“When does it leave?”
“Hour from now.”
“Where from?”
“Alley behind the hotel.”
“Okay, I’m gonna grab some breakfast then.”
“Do what you want. Hey, now, where’d you get those clothes? Those sure ain’t the duds you were wearing when you got here.”
“I bought some new things.”
“With what?”
“Same what I paid for the room. Cash.”
“Where’d you get that kind of moolah?”
“Department of Prisons gave it to me.”
“Thought you was one of them when you checked in. But are you shitting me? They give prisoners money?”
“Well, I promised ’em I wouldn’t kill anybody else if they did.”
Archer fell silent and stared at the man with a look that he hoped meant business.
“W-well, you be at the alley in an hour.”
“I will, friend.”
Archer got a cup of coffee and a fried egg and toast at a hole-in-the-wall a block down from the hotel and read a discarded newspaper while doing so. The Soviet Union had recently detonated its first nuclear weapon. While Archer had been in prison, something called NATO had been established. The newspaper Archer had been reading at the time said the creation of NATO would make sure there were no more wars.
They must have forgotten to tell old Joe Stalin that, thought Archer.
He met the truck and driver behind the hotel.
The man told him his name was Sid Duckett. Around sixty years old, he was about three inches taller than Archer and outweighed him by maybe fifty pounds. He looked like he could lift the truck he’d be driving, but then told Archer he’d thrown out his back and welcomed the help in exchange for a ride out. He had on faded jeans that showed off his wide hips and bow legs, a cotton shirt tucked in, a wide leather belt with a buckle the size of a paperweight, dusty boots, and a greasy snap-brim hat with a fake bird feather sticking from the band.
“Well, get to it then while I check my paperwork,” said Duckett.
“What are we hauling?”
He pointed to a large stack of wooden crates piled next to the hotel’s tradesmen entrance.
“What, all that?”
“All that, buddy, if you want the ride.”
Archer took off his hat and coat, and rolled up his sleeves. A half hour later, after much grunting and heaving, and words of unhelpful advice from Duckett, the truck was loaded.
Archer rolled down his sleeves and picked up his jacket and hat.
“Let’s go,” hollered Duckett from the front seat. “Time’s a-wasting, fella.”
Archer climbed in next to him and they set off.
“Guess you folks don’t use much talcum powder around here,” noted Archer.
“What’s that?” replied Duckett, looking puzzled.
“Just worked my butt off, but the air’s so dry I didn’t even break a sweat.”
They drove for an hour and not once did the landscape change from flat and brown, or the sky from clear to something else. Archer didn’t recall even seeing a bird passing over.
Archer eyed this for a while before saying, “See here, does it always look this way?”
“What?”
Archer pointed out the windshield. “The land around here.”
Duckett eyeballed what they were passing. “Sometimes we get a bit of snow.”
“But other than that?”
“I don’t like change,” said Duckett gruffly. “When things are the same, you got no surprises.”
“I’m into variety myself,” replied Archer.
“Well, you’re in the wrong damn place, brother, least when it comes to the weather.”
“Does that mean there are surprises around here not having to do with the weather?”
Duckett eyed him suspiciously. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“My momma told me that was the only way to learn.”
“Maybe your momma should have told you not to be so damn nosy.”
They pulled off the road and shortly came to a set of wrought iron gates.
Duckett honked the horn and a dark-skinned, strongly built man with small features, dressed in worn olive-green dungarees, a faded striped shirt, and work boots, rushed out from somewhere and opened them.
“Holy Lord,” exclaimed Archer. “This is one man’s home?” He stared up at the behemoth that loomed before them like the rise of mountains from the plains.
Duckett nodded. “Yeah, why?”
“What does one man want with all that?” said Archer.
Duckett aimed a glare his way. “Don’t tell a man what to do or not do with his money. Mr. Pittleman wants a place like this, well then he can damn well build it. And he did.”
“I wasn’t saying otherwise. Just voicing an opinion.”
“Man single-handedly made Poca City into something. I grew up here. Wasn’t shit here. Man changed that. Why I got a job. Don’t be bad-mouthing him with your opinions less you want trouble.”
“I’m the sort who doesn’t care for trouble, pal. Had enough of that to last a lifetime.”
“Damn good thing, because the trouble I’m talking about starts with a capital T.”
“Well, if a man’s going there, he better make it count,” replied Archer, drawing a sharp glance from Duckett.
“Thanks, Manuel,” Duckett called out to the man who’d opened the gates.
After he drove through, Duckett said, “You can get out here if you want.”
“What about unloading the truck?” said Archer.
“I do that at the trucking warehouse Mr. Pittleman has. It’s about a quarter mile away. You can see it from the rear of the house. Has its own road off the main one, but I can get to it from here. They got men there to help unload.”
“Well, the deal was I help you at both ends, so let’s get to it.”
Duckett looked at him with an odd expression. “Didn’t expect that. Thought you’d duck out if you could.”
“I didn’t duck out fighting a war. Not starting now.”
Duckett said defensively, “I was too old to fight. But did my part here.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“What was it like over there?”
“Not too bad if you didn’t end up dying.”
They drove to the warehouse, which was a large sprawling structure about forty feet high with an A-framed shingle roof. Two double metal slide doors fronted it. Over the doors was stenciled, HP TRUCKING.
“For Hank Pittleman?” noted Archer.
“Well, ain’t you a smart one,” said Duckett. “You must ’a gone to college.” He backed the truck up and they climbed out.
A smaller door set next to the double ones opened, and a medium-height, sturdily built man around forty with a pencil mustache riding over a slash of mouth came out. He shook hands with Duckett and was introduced as Malcolm Draper, Pittleman’s business manager. Duckett told him why Archer was there. Draper wore a slick three-piece worsted wool suit, polished shoes, and a gray hat with a black band. His eyes were beady enough to make Archer instantly distrust the gent. And the Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver he carried in a holster dangling near his crotch didn’t endear him, either.
Archer pointed at the gun. “Never seen a man in a three-piece suit and collared shirt wear a holstered gun like that.”
Draper said, “We have valuable property in there. We take precautions.”
“Archer fought in the war,” noted Duckett.
“So did a lot of men,” said Draper dismissively. “Ain’t nothing special.”
“Did you fight in the war?” Archer asked him.
“I got asthma.”
“Well, ain’t that special,” replied Archer.
The metal doors slid open and two men came out with a metal-and-wood trolley, and they all helped unload the truck. Then the men rolled the loaded trolley through the open double doors and into the warehouse.