One Good Deed

Archer didn’t do hard time for a crime he didn’t commit just to go and get himself in trouble with the law or anyone else when stepped off the Greyhound’s first stop from prison. Slim pickings where to do parole but better than most. He would do what needed to be done. When he needed to do it. Patient only so far. He was a man starting over looking for work as required when registered with the local po-po or get a quick ride in the ramshackle backseat of busted up police cruiser straight back to hell.

Archer had wondered about going to Poca City right off.  PC showed signs of life unlike a lot of decayed towns in this desolate tumbleweed corner of the world. He did his stretch, got it shortened for good behavior and walked out more or less unscathed. More or less a free man. Being a fresh ex-con and vet can and will get you caught up in some things before you know you’re neck deep in it. And why his antennae was out from the moment he walked out through the iron gates and smelled free air and walked on free soil again. Trouble followed him like a long shadow ever since he was setup. He just needed a little breathing room to get life back on track.

A small town surrounded by endless baked flat land and big sky, Poca City’s one-man gangster rule had money flowing into town regularly like Texas tea much the same way it had for generations, illegally. So long as nobody got hurt or gunned down very often, leastwise nobody that mattered, the cops went about their profitable monthly envelope collecting business and looked the other way. The respectable citizenry went along and the cops kept it that way, permanently if need be.

Archer knew enough to try his best to keep out of trouble, not violate his parole and above all not take the bait that could land him in trouble as he sniffed around for a job. Old school tough, he could handle himself, a dangerous weapon when called upon. He had a streak of bad luck after serving his country as a commando. He was adjusting back into civilian life when he stepped into a situation and inadvertently stepped on the wrong toes.

Some towns around this part of the West took a shine to megalomaniacs, a built-in affinity for strongman rule. And Poca was ground zero. But as long as the boss kept the skids greased, badges shined, one kept one’s nose clean, and nice knots of pocket money for those keeping the trains running on, people got along just fine like box wine, football, beer and burnt BBQ. Poca City was cowboy juiced during a time when most small towns were dying on the vine.

Staying on the right side of the shot callers meant no waves, do as your told. Have a short memory. Or shot. Keeping the peace where the law comes out of the end of a shiny honed barrel.

Archer wasn’t fond of rules and fools and particularly bad about being told what to do. His fuse was shortened in the army and shortened further living in a medieval cage a few dozen miles down the road. Waiting for him to return almost like an evil entity beckoning back its former men back into its sway as most do one day through hook or crook.

He had his own set of personal conduct rules. If a stranger needed help, a way out, or caught in life’s undertow, he did what he could. And sometimes he seemed to attract somebody or another that needed to be shown the errors in their ways underestimating his fighting spirit for the innocent as bullies accosted Archer’s sensibilities and himself.

The skittishness around Poca was visceral. The kind of trouble puts people on edge. The similarity between Poca and prison,  you couldn’t tell the friendlies from the enemy and the enemy were everywhere as their tentacles ran deep and far growing like a weed between a rock and another rock.

A place where even the cats around town hid when walked by easy as you please, ran at full strike when they saw anyone as a just a good idea and practice. A crackdown animals sensed. Archer would have liked nothing better than to simply turn around, walk away and never look back if he could. But he couldn’t. He knew someday he would be found out he had bolted from parole. His P.O would violate him and bounce his butt right back to his old waiting cage.

And if he stayed in Poca, a cage might be an improvement.