His two years of college had included readings in ancient history. He didn’t know that material would have applied so readily to him in the year 1949.
He picked up his pace as he went in search of Lucas Tuttle. He had a plan. Whether it would work or not was anyone’s guess. But something tickled at the back of his head, same as when he was a scout looking first for Italians and later for Germans. He had found the Italians the far easier of the pair. They didn’t really want to fight, he reckoned, because every time he’d run into some, they were either drunk or eating their dinner. He wasn’t surprised they’d turned on Mussolini and stuck his head up on a pike. They probably wanted to simply get back to their pasta and bottles of wine and their women. The Germans, on the other hand, seemed to like killing about as much as Dickie Dill liked strangling folks or smashing hogs in the head just so till they died. Archer had never ventured to the Pacific Theater, but he’d heard the Japanese were worse than the Germans.
As he drew closer, he saw that the house was a large, neat, one-story made of stained plank siding, with quarry stone chimneys, plenty of windows, and a wide porch on which sat two rocking chairs. The thing looked well built, trim and tight as a drum. He supposed there was no dust inside.
He rapped on the single door with his knuckles. He could hear the footsteps coming. Something was about to happen. And you couldn’t ask more from life than that.
Chapter 6
The front door swung wide open in an inviting way, until the twin barrels of the Remington twelve-gauge over-under greeted Archer; they were aimed at his belly and he could see no easy way around that.
He looked at the fellow holding the advantage on him.
He was around fifty-five with about as interesting a face as Archer had ever beheld. The large head was topped by a great crown of white hair that toppled downward like a snow avalanche off a mountaintop. The tanned brow was thickly furrowed, and the chin was a V of bone, while the jutting jaw seemed a flesh-and-blood version of the over-under’s muzzle. But what really caught his attention were the green eyes hovering in stark contrast to the tumble of white hair. They occupied their sockets with the intensity of twin machine guns in a bunker. The impression was mesmerizing and appalling to Archer all at the same time.
“Can I help you, mister?” the man said politely, belying the ominous threat held in his hands.
“Are you Mr. Lucas Tuttle?”
“What do you want, pray tell?” His benign look hardened several notches, the eyes now seemed an emerald fire. “And you might indeed want to start praying, son.”
“Well, right now, all I want is some separation from me and that Remington.”
“Oh, no. That may well be premature. State your business or your belly will grow quite familiar with the intrinsic purpose of this firearm.”
“I was hired by Hank Pittleman to come here and relieve you of your 1947 dark green Cadillac sedan.”
The machine gun eyes narrowed a bit. “You are not endearing yourself to me, stranger. You seem like a fine young man, though a bit rough around the edges. It would be a shame to end things for you right here and now.”
“I had determined to come out here at night when you were asleep and see if I could take back your Cadillac without you knowing. But then I decided to approach the matter on a more direct footing.”
The muzzle lowered to a part of Archer’s anatomy that was even more precious to him than his stomach.
“To answer your query, I am Lucas Tuttle, sir. Now explain yourself further, but you best tell me your full, legal name first. That way it can go on the tombstone properly.”
“Aloysius Archer, but just call me Archer.”
Tuttle looked him up and down with a practiced stare. “You’re the right age. And you look like a tough cookie, for sure. Did you serve, Archer? Did you do your patriotic duty?”
Archer thought this an odd departure, but if it kept the man’s mind off the Remington? “I did my bit. Over three years in Europe.”
“Who under?”
“For most of the war, the Fifth Army, General Mark Clark. I was part of Second Corps, Thirty-Fourth Infantry Division.”
“That was the Mediterranean Theater, was it not?”
“Yes, sir. Salerno, Bologna, Genoa, Milan, the Barbara, Volturno and Gustav Lines, Anzio Beach. Names I couldn’t say before, and places I never thought I’d be. And I truly have no desire to go back.”
“That was some fierce fighting, I understand.”
“You could say. The Fifth had over a hundred thousand casualties when all was said and done. Lost a lot of good men and good friends.”
“Were you wounded, Archer, fighting?”
“Most everybody was wounded, Mr. Tuttle, and I was no exception.”
“Your medals, sir? Did you distinguish yourself? Be detailed.”
Now Archer’s features set firm, like cement going from fluid to hard. “I killed folks I didn’t know, because they were trying to kill me. I left the Army with metal inside me I didn’t start out life with. I got a box of medals and ribbons somewhere, and they don’t amount to a hill of beans now. That’s my piece, so you can just pull the damn trigger if you got to and be done with it.”
The muzzle dropped a shade lower but then held on Archer’s knees.
“I like your spirit, Archer. What I do not understand is your alliance with that scoundrel Pittleman.”
“I needed a job and he gave me one. A hundred dollars if I deliver the Cadillac to him. He advanced me forty dollars with the rest to come on him getting that car.”
“He has sent others before you.”
“That I’ve heard.”
“They came at night. They did not wish to face me.”
Archer eyed the over-under. “I can see why they might have done it that way.”
“Trespassing is a crime hereabouts, as it should be in every democratic union that holds property rights as sacred. Thus, I furnished them exactly what they deserved.”
“Okay. I’m one who doesn’t think property is worth a man’s life, but that may just be me.”
The emerald eyes blazed at this comment. “However, you, sir, show up in broad daylight and knock on my door and admit your mission to my face. Explain yourself.”
“Pretty simple. I wanted you to tell me to my face whether you owe that debt or not.”
“Why is that important to you?”
“Well, if you don’t owe it, I have no further business here.”
“And if I do owe the debt?”
Archer said nothing.
Tuttle appraised him, running his gaze from the top of the hat to the heels of the shoes.
“Come on inside, Archer, and let’s talk.”
He moved aside so Archer could enter and led him down a long, tiled hallway to a small, plainly furnished room with wood paneling and a plank floor with a colorful rug laid over it.
“Sit down over there,” he said, motioning with his shotgun to a chair.
Tuttle took the chair opposite, his shotgun muzzle pointed to the floor.
“I borrowed the money from Hank Pittleman. I had need to do so at the time.”
“Do you owe the man five thousand dollars plus interest?”
“Yes. And it’s also true that I gave my 1947 Cadillac as collateral for that loan.”
“Why’d you do that? Seems like you have a good deal of prosperity going on here.”
“Prosperity sometimes does not equal folding money, Archer. And my suppliers do not barter in wishful thinking.”
“So you owe the debt but won’t pay it back?”
“Do you think life is that simple?”