One Good Deed(7)

Archer slowly drew his gaze away from her. “So you came here all those years ago and the town starts to make something of itself at the same time. Am I to imply a connection?”

The other man chuckled. “I like you. I like how you handle yourself.”

“Man favors a compliment same as a woman,” said Archer, tipping his hat at the lady.

“Fact is, I’ve been instrumental in putting Poca City on the map. Got my finger in all the pies worth anything. Saw its potential, you could say. And now that potential is being realized.”

The man ran his gaze over Archer’s long, broad-shouldered, muscular frame.

“You look like you can handle yourself just fine. Bet you were in the Army.”

“I did my bit. About three years without ever seeing America once. Why?”

“A strong and brave man, then, who knows how to survive difficult circumstances. Which means you’re just the hombre for me.” He took out a wad of cash as big as any fist Archer had ever made in prison or seen coming his way.

The man trimmed five twenties off the pile and laid the bills on the bar within easy reach.

Archer made no move to pick them up.

“Well?” said the man.

“Fellow hands out cash like that, something’s expected. I’m just waiting on details.”

The man guffawed again and slapped Archer on the shoulder a bit harder than was necessary. He immediately grimaced and shook out his hand.

“Damn, you made of rock or what, soldier?”

“Or what,” said Archer.

“I like to pay for potential. And I trust my instincts. Maybe we can do some business.”

Archer still did not pick up the money. He finished the last finger of his drink and set it down. He said nothing and neither did the man, for a bit.

All around them gazes flitted to this little group and then away. Maybe it was the money in plain sight. Maybe it was something of a visceral nature between the two men, with the woman hanging on as the lovely sidekick to whatever was going on here.

The man took his time removing a cigar from his pocket, efficiently slitting the cellophane band with a switchblade, trimmed the end with the same tool, put the knife away, dropped the cellophane on the bar—the bartender swept it up—and then he lit the cigar with a platinum lighter. He puffed luxuriously on the stogie a couple times until it was drawing properly, put the lighter away, and eyed Archer, who’d been watching the deliberateness of the man’s actions with fascination.

The man held up the smoke and said, “This here’s from Cuba. Finest in the world. I like all my things that way.”

Archer glanced once more at the woman. “I can see that.”

“Now to business. You can do a job for me. That money there will be your payment.”

“I’m listening.”

“A man owes me something. I’d like you to collect it for me.”

“What man and what something?’

“His name is Lucas Tuttle. Lives down the road a ways. And the something is his Cadillac.”

“Why does he owe that to you?”

“I made him a loan and he failed to repay it. The Caddy’s the collateral.”

“Maybe he forgot. These things happen.”

The man pointed to the cash. “Hundred dollars. Take it or leave it.”

He tapped his ash free right on the wood grain of the bar. The skinny bartender once more swooped in and cleared the mess with a cloth.

Archer snagged an ashtray from in front of the big farmer who was draining highballs at an alarming rate. He placed it right under the fellow’s stogie, drawing a sneer from the banker man.

Archer said, “I have to know some more. Like, how do I know he owes you anything? I go there and take his car, that’s stealing. You go to the joint for that in a heartbeat. You understand me? So I need to know if you’re giving me a bum steer or what.”

The man nodded appreciatively. “I like a man who’s cautious. I’m one myself.” He glanced at his lady. “Am I not cautious, Jackie?” He gave her right buttock a hard squeeze that made her wince a bit and then removed his hand.

The creature named Jackie glanced at Archer, maybe to show she still counted for something here, and then dutifully turned her attention to her man before saying, “Cautious as a young woman with a drunken man in close proximity.” Her voice was surprisingly husky and assured. It starkly emboldened every fantasy of her Archer was holding.

The man perched his cigar on the ashtray and pulled something from his pocket. It was a mess of wrinkled papers. He unfolded and straightened them out, placing them on the bar. On the pages was a swath of tiny, printed writing.

“This is a promissory note. For five thousand dollars. See, this is the amount I loaned Tuttle. In good faith and everything. Man needed the money and he came to me. I loaned him the cash from my own pocket. You can see the amount here and his signature there. Now, on this page.” He flipped through to a second one. “This is the security that I required for the loan and which he provided. You read your way right down there.” He paused. “Hold on, you can read, can’t you? Things might not work out between us if you can’t.”

“I can read,” said Archer, with a touch of impatience because he was feeling it. “Even did two years of college before the war came calling.”