He opened his eyes and stared in surprise into his coffee cup. Archer had never before engaged in personal fantasy in any form. He had been raised by stoic God-fearing parents who labored hard and disciplined their only child just as hard. He had volunteered to serve his country, fought in and survived a world war. He had been too busy trying to stay alive to be fantasizing about not dying. Then he had roamed a bit and fallen into a situation that had resulted in his serving time in a rough prison where the rules of civility did not exist, and the guards were sometimes worse than the men they were overseeing. This was the only time he had allowed himself to diverge from the starkness of reality, the good and the bad of it. It felt surprisingly real and personal and satisfying. For about ten seconds.
Then Archer took his paper bag, opened the door, and went to butcher hogs.
Archer did his cutting with a more practiced hand that day. But when he was done, he was as covered with hog fragments as the day before, maybe more so because he had been more productive wielding the knives and saws. He wasn’t as sore, though, on the ride home, as his hard muscles had quickly adjusted to his labor.
And the lunch in the paper bag had helped.
Dickie Dill rose from his seat on the truck, stared down the man next to Archer, and took his space when the man vacated it.
“What’s up, Dickie?” said Archer, his eyes hooded, but his peripheral vision squarely on the little man, looking for any hint of a knife coming out.
“Guess you think you done me a favor yesterday.”
“That’s the way I looked at it. You’re not back in prison, right?”
“Maybe so. But you do that again, I’ll cut you up like you do them hogs.”
“Thanks for the fair warning.”
That seemed to take all the anger and venom from the man. He settled down, pulled a pickle wrapped in wax paper from his pocket, and started chewing on it.
“We’re supposed to get paid tomorrow,” said Dill.
“I know. I’m counting on it.”
“Thing is, I hear tell there’s trouble ’bout that.”
Archer glanced sharply at him. “Come again?”
“Word is they ain’t got the money to pay all they owe us.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“From folks who’d know, that’s where.”
“But look at all the hogs going through that place. They must be making money hand over fist.”
“Not what I heard.”
“Who owns the place, then?”
“Hank Pittleman, least he did.”
This didn’t come from Dill. It came from the man on Archer’s other side who had evidently been listening.
Archer gaped. “Pittleman owned the slaughterhouse?”
“Yes sir, he sure did,” said the man, an older gent in filthy coveralls and wearing an equally dirty fedora, an unlit smoke dangling over his plump lower lip, the cigarette jerking up and down as he spoke.
Archer looked at Dill, who had made no comment on this.
The older man added, “And like this here feller just said, folks say they ain’t got the money to make full payroll. Heard it too, myself.”
“So why are we working then?” said Archer.
“’Cause we ain’t got nothing else,” said the man simply with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “And they might pay some of what they owe. I ain’t walking away from cash money, little though it might be.”
“Kick in the nuts, ask me,” said Dill, finishing his pickle and wiping his hands on his pants. “I’m gonna cut somebody up they try and pull that shit on me.”
Archer didn’t even attempt to quash this notion from Dill. Part of him wanted Dill to cut somebody and then end up back in prison, where Archer firmly believed he still belonged.
He got back to town and jumped off the truck.
And found Irving Shaw waiting for him.
The detective was wearing a brown suit and freshly laundered shirt, though his haggard features told of sleepless nights and the burden of solving a murder. He pushed back his homburg and eyed Archer closely.
“Heard you got work at the slaughterhouse. How’re the hogs doing?”
“Not too good, actually, considering their only job is to die. Why are you here?”
Shaw caught the eye of Dickie Dill, who was watching him closely, his knifelike hands curled into fists.
Shaw apparently didn’t like what he saw in Dill because he pulled back his jacket so that both his pointed silver star and his .45 were showing prominently.
“Don’t I know you, fella?” he said to Dill.
“Nope,” said Dill. “Leastways, I ain’t know you.”
Shaw kept his eye on the little man for an uncomfortably long moment. “Well, I got business with this here gent, so you be on your way then.”
Dill turned and walked off with a group from the truck, but Archer caught him glancing back a couple of times and then whispering something to the men with him.
Archer turned back to Shaw.
The lawman said, “Also heard you got kicked out of the Derby. Where you staying?”
“Around.”
“But at least you’re earning some money.”
“Thought I was, but now I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just heard that the slaughterhouse might not make full payroll tomorrow. And that it’s owned, or was owned, by Hank Pittleman.”
Shaw took off his hat and rubbed at his hair. “Well, that jells squarely with what I’ve been finding out.”
“You mean Pittleman not paying his bills?”
“Not just that. But let’s go somewhere and talk. You hungry?”
“If you’re buying. I don’t have a cent to my name.”
Shaw looked at his clothes, took a whiff, and his face contorted.
Archer grimaced. “You try butchering hogs all day and see how the hell you smell.”
“Come on then, and let’s get your belly full up and my sinuses cleared out.”
They each had rare steaks and hard potatoes and coffee and pie at the Checkered Past. As they ate, they talked.
Shaw said in a low voice, “Man was head over heels in debt. Those past-due bills I found in the trash were just the tip of the iceberg.”
“How can that be, I wonder?” said Archer.
“Part of it is from gambling.”
“Gambling? Where?”
“They got places around here, Archer. None of ’em legal, but they’re around. And then we found out Pittleman’s been traveling to this place called Las Vegas. You heard of it?”
Archer shook his head. “Hold on a minute. First night I met Pittleman, he mentioned the place. Said the likes of Poca City couldn’t compete with Los Angeles and Frisco and that Vegas place.”
“That’s interesting. Well, it’s in Nevada. They got gambling casinos out there. And showgirls. And brothels too.”
“Brothels?”
“Prostitution, son. It’s legal out there.”
“The hell you say. I never knew that.”
“And the boys that run those casinos, we’re talking criminals, gangsters, make John Dillinger look like a choirboy.”
“And Pittleman got in with them? And he owes them money? You think they sent somebody here to kill him then?”
“It’s possible, Archer. From what I’ve learned, those boys don’t take no for an answer when it comes to dollars owed. I guess they figure if they let one customer stiff ’em, everybody would try.”
“So what are you gonna do? If they sent somebody out from Nevada, doubt they’re still around.”
“Doubt that, too.”
“What now?”
“Figure as soon as we finish up here, we’ll take a ride out to see Marjorie Pittleman.”