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.”
“You are right about that. So what?”
“Well, there’s one little sticking point on the debt.”
“And what might that be?”
Archer glanced at Marjorie and did not proceed.
Pittleman looked confused for a moment before exclaiming, “Good Lord, is it Jackie we’re talking about?”
Archer shot another glance at Marjorie, who was now drinking her coffee and leafing through a magazine with a placid expression. She could be in church marching silently through her catechisms, he thought.
“That’s what he said. He wants her back.”
“She’s an adult, in case you and her daddy didn’t notice. She can decide on her own.”
“But he won’t pay back—”
“Which is why I told you to get the goddamn car, Archer. Hell, boy, I didn’t need you to go out there and ask the man what his problem was in paying me back my money. I know what it was. He doesn’t like the fact that his daughter is now seeing me. Now go paste that in your new hat bought with my money.”
“So you know all that then?”
“Let me tell you something else I know, son. Jackie’s current status doesn’t give Lucas Tuttle a pot to piss in when it comes to a legal obligation owed to yours truly.”
“Why not take him to court then?” asked Archer.
Pittleman sat back in stark wonderment. “What, and subject my dear wife here to gossip of a perverse nature? To dredging up facts in a court of law that might prove painful to her? No sir.” He patted his wife’s hand. “I love her too much to put her through that.”
“I can see that,” said Archer slowly, when in truth he could see none of it. He eyed the three-initial monogram on the man’s shirt cuff.
“Got a problem with something?” said Pittleman when he caught him looking there.
“You afraid you might put on another man’s shirt by mistake?”
“Funny guy, huh? If I’d known that when I hired you, maybe I wouldn’t have. Now get your ass out there, Archer, and take back my collateral by hook or crook. And if you don’t, you’re going to owe me forty dollars with interest. And I might leave you naked on the street, son, with more wounds than you got fighting the Krauts. Where you staying?”
“Derby Hotel.”
“Mighty fine place,” said Pittleman, with another sly glance in Marjorie’s direction. “You need money to keep