside.”

  “Look it, where you from?” said the man, a scowl now crowding his face.

  “Here and there. Now, here.”

  The man slid open a drawer and pulled out a fat, brass key.

  “Number 610. Top floor. Elevator’s that way.” He pointed to his left.

  “Stairs?”

  “Same way.”

  As Archer started off, the man said, “Wait, don’t you have no bags?”

  “Wearing ’em instead of carrying ’em,” replied Archer over his shoulder.

  He took the stairs, not the elevator. Elevators were really little prison cells, was his opinion. And maybe the doors wouldn’t open when he wanted them to. What then?

  One thing prison took away from you, hard and clear, was simple trust.

  He unlocked the door to 610 and surveyed it, taking his time. He had all the time in the world now. After counting every minute of every hour of every day for the last few years, he no longer had to. But still, it was a tough habit to break. He figured he might actually miss it.

  He checked the bed: flimsy, squeaky. His in prison had been concrete masquerading as a mattress, so this was just fine. He opened a drawer and saw the Gideon Bible there along with stationery and a ballpoint pen.

  Well, Jesus and letter writing are covered.

  He took off his jacket and hung it on a peg, placing his hat on top of it. He slipped out his folding money. He laid the bills out precisely on the bed, divided by denomination. There was not much there after he’d laid out the dough for the room. The DOP had been stingy, but in an effective way.

  He would have to work to survive. This would keep him from mischief. He wasn’t guessing about this.

  Archer took out his parole papers. It was right there in the very first paragraph.

  Gainful employment will keep you from returning to your wayward ways, and thus to prison. DO NOT FORGET THIS.

  He continued running his eye down the page.

  First meeting was tomorrow morning at nine a.m. sharp. At the Poca City Courts and Municipality Building. That was a long name, and it somehow stoked fear in Archer. Of rules and regulations and too many things for him to contemplate readily. Or adhere to consistently.

  Ernestine Crabtree was her name. His parole officer.

  Ernestine Crabtree. It sounded like quite a fine name.

  For a parole officer.

  He opened his window for one reason only. His window had never opened in prison. He sucked in the hot, dry air and surveyed Poca City. Poca City looked back at him without a lick of interest. Archer wondered if that would always be the case no matter where he went.

  He lay back on the bed. But his Elgin wristwatch told him it was too early to go to bed. Probably too late to get a drink, though number 14 on his DOP don’t list was no bars and no drink. Number 15 was no women. So was number 16, at least in a way, though it more specifically referred to no “loose” women. The DOP probably had amassed a vast collection of statistics that clearly showed why the confluence of parolees and alcohol in close proximity to others drinking likewise was not a good thing. And when you threw in women, and more to the point, loose women, an apocalypse was the only likely outcome.

  Of course, right now, he dearly wished for a libation of risky proportion.

  Archer put on his jacket and his hat, scooped up his cash, and went in search of one.

  And maybe the loose women, too.

  A man in his position could not afford to be choosy. Or withholding of his desires.

  On his first day of freedom he deemed life just too damn short for that.

  Chapter 3

  HE FOUND IT only a short distance from the ho
tel. Not on the main drag of Poca City, but down a side street that was only half the length of the one he’d left—but it was far more interesting, at least to Archer’s mind.

  If the main street was for checker playing and marble musical babies, this was where the adults got their jollies. And Archer had always been a fan of the underdog with weaknesses of the flesh, considering how often he fell on that side of the ledger.

  The marquee was neon blue and green with a smattering of sputtering red. He hadn’t seen the likes of such since New York City, where it had been ubiquitous. Yet he hadn’t expected a smidge of it in Poca City.

  THE CAT’S MEOW.

  That’s what the neon spelled out along with the outline of a feline in full, luxurious stretch that seemed erotic in nature. To Archer, Poca City was getting more interesting by the minute.

  He pushed open the red door and walked in.

  The first thing he noted was the floor. Planked and nailed and slimed with the slop of what they’d been serving here since the place opened, he reckoned. His one shoe stuck a bit, and then so did the other. Archer compensated by picking up the force of his steps.

  The next thing of note was the crowd, or the size of it anyway. He didn’t know the population of the town, but if it had any more people than were in here, it might qualify as a metropolis.

  The bar nearly ran the length of one wall. And like on the bows of old ships, sculpted into the corner support posts of the bar were the heads and exposed bosoms of women—he supposed loose ones. And every stool had a butt firmly planted on it. Against one wall fiddle and guitar players plucked and strummed, while one gal was singing for all she was worth. She had red curly hair, a pink, freckled face, and slim hips with stiff dungarees on over them. Her notes seemed to hit the ceiling so hard they ricocheted off with the force of combat shrapnel.

  Behind the bar was a wall of shelves holding every type of bottled liquor Archer had ever seen and then some, by a considerable margin. He reckoned a man could live his whole life here and never grow thirsty, so long as the coin of the realm kept up.

  Indeed, happening on this place after being behind bars this morning and enduring a long, dusty bus ride and encountering less than friendly citizens hereabouts, Archer considered he might be in a dream. With three years of probation to endure, he felt like a large fish with a hook in its mouth. He could be yanked back at any moment, and that lent force to a man’s whims. Thus, he decided to take full advantage while he could.

  Sidling up to the bar, he wedged in between what seemed a colossus of a farmer with a rowdy beard and hands the width of Archer’s head, and a short, thick, late-fifties-something, slick-haired banker type in a creamy white three-piece suit far nicer than Archer’s. He also had a knotted blue-and-white-striped tie, with reptile leather two-tone shoes on his feet, a fully realized smirk in his eye, and a woman less than half his age on his arm. Resting on the bar in front of the man was a flat-crowned Panama hat with a yellow band of silk.

  Archer caught the bartender’s attention and held up two horizontally stacked fingers and tacked on the words “Bourbon, straight up.”

  The gent, old, spent, and thin as a strand of rope, nodded, retrieved the liquor from the vast stacks, poured it neat into a short glass, and held it out with one hand, while the other presented itself palm up for payment. It was a practiced motion that a man like Archer could appreciate.

  “How much you charging for that?” he asked.

  “Fifty cents for two fingers, take it or leave it, son.”

  “What’s the bourbon again, pops?”

  “Only one bourbon in these parts, young feller. Rebel Yell. Wheat, not rye. You don’t like Rebel, you best pick another type of alcohol or another part of the state. Give me an answer, ’cause I ain’t getting any younger and I got thirsty folks with folding money want my attention.”

  “Rebel sounds fine to me.”

  He passed over the two quarters and settled his elbows on the bar with the short glass cupped in both hands. He hadn’t had a drink in a while. He’d banged one back the day before prison, just for good luck, so he reckoned it was a certain symmetry to have one the day he left prison. He was into balance if nothing else these days. And moderation, too, until it proved inconvenient, which it very often did to a man like him.

  The banker eyed Archer, while his lady ran her tongue over full lips painted as warm a red as a sky hosting a setting sun.

  “You’re not from here,” said the banker. His silver hair was cut, combed, and styled with the precision available only to a man who had the dollars and leisure time for such tasks. His face was as flabby as the rest of him, and also tanned and creased with lines in a way that women might or might not find attractive. For such a man, the thickness of his wallet and not the fitness of his torso was his main and perhaps only aphrodisiac for the ladies.

  “I know I’m not,” replied Archer, sipping the Rebel and letting it go down slow, the only way to drink bourbon, or so his granddad had informed him. And not only informed but demonstrated on more than one occasion. He tipped his hat back, turned around, bony elbows on the bar, his long torso angled off it, and studied the banker, then flitted his gaze to the lady.

  The banker’s smirk broadened—he was reading Archer’s mind, no doubt.

  “I like this town,” said the banker. “And everything in it.”

  He patted the lady’s behind and then his hand remained perched there. She seemed not to mind or else had grown accustomed to this fondling, or both. As the man’s fingers stroked her, she took a moment to powder her nose while looking in a mirror attached to a shiny compact. The lady next shook out a tube of lipstick from her clutch purse and repainted her mouth before once more taking up what looked to be a murky martini with three fat olives lurking mostly below the surface, like gators in a bog.

  “Been in Poca City long, have you?” inquired Archer.

  “Long enough to see what’s good and what needs changing. And then changing it.”

  He closed his mouth and eyed Archer from under tilted tufts of eyebrow.

  “You gonna keep me in suspense?” said Archer finally.

  The banker laughed and swallowed some of his whiskey. His eyes flickered just a bit as the drink went down, like wobbly lights in a storm.

  Archer’s mouth eased into a smile at this weakness, but the man didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

  “Poca’s growing. This used to be just cattle land. And farming. Now that’s changing. Business and money coming in. Not too much riffraff.”

  “How do you decide about riffraff? See, I might fall into that category and then where do we go with this happy conversation?”

  The lady laughed at this, but the banker did not. She shut her mouth and sipped her bog.

  The banker intoned, “Fact is, a man can make money here if he’s willing to work. With the war over, we have winners and losers. I aim to make certain Poca falls on the winner’s side of the ledger. See, I was here before the war, trying to make things work. Place was an armpit then. Now the country is rebuilding, hell, we’re putting the bricks and glass back up all over Europe, too. Had that damn Berlin Airlift feeding all them folks. Commies taking over in China. That Stalin fella getting half o’ Europe under his iron thumb and testing them damn nuclear bombs. Now, Truman said we’d all be getting a fair deal here, but I don’t take no man’s word for that, president or not. Folks are heading west again, making their way to new lives, new fortunes. And in Poca, we’re sort of at the crossroads of all that. Betwixt old America where most now still live and new America that lies west of here. People pass through. Some stay. Most keep going because we can’t compete with the likes of Los Angeles and Frisco and that gambling haven in Las Vegas. But opportunities still abound here. And I’m well positioned to take advantage of every one of them. And I am, by God.”

  Archer listened to all this, nodding, his mouth twitching back and forth as he processed the man’s many words.

  He said, “Saw the fountain
with the babies, and the geezers playing checkers. Kinda odd sight.”

  The man laughed. “Old and the new. Before long there won’t be time for people to be sitting around playing checkers.”

  “No water coming out the fountain though.”

  “We’ve had a drought,” the man said. “For a long time now.”

  “People gonna come to a place where there’s no water?”

  “Not if your livelihood depends on raising cattle and crops. That’s why we’re changing our ways. We use the water for drinking and bathing and such and not cattle and crops, we’ll be fine. You know how damn much a cow drinks?” He laughed.

  Archer nodded and took another sip of the Rebel and let it slide down his throat like lava over fresh dirt. “I guess I can see that,” he replied.

  “Look, where you coming in from?”

  “A seven-hour slow, dusty bus ride from the east.”

  The banker squinted as he calculated. “That’s a fair stretch of road, mister.”

  “I figure you for a banker type, but I’d like to be sure.”

  “Why, you looking to rob me?”

  They all three had a laugh at that, but Archer’s died out before the other two had finished guffawing.

  Archer glanced at the woman, who was doing the tongue-on-lip thing again. She was in her late twenties with silky, dark hair in a Veronica Lake peekaboo. The sheet of hair fell off the side of her head like a waterfall at night, which contrasted sharply with her pale complexion. Archer could smell her scent across the span of the banker’s cologne. It was spicy and warm and tapped something in him that prison had never inspired. She had on a tight, late-day, thunder-blue dress with a wide, deep neckline that revealed things she evidently wanted to reveal, and a black dog leash belt encircling her small waist. She had on white wrist-length gloves, and a matching narrow-brimmed hat with a small bow. Her heels were high enough to muscle her calves. She wore a small necklace with a rock of diamond in the center. She kept fingering it like she wanted to make sure it was still there.