A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  Her expression was one of unbridled wonder. “Jesus, that’s something, Archer. I thought that Lake Tahoe was big.”

  “A drop in the bucket.”

  “Gosh, it’s just…swell. I mean, really swell.”

  He eyed her sitting on her haunches looking like a little girl who’d just been shown the most beautiful doll in the world and then been told it was all hers. He next eyed the glove box, where the .38 Special that had killed a man sat. He wondered about the complexities of human beings in general, and this woman in particular.

  “How much farther to Bay Town?” she asked, finally resettling in her seat.

  “We head out of the mountains, and I think the rest of the drive is out along the coast.” He slowed the car and then stopped on the shoulder. He popped open the glove box and took out a map and unfolded it. He studied the route while she watched him.

  “Yep, along the coast. It looks to be a few hours. If we could rev the Delahaye up we’d be there in no time, but from the looks of the route, we won’t be going that fast.”

  “And it’ll be pretty flat?”

  “Pretty flat.”

  She said, “Well, hallelujah for small miracles.”

  “Are there any other kind?” he said.

  Chapter 17

  COMING DOWN THE STEEP SANTA YNEZ MOUNTAINS they entered the vibrant-looking town that was perched like a gargoyle right on the coast.

  WELCOME TO BAY TOWN, said the sign. WHERE A GOOD LIFE BEGINS.

  “Place seems to think a lot of itself,” Callahan remarked.

  They reached a wide boulevard named Sawyer Avenue and admired the row of fine homes there.

  “Nice places. But they don’t look cheap,” she said. “Do you have somewhere lined up to stay?”

  “Rooming house on Porter Street.”

  “Think they got ‘room’ for one more?”

  “We can always ask.”

  “Or do you want to play the husband and wife routine again? You could carry me over the threshold. Of course we’d have to do the kissing thing,” she added, giving him a sharp, hopeful glance.

  “That might be a little awkward now that I’m making this place my home.”

  “You take all the fun out of everything,” Callahan replied, but she smiled to show she wasn’t serious.

  Archer stopped and asked a woman walking her dog where Porter Street might be. She told him and then said, “What kinda car is that? Steering wheel’s on the wrong side.”

  “French,” said Archer.

  The woman looked at him funny. “French? How’d it get to America?”

  “We drove it over,” said Callahan. “It turns into a boat when you press that button,” she added, pointing to a knob on the dash.

  “Well, isn’t that something,” said the woman.

  “You sure are,” said Callahan as Archer pulled off with a grin. He hung a left and headed up a steeply ascending road.

  “When do you meet with that private eye who’s going to teach you all the dirty tricks you’ll need to be a full-fledged shamus?” asked Callahan.

  “I was going to call him when I got in and arrange to meet him.”

  “What was the name again?”

  “Willie Dash.”

  “That Willie Dash?”

  She was pointing at a large faded sign pasted on the side of a brick building.

  On it was the image of a short, broad-shouldered man in his late forties with a pugnacious expression dressed in an old-fashioned pinstripe suit, and sporting a fedora worn at a sharp angle on his wide head. He was pointing a sausage finger apparently at the world in general. The words written below him read:

  GOT A PROBLEM NEEDS SOLVING? PRIVATE EYE WILLIE DASH IS YOUR MAN.

  After that was a five-digit phone number but no address. It was the same phone number as on Archer’s letter from the man.

  Archer stopped the car and looked up at the sign, gaping. “Yeah, that Willie Dash. I thought he’d be older. But he came highly recommended.”

  “Yeah? And who recommended the guy who recommended him?”

  Archer drove on without answering her.

  They pulled to a stop in front of the rooming house, a broad building with a narrow front porch, wood siding painted gray, red shutters, and a peaked metal roof the color of olive green. It looked old and seemed to be slightly leaning to one side. A sign out front said there were vacancies.

  “My lucky day,” remarked Callahan as she noted this. “But we might have to spend half our time holding the sucker up.”

  They took out their bags and walked up to the front porch. The screen door opened, revealing a woman standing there. She was seventy if she was a day. Her rimless specks made her small eyes enormous. One pupil hugged the inner wall of its socket. She had on a threadbare sweater over a homemade dress that dipped below her knee. She eyed, with a certain disdain, the turbaned Callahan in her tailor-made outfit.

  “Can I help you?” she said sharply.

  “Name’s Archer. I have a room reserved.”

  “Yes. I already have you on the books.” She eyed Callahan. “And who might this be?”

  “This might be Liberty Callahan. I need a room, too.”

  “For how long?”

  “I’ll have to let you know. My plans are what you call fluid.”

  The woman glanced past them to the Delahaye and her already giant eyes became the size of a full moon.

  “Is that your car?”

  “Yes ma’am,” said Archer.

  “It’s a Delahaye.”

  Surprised, Archer said, “Yes it is. How’d you know?”

  “I’m French. I came over long before the war. I don’t really sound French anymore, do I?”

  “No ma’am, you don’t.”

  She looked upset by this. “Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it? J’ai perdu la beauté de ma culture. Je suis américaine maintentant.”

  “If you say so,” replied Archer.

  “And you are?” asked Callahan.

  “You may call me Madame Genevieve.”

  “You’re married, then?” said Archer.

  “Not anymore,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. Come in and sign the register and I’ll show you to your rooms. I take a week’s rent in advance. No exceptions.”

  “Seems like a nice town. You like it here?” asked Archer.

  “I like it fine. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t stay.”

  She turned and walked off down the hall. Archer and Callahan exchanged a glance and then followed.

  Chapter 18

  ARCHER TOOK A MOMENT TO LOOK AROUND the small room that he would be calling home at least for a while. Everything in it was old, but the place was spotless and smelled of soap and furniture polish. He pocketed the large metal key, put his suitcase down, dropped his hat on the small bed, and went over to the rear window. His immediate view was the back of another building. But rising behind that and the rest of Bay Town were the Santa Ynez Mountains. The high rock dwarfed the town like Goliath had David.

  But then look who won that fight.

  He crossed the room and looked out the front window. They weren’t on the ocean side of town, but the elevated position of the boardinghouse allowed an unobstructed view of the Pacific. To the right of that was a long wharf where ships were docked, and Archer could see large cranes either taking off or loading on cargo. Men swarmed around this operation like ants on a hunt. Archer knew that directly up the coast was the Army’s Camp Cooke. Farther down he saw a couple of oil derricks bowing and straightening like ostriches pecking for food as they lifted black gold from the earth. He knew off the coast and farther to the south were the Channel Islands.

  Archer unknotted his tie, pulled his flask, and took a sip of his rye. It quenched his thirst just enough to persuade him to take another belt. From his suitcase he hung up the clothes that needed hanging and put away the others in the chest of drawers stacked against one wall. They held the scent of Murphy�
��s Oil soap, a product he’d often used in prison to clean his own cell. He would have to find a board and an iron to press everything.

  He went back downstairs and out to the Delahaye after finding out from Madame Genevieve where he could park the car. He drove it into a two-bay garage behind the boardinghouse. After that he went back up to his room, took off his jacket and shirt and undershirt, but kept his pants and shoes on.

  He had just lighted a Lucky when someone rapped on his door.

  Callahan had taken off her turban but was otherwise dressed the same. She came in without invitation and looked at his space. “Seems every room is the same.”

  “Nice views.”

  She eyed his bare torso. “Yeah, they are nice. Hey, where’d you get all those big muscles, Archer?”

  “Sears and Roebuck. They were having a sale. Got ’em cheap.”

  She slid a hand along his right shoulder and down his arm. Archer breathed in her perfume but remained unbowed by conjuring the image of her shooting a man dead.

  She said, “Remind me to place an order with them sometime. The quality is really good.” She slowly slid her fingers free but scraped his bare skin with her nails as she did so.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I put my things away and now I’m bored.”

  “We just got here, Liberty.”

  “I’ve got a low tolerance for having nothing to do. I need to find a place to work.”

  “I can ask around.”

  “I already did that.”

  “When?” he asked in a surprised voice.

  “Madame Genevieve. She said there’s a place outside of town. Like a burlesque theater. It’s called Midnight Moods. She said it sounded right up my alley.”

  “How would she know what was up your alley?”

  “She’s already got her opinion of me, Archer, after one look and two minutes of conversation. Women tend to do that a lot faster than men. She sees me, I’m sure, as what she would call a ‘loose’ lady. And maybe I am. And I don’t really care what she thinks. But I do care about supporting myself. Maybe you can drive me over there at some point and I can see if they need a new girl.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Hey, you want to take me to lunch?”

  “No, but I’ll take you to dinner.”

  “Okay. See you around, Archer.”

  She went back to her room. Archer put on his undershirt and grabbed the letter from Willie Dash. Then he walked down to the main floor and slipped into the phone box in the small foyer just outside the rectangular-shaped dining area. He closed the booth door, dropped in his coin, and dialed the number.

  A moment later: “Willie Dash, Very Private Investigations,” said a female voice.

  “Hello, this is Archer. I’m in town. I’d like to set up a time to meet with Mr. Dash today.”

  “Yes, Mr. Archer. This is Connie Morrison. I’m Mr. Dash’s secretary.”

  “Nice talking to you, Miss Morrison. So when can I see him?”

  He heard paper being shuffled. “He has an opening now if you want to come by.”

  Archer checked his timepiece. “I’m staying over at a boardinghouse on Porter Street, down by the wharf. How long do you reckon it would take me to get there?”

  “Depends. Do you have a car?”

  “I do.”

  “Then ten minutes should do it. Do you have our address?”

  “Yeah, it’s on the letter. 1533 Encino Street.”

  She gave him directions and added, “It’s a four-story brick office building with a green awning out front. We’re on the top floor. Suite 401.”

  “Thanks. Um, I saw one of his billboards in town.”

  “I’m sure you did. But they’re pretty old.”

  “I’ll see you shortly.”

  He rushed back to his room and put on a fresh shirt, wound a tie around his neck, lined his pocket square just so, and angled his hat the same. He was bouncing down the stairs when she called out.

  “Good luck, shamus-to-be.”

  He looked back up to see Callahan standing at the top of the stairs. She had taken her dress off and was wearing a pale blue robe that hung only to midthigh and was clingy enough to get Archer’s undivided attention. In her right hand she held a lit cigarette, its burning muzzle pointed straight down.

  He made a show of checking his watch. “You look like you’re going to bed,” he said.

  She played with the belt on the front of the robe. “Then I’d have to take off all my clothes.”

  “That surely won’t take you long.”

  Her fingers undid the knot on the belt. The panels of the robe parted ever so slightly.

  Archer let that sink in and said, “You trying to seduce me?”

  “Not trying, no.”

  “You told me good luck. How do you know where I’m going?”

  She said, “I don’t need to be the world’s greatest gumshoe to figure that one out. You have the look of a guy just itching to get going.”

  “Okay. Maybe you should go see Willie Dash about the job instead of me.”

  “Dressed as I am, you probably think I’m just a floozy with a bottle of hooch behind my back and pegging you as a sucker I briefly need for a good time.”

  “I don’t think you’re anything like a floozy unless you’re pretending to be one, and I don’t need to be the world’s greatest gumshoe to deduce that the only thing behind your back is you.”

  “Well, aren’t you a true gentleman to notice.”

  “You know, you should charge for all this.”

  “Oh, I do, handsome. You just haven’t gotten the bill yet.”

  She blew Archer a kiss, turned, and sauntered away.

  After her door closed, Archer slapped his face hard to stun himself out of everything he was feeling, and it was a lot. All he wanted to do was run upstairs to her.

  But instead he walked off to take care of business.

  Maybe you’re finally growing up, Archer. It’s about time.

  Chapter 19

  ARCHER CLIMBED INTO THE DELAHAYE, turned the key, thumbed the starter button, and put the car in gear. Heads turned to stare at the car as he followed the precise directions Morrison had given him, and he made it to Encino Street in short order. The buildings down this way seemed a lot older than others he had passed, and they became dingier still the longer he was on it. The very last building was Dash’s, and it was the dingiest of all. It looked like something erected at the end of the last century merely as an afterthought.

  Mortar splotches had permanently stained its brick surface. The green awning that covered its entrance was torn, with a sleeve of it flapping in the stiffening ocean breeze. The sidewalk in front was missing a few chunks, like teeth punched out of a mouth.

  He parked the car in front of the entrance and opened the single glass door, finding himself in a tiny lobby that smelled of stale tobacco, spilled gin, and a few odd odors that he couldn’t readily place but made his nose crinkle in displeasure. The space was badly lighted, and he had to blink a few times to transition his pupils from daylight to enforced dusk.

  There was an occupant register on the wall. Though he knew the suite number, Archer wanted to check out who his potential neighbors might be. It didn’t take him long. There were only twelve suites in the building, three on each floor, and only four were currently occupied; the other eight had VACANT next to them.

  There was a doctor on the first floor by the name of Myron O’Donnell. On the second floor was a chap named Bradley Wannamaker, attorney-at-law. Dash was on the top floor along with a business called Gemology Incorporated. There was no girl at the tiny reception desk in the lobby. A dusty telephone switchboard sat in one corner. There were no cobwebs covering it, but there easily could have been.

  Archer saw the sign for the elevator and headed that way. He figured the stairs would be in the same direction. Ever since being in prison he did not like small, enclosed spaces where he could not open the door when he w
anted to.

  He came to the single elevator, where a black man who looked to be about a hundred, wearing an ill-fitting gray bellhop’s uniform with white piping down the legs and arms, sat on a small, ragged, pillow-topped, wooden dropdown seat just inside the car, reading a nickel copy of the Bay Town Gazette. He was short and too thin, with hands that bent upward, apparently against their owner’s will because he held the paper in an awkward grip. The unlit, short, cheap stogie in his mouth was rolling from one side to the other with delicate flicks of his tongue.

  With an effort he put the paper aside, sat on it, and said, “What floor, young man?”

  “It’s okay, I’ll take the stairs.”

  He scratched his nose and looked interested. “Give me something to do if you let me take you. My first customer all day.”

  “Aren’t Willie Dash and his secretary here?”

  The man grinned. “Hell, they don’t count. They work here. I need me some fresh, smiling faces like yours. Keeps me going. You going to see Willie?”

  Archer nodded.

  “Fourth floor. Suite 401. Let’s get to it, young man.”

  Archer hesitated for a moment, glancing at the wooden door with a wired pane of glass leading to the stairs for a few moments until the man said, “Time waits for no man, mister, and don’t I know it. I’ll be worm food before long.”

  Archer stepped on.

  The man closed the cage door and then hit the button for the fourth floor, which automatically closed the car’s outer solid metal door.

  Archer sucked in a breath and felt his body stiffen and his pulse race. He shut his eyes and pretended he was outside with all sorts of possibilities for escape.

  The man had swiveled around in his seat and stared at him as the car began its glacial ascent of thirty or so feet.

  “When’d you get out, friend?” asked the man with a knowing look.

  Archer opened his eyes. The old fellow smiled, showing off perfectly white teeth, and all of them real, as far as Archer could tell.

  “Get out of where?”

  The fellow snorted. “Come on, don’t BS me. The joint, man.”

  “How do you figure that?”