It was a four door, big-grilled Hudson Hornet with a chrome engine spoiler, a single red light on top, and a chrome-plated searchlight mounted on the driver’s-side door. It was an intimidating vehicle that was, unfortunately, painted a dull yellow with a brown stripe down the side. It might qualify, Archer thought, for the ugliest damn car in the whole country.
Archer retook his seat when he heard the squeak of the front door opening, and the mumbling of words exchanged.
Then he heard Jackie say in a louder voice, “What?”
Footsteps came down the short hall, and two uniformed men dressed all in brown except for black stripes down the sides of the pant legs appeared behind Jackie. One was short and pudgy and about fifty. His eyes were planted on the woman’s backside, accentuated as it was by the tightness of the robe and revealing that she had not a drop of anything on underneath. The other deputy was Archer’s height and age. Their faces were both weathered and their hair, when they took off their wide-brimmed tan Stetsons, was smooshed flat.
When they saw Archer, both lawmen’s faces creased to frowns.
“Who might this be?” the older one asked.
Archer slowly rose. His manner of dealing with men who wore badges and carried guns was to appear forthright and cooperative, without making sudden moves or giving away anything of importance in the way of information.
“Name’s Archer. I was just over visiting my friend.”
“Mighty early for a visit,” said the younger man.
“I was thinking the same thing, Jeb,” said his partner.
Archer looked at Jackie. She looked like she might be sick. “What is it?”
“They just…they just told me that Hank was found dead.”
“Dead? How? Where?”
The pudgy deputy said, “So how do you two know each other again?”
“What the hell does that matter, Bart?” snapped a distraught Jackie.
“Now, look, Miss Tuttle, we’re just trying to get some information,” he said soothingly, now staring at her chest, where, in her distress, the robe had opened, revealing enough cleavage to apparently captivate the lawman.
“How about you find out who killed Hank, how about that?” she snapped.
“Killed?” said Archer. “Somebody killed him?”
“Hell, yes they did!” proclaimed Jeb excitedly. “Bloody as all get out. Never had one like that in Poca before.”
“How do you know Hank Pittleman?” Bart wanted to know.
“He hired me to do a job for him.”
“What sorta job?” asked Bart.
Archer hesitated, wondering how best to describe what he was doing for Pittleman without getting himself involved in the man’s murder.
“Hey, fella,” barked Jeb. “You better give us the straight dope or we’re taking your butt in for some questions. And we don’t ask nice in Poca City.”
Before Archer could say anything Jackie blurted out, “Oh, hell, Hank just…he just hired him to collect a debt from my daddy.” Jackie now had a good deal more twang to her voice than Archer had previously noted.
“Collect money from your daddy?” said Bart.
Through teary eyes, Jackie said, sharply, “Yes, okay? What the hell does that matter? Hank’s dead. You have to find out who did it!” She drilled a finger into Bart’s broad chest.
“Okay, okay, we will. Now, this debt? Do you know where the paperwork for it is?”
Archer involuntarily ran his hand along his jacket pocket where these very papers were.
Jackie stifled her sobs, covered her mouth for a moment looking like she might be sick, and said slowly, “He kept them in his coat pocket. Last time I saw them, they were there.”
“We didn’t find nothing like that in his pockets.”
Jackie glared at him. “Then do your job and look somewhere else! How’s that for a plan, Bart!”
An angry Bart turned his attention to Archer. “Where you from, son?”
“East of here. Took a bus in.”
“From where?” the lawman asked again, his features flexing raw and determined.
No way around it. Archer said, “Tartupa.”
Bart and Jeb exchanged glances.
“One thing in Tartupa that I know of,” said Bart. “And the bus does come here, sure enough it does.”
“What are you going on about?” said Jackie, more tears starting to collect in her eyes.
“Carderock Prison’s in Tartupa,” volunteered Jeb. “Ex-cons come here for parole.”
“Archer isn’t an ex-con,” she said, turning to him. “Are you?”
Now this was a predicament, Archer had to concede. But it wasn’t like he could lie about where he had come from. All they had to do was check his name or go to Ernestine Crabtree and ask her. And you lie to the law, they never seemed to forget. They seemed to take it personally, in fact.