Archer's Last Chance

24: The number etched into the murky surface of frosted glass of my office door. 24: The label to a second floor cell, cramped and smelling of mildew and stale booze. 24: Two feet, feet that walked all over this dirty city, under the carpets, behind the couches, into the hidden places that I’m paid to keep hidden, to smooth over, or to get rid of. Sure, I’d taken on my share of “removals,” not that it didn’t leave a bad taste in my mouth, but the lettuce in my pocket could buy plenty of Listerine.

I stared at the numbers on the door an extra minute this morning, thinking that I’d need to try to etch them into the murky surface of my whiskey-addled mind, the label to a memory. The leasing agent, in his broken, but profanity-rich, English, had vowed to throw my desk out the window, “bottles and all,” at five o’clock if I couldn’t come up with the 24 dollars back rent I owed.

“All I need’s one job. One cash-up-front contract to get me back on my feet.” My glass of Wild Turkey wasn’t talking back, so I shot back the rest of my eye-opener, sending out the alcohol ambassador to make a peace treaty with the stragglers from last night that were still making war with my head. I blinked away some haze from my bloodshot eyes to look around the office. “Not much to pack up,” I thought. A lamp, a bottle, sample catalogs, tape measure, and a drawer full of files. I’d leave the rest to the rats.

The files. I got up from my desk and moved to the filing cabinet, leaving my shoes behind, but not the whiskey. I began to flip through the files, thinking of old times, when I’d have a line of customers out my door and could pick just the juiciest jobs. I saw the faces of a hundred lonely housewives opening my door flickering by like an old movie. I was surprised when the last face didn’t flick away.

“Archer Truseams?” She was beautiful, but somehow those 5th Avenue clothes didn’t sit right on her. You could tell underneath was a neighborhood girl, like a Louis XVI embroidered seat on an American Hickory armchair. But I always did like a sturdy frame; they’re more reliable. So, I stuffed the past back into its drawer and gave a shot to the future.

“Archer Truseams. That's what it says on the door. So, we’ve established you can read. So far, you’re making quite an impression. Here, take my card, practice the rest. Let me know if you need any help with the big words.”

“Mr. Truseams, don’t think that your street-smart growl is going to send me running up a tree. I’m here for a job, do you want it or not? From the holes in your socks, I’m guessing you need it.”

So, there we were, both seeing through each other’s fronts to the shabby operations inside. But insight wasn’t going to keep me in business, and the flips my heart was doing weren’t filling my hat with coins.

“Fair enough, Miss...”

“...Mrs. Daliance.”

“Well, Mrs. Daliance, you see where I am. But you’re here, you must know my reputation. I’m not easy, I’m not going to take your order and go away. I’m going to be at your house, in your face, sizing things up. I’ll get under things, get in the way, probe in places that you’d rather I left alone. I’ll ask hard questions. I’ll probably leave a mess in your living room. And when I’m done, you may not be a happier person, but you’ll know that what I’ve done for you was what had to be done, and it was done thorough, every loose end tied, the whole shebang all stitched up.”

“Your tenacity is appreciated, but the reason I came to you is discretion. What I need done I need done quiet. I don’t need any union goons running around blabbing to their brothers at some hall.”

“Ma’am. I have some rules. Some are strict, some are loose, some are just there to be broken, but my FIRST rule is NEVER mention the union.”

“My apologies, Mr. Truseams.” The look in her eye didn’t say I’m sorry, it said I’ve got you. I had to have a drink. She must have seen the bottle already anyway.

“Drink?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Well, here’s mud in your eye.” With the help of that liquid courage I went right for my own jugular, “It’s clear the union talk was no accident. How much do you know?”

“Not much, but I read the papers. And anyone can see that the ‘Archer Truseams’ on your door is written over a scraped off ‘Truseam Bros.’” She knew plenty, and I’d heard enough.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks. You need a job done; I need cash, up front, today, to take on the job.”

“Will 24 dollars do?” She pulled out the cash, already clipped. Something inside me said to run. This is too pat, something’s up. But the sight of the dough kept me in the kitchen.

“That’s enough to get started on. I get 10 dollars a day walking around money, plus I’ll bill you for all expenses.”

“Deal.”

“Ok, do you want to take a look at some sample fabrics, or do you have something in mind?”

“I think you need to see the couch. It may need more than just re-upholstering.”

Come back next issue for part 2 of “Archer Truseams: Independent Upholsterer: Archer’s Last Chance.”