staying there. And you sure know how to get it, don’t you?”
He turned back to his paper.
“Got another question,” said Archer.
“We’re done here,” replied Pittleman as he picked up the belly gun and examined it, the barrel pointing in Archer’s general direction.
Archer next looked at Marjorie, who was still leafing through her Saturday Evening Post magazine, apparently mesmerized more by the words therein than by her husband’s admitted adultery.
Pittleman glanced at her. “You need anything, honey? Just tell me, if you do now.”
She graced him with a smile. “I’m just fine, Hank.”
“Hell, I know you’re fine. Just ask any man.” He glanced at Archer. “And why are you still here, son? Have I not made myself as clear as the sky outside?”
Archer rose and tipped his hat at the woman. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Pittleman.”
She nodded absently at him, her gaze holding on the magazine.
He walked to the door, looked back at the odd couple, and could only shake his head.
On his way out, he glimpsed a young woman in a maid’s uniform scampering up the stairs. She looked back, saw him watching, and gave him a wide smile. He tipped his hat and returned the smile. She hiked her eyebrows fetchingly, then disappeared from sight.
He waved to Manuel, who opened the gate for him. He passed through and headed for the road. He walked for a while, the dust collecting on him like metal fragments to a magnet. He finally hitched a ride on a slow-moving Model A heading to Poca City and driven by a man dressed all in black who said he was a circuit preacher. He told Archer he needed to repent his ways, regardless of what they were, and gave him a pamphlet from a wooden box in the back that was entitled “The Devil Is Inside You.”
Archer got back to town over an hour later and threw the pamphlet away in the first trash can he spotted.
I know the devil’s inside me and maybe I like it that way.
He went back to the Derby and washed off the dust in the hall bath. He went in search of and bought a bottle of Blue Bird gin and two packs of Lucky Strikes and a box of matches. He walked back to his room and debated what to do.
Tuttle was not giving up the money if Jackie stayed with Pittleman.
Pittleman was going to do nothing about that situation.
So the only way for Archer to make any money off this was to take the damn Cadillac.
But all the others who had attempted it had failed. Or maybe died trying if the Remington had anything to say about it. He didn’t even know where the man kept the sedan. Maybe in one of the outbuildings he’d glimpsed when he was there.
Tuttle would be on his guard for another attempt, and while Archer would die for his country, and almost had, he didn’t relish kicking the bucket via buckshot simply trying to earn a living. But if he didn’t get the car, Pittleman, who he assumed was a man of his word, would probably tar and feather Archer before running him out of town. And if he could argue that Archer had taken his money and not done what he promised, that constituted a crime and he’d be right back in Carderock.
He smoked a Lucky right down to nothing, drank his gin slow and easy, and pondered why he had not taken the simpler route and become a hog-brain basher like Dickie Dill. This made him think of the scrawled note he’d found in Ernestine Crabtree’s office. He pulled it out of his old jacket, read it again, found it even more disturbing, and put it back where it had been.
Maybe there was one person who could help him with his dilemma.
Jackie Tuttle. But he had no idea where she even lived.
But Poca wasn’t that big a place. He waited until the darkness was about to fall, put on his new hat, and then set out to find her.
Chapter 9
HIS SEARCH ENDED abruptly in the lobby of the Derby Hotel, where Jackie was sitting in a cane back chair in front of an empty fireplace topped by a slab of marble collecting still more dust. He stopped and looked down at her as Jackie smiled up at him.