A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  As impressive as the casual house was in size, Archer could see about a dozen large outbuildings behind it, all constructed of red cedar with either shake shingles or tin metal roofs. Farm machinery was neatly parked across this stretch of land. There were horses in corrals and cows in other pens. He watched as men carried various tools, or else drove pieces of equipment designed to help grow or harvest things in the dirt. Stretching out behind all of this was a sea of what Archer surmised were the olive trees. The land seemed to go on and on right up to the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains. He could see lots of people with straw baskets and ladders swarming over the olive orchards.

  “Are they harvesting the olives?” he asked.

  “Yep,” replied Dash. “It’s tough work. You pick them by hand. Armstrong probably has about a hundred pickers here now, those folks you see out there. Mostly migrants from Mexico. He doesn’t pay them much, but it’s a lot more than they can make back home. They live in some of those bunkhouses you see around here. Feeds them, too, before he sends them on their way back across the border.”

  “Olives grow well around here, I take it.”

  “Yes. But it can be tricky. They need a lot of deep, infrequent watering.”

  “But you can’t use salt water?”

  “No. Armstrong told me one time the saline burns out the tree roots, and compounds coming from it can be toxic to the leaves.”

  Archer gazed out at the sea of green, healthy olive trees. “Where does he get his fresh water, then?”

  “California has a complicated relationship with water, Archer. Orange growers need a ton of it, the cities need millions of gallons of drinking water every day, and farmers need it for their crops and livestock. There are pipelines and trenches and aquifers and a series of dams and reservoirs collecting water coming off the winter snow packs in the Sierras and the Cascades, and the Rockies, too. And folks fight over it. Some divert it, others outright steal it from their neighbor or duke it out in court. With regard to Armstrong, he’s never divulged his source to me.”

  They drove up to the house and got out.

  “What do you think he wants to see us about?” said Archer.

  “I would imagine his son-in-law and his daughter.”

  “And Ruby Fraser?”

  “Maybe. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  A woman answered the door. She was of Mexican heritage, matronly and reserved, and casually attired in denim jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a colorful flannel shirt with a matching bandana. She told them she was Mr. Armstrong’s housekeeper. And to follow her. And they did. The floors were polished wood and the walls were plaster. It was far cooler inside than out. Archer figured the walls were thick to make that the case. The interior decorations here were far less formal than at the Kempers’ place.

  They were led all the way through the house and out onto the back porch, which was just as sweeping as the front. At a round table set off to one side sat Sawyer Armstrong. He had on reflective sunglasses, though the sun was not in his eyes, and the man had just clipped off the end of a fat cigar before lighting and then puffing on it. He wore faded jeans, a white shirt, and a dark green corduroy vest. A straw hat with an olive green band sat on the table. His thick, unruly hair fell nearly to his shoulders. Scuffed boots rode on his long feet. His legs were stretched out. Three glasses and a pitcher of what looked to be sangria were set on the table.

  And to Archer’s surprise, Beth Kemper was also seated at the table, next to her father.

  He waved them over.

  They sat and took off their hats, and the housekeeper went on her way.

  Armstrong poured three glasses and handed them out. “Nothing like a little Spanish honey in the afternoon,” he said, taking off his sunglasses and slipping them into a vest pocket.

  Archer looked at Kemper. “But not for you?”

  She wouldn’t meet his eye. “Sangria gives me migraines. My father insists that I learn to love it, but so far it just hasn’t worked.”

  “Love the migraines or the sangria?” asked Archer.

  Armstrong interjected, “I think we can move on from the chitchat.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Dash as he took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He took a puff and said, “You rang, Armstrong. We’re here. But before we get going.” He pointed to Archer. “Your boys didn’t have to put the hurt on my associate here. That didn’t show class.”

  Archer glanced at Kemper, but she displayed no reaction.

  To him, the woman was like a flower in full bloom that had wilted to nothing because someone had thrown something toxic on it.

  Armstrong nodded. “Yes, Willie, I agree with that. And I’ve had a talk with them both.”

  “Good, good. Now, Archer also told me that you want to hire us. Is that why we’re here?”

  “In part, yes,” said Armstrong after taking a sip of sangria. “But it’s more than that, too. There was a girl killed up at my place, Midnight Moods.”

  “Pickett himself is on the case, which I take to mean that you called him personally. Otherwise, he’d rather be back in his office banging that honey of a secretary.” Dash glanced at Kemper. “Sorry, Mrs. Kemper, that just slipped out.”

  She smiled, briefly, then lowered her gaze.

  “You don’t have a high opinion of Carl, do you?” said Armstrong.

  “I like competence and honesty, and you can throw integrity in there, too, if you want. Carl fails on all three counts in my book. And I’m sure he feels the same way about me, only he’d be wrong and I’d be right. I’m not telling you anything I haven’t told him.”

  “I see,” said Armstrong in a noncommittal tone.

  “Now, we are looking into Ruby Fraser’s death,” added Dash. “We’d already talked to her because the case we’re handling for your son-in-law involved her.”

  “You mean that they were ‘seeing’ each other? As I told Archer, it’s something that my daughter here can ably handle. Though I doubt Beth much cares what Douglas does with his time.”

  Archer once more looked at Kemper. She finally lifted her gaze to his and said, “I believe I made my position on that very clear to these gentlemen.”

  Her father patted her on the arm. “And it’s your right to do so, of course, Beth. If you remember, I told you to strongly consider not marrying the man, but you inherited your mother’s stubbornness and you went ahead and did it anyway. And now look at where you are.”

  Archer watched as the pink rose in the woman’s cheeks, and not in a good way. She looked angry but said nothing.

  Dash said, “Regardless, someone was clearly trying to blackmail Kemper into dropping out of the race and using Fraser to do it. Now she’s dead.”

  Armstrong sat up a little straighter and finished his glass of sangria. “I hope you’re not implying that Douglas had anything to do with this girl’s murder. I can’t say that I like the man all that much, particularly after the way he’s treated my daughter. But murder? That’s preposterous.”

  Archer shot Kemper another glance. There was no expression on the woman’s features. Archer could not reconcile the vivacious, quick-witted woman in the diner with this dull apparition.

  “I’m not implying anything,” said Dash. “I’m just saying that he had an obvious motive to get rid of her. And he didn’t have to do the deed himself. There are guys who would do it for him for the right price.” He glanced at Kemper. “Again, I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d be here, but these are things we have to discuss. If you want to leave, this might be a good time.”

  Archer saw the indecision on the woman’s face until Armstrong put a big hand on her shoulder. “Beth is strong. She can deal with this, Willie. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  Kemper glanced at Archer before saying, “I’m fine, Mr. Dash, please carry on.”

  “All right, ma’am, if you’re sure.”

  Armstrong said, “I don’t agree with that theory at all, Willie. Because now that she’s dead, people will a
ssume that Douglas did have something to do with it. And while adultery is not a good look for a politician, murder is far worse. So don’t you see that this is an attempt to push the election to Alfred Drake?”

  “So you really think Drake had her murdered?” said Dash, each word draped in more sarcasm than its predecessor.

  “No, but politicians have backers. And Drake has his.”

  “And who are Drake’s backers?”

  Armstrong sat forward, looking pointedly animated now. “You should nose around about money men from Vegas, and mob types from New York who want to set up shop in Bay Town, Santa Barbara, Frisco, LA, and San Diego. There is a narcotics trade, Willie, that is very lucrative for the mob, and a lot of it comes over the border and over the water. These folks are invading this country, and nothing is stopping them so far.”

  “Yeah, did you happen to mention that to Carl Pickett? Because he doesn’t even have a single police boat on the water. Maybe he likes the stuff coming in. Maybe he gets something from it. Maybe that’s how he can buy big-ass Chryslers and toothpicks by the bushel on a policeman’s salary.”

  Armstrong sat back, looking surprised. “Are you accusing the chief of police of taking bribes?”

  “Not at all. I think he slipped and fell on the street and a bunch of money ended up in his pocket. But if you tell him I said so, I’ll deny it.”

  Armstrong waved this comment away. “I don’t care about Pickett at the moment. I care about this election, and I don’t want to see my son-in-law’s chances go down the tubes because someone is trying to frame him.”

  “The son-in-law you don’t much care for?” said Archer.

  Armstrong leveled his gaze at him. “I don’t have to like the man to like his politics. Douglas will be a good mayor, and, more to the point, he is the man we need at the moment. And I consider Alfred Drake to be certainly a socialist and perhaps a communist. He would be a disaster for this town.”

  “You mentioned to Archer here that you wanted us to find the truth, no matter where it went. It didn’t sound like you had a dog in the hunt, Armstrong, but now it sounds like you do. So which is it? I’d like to know before deciding on your offer of engagement.”

  Armstrong smiled and looked at his daughter. “I forgot how good Willie is at chess, Beth. I think he might have captured one of my pawns and one of my knights, and he’s now bearing down on my queen.”

  “Is there an answer in there somewhere?” noted Dash.

  “Look for the truth, Willie. And I do have a dog in the hunt, yes. But I’m confident of where the trail will lead you. How’s that for an answer?”

  “I guess it’ll have to do, because I doubt another one will be coming along.” Dash took a sip of the sangria and wrinkled his nose.

  “You don’t care for it?” asked Armstrong.

  “I’m not much of a punch man. You introduce sweetness into alcohol, you’ve pretty much lost me. Liquor should burn, make a man feel alive. Otherwise, you’re just drinking something so you can piss it away an hour later. So, you had a look at the list we got from Kemper. Anyone on it look promising?”

  “I’m not a detective.”

  “Just your gut, then.”

  “I think the list is pretty much worthless.”

  “Interesting.” Dash rose and put on his hat. Archer did likewise. “So when did you and your boys leave Midnight Moods last night?”

  “Right after our little encounter with Archer. You can check with the valet if you don’t believe me.”

  “Okay, I will. You remember which one it was?”

  “A man in a valet’s uniform looking for tips and drunk women leaving alone.”

  “Thanks, that pretty much describes all of them. But it’s a start.”

  “That’s quite a place you built for the Kempers,” noted Archer while looking directly at Beth Kemper.

  “I built it for my daughter,” said Armstrong. He put a protective arm around Kemper. “Douglas just came along for the ride.”

  “But you’re backing your son-in-law for the mayor’s race,” said Dash.

  “One does not have to love one’s allies, Willie. One just has to use them.”

  Chapter 45

  WHEN THEY FINALLY ARRIVED BACK at the office the sun was dipping into the horizon and turning the dark ocean water salmon and gold in the process.

  Archer said, “Didn’t that seem weird to you back there? Beth Kemper didn’t act anything like herself.”

  “Her old man takes up the whole universe when he’s in the room.”

  They got out of the car and Dash said, “I’ve got some things to do, Archer. See you in the morning. Bright and early this time. But here’s what I want you to do.” He leaned back through the open window. “Tonight, head back over to Midnight Moods and see and hear what you can. Go over the room again and see what occurs to you. Talk to folks. I find it hard to believe that no one saw anything last night.”

  “Will do, Willie. Is Connie gone, do you think? I was going to head up to the office for a minute.”

  Dash checked his watch, dipped his hand into his pocket, and came up with a key ring with three keys attached. He took one off and tossed it to Archer. “Just don’t lose it.”

  Archer watched as Dash walked off down the street, to where he didn’t know. He went into the building to find the elevator car empty. Earl must have gotten off work, too, he thought.

  He took the stairs up and unlocked the door to Willie Dash, Very Private Investigations.

  Connie was indeed gone. He closed the door and entered his office and looked around. Small, spare, dowdy even, musty.

  And my office.

  He smiled and spent the next hour cleaning the place up and putting things just so. He almost felt like he was back in prison where small tasks like this—straightening something, cleaning something—allowed him to get through the day and the next day and the next. Finished, he looked out the small window and watched as two men walked down the alley four stories below smoking cigarettes and sharing a bottle.

  Archer drove back to the boardinghouse and knocked on Callahan’s door.

  “Yeah?” she called out.

  “It’s me, Archer.”

  He heard footsteps approach. When she opened the door, he found himself a little disappointed that she had so many clothes on.

  “What?” she said, her hand on her hip and attitude dripping from her features.

  “You want to grab some dinner?”

  “No. I’m not hungry. Did you find out who killed that girl?”

  “We’re working on it, Liberty. But I did have one favor to ask.”

  “Then you better come in. It would be humiliating for you if I turned you down in public.”

  She sat on the bed and he leaned against the wall. He could see that she had a number of outfits out on the bed and others hanging on various wall pegs.

  “You going through your wardrobe?”

  “Yeah. What Dawson had for me just didn’t work. Luckily I brought a few things that will.”

  “More than a few. You excited about it?”

  “It’s not Hollywood, but it’ll do. For now. What’s the favor?”

  “I was wondering when you start work there if you could keep your eyes and ears open at Midnight Moods and report back to me.”

  “You mean, act as a spy for you?”

  “Well, that’s one way of putting it.”

  “Seems to me like it’s the only way, Archer.”

  “It might help us find out who killed that woman.”

  Callahan’s hard features collapsed when he said that, and she looked down and started fussing with one of her nails. “Whoever did it, didn’t have to kill her like that. They didn’t have to…do that to her.”

  Archer sat on the bed next to her. “If you go all soft on me, I’ll think somebody kidnapped the real Liberty and left you behind.”

  “What girls like me do, Archer, what girls like Ruby Fraser did, is hard. We have to navigate a thousand different
things at once, most of them shitty and almost all of them having to do with men. All at the same time we’re pursuing our dreams, or at least what we think we’d like to do with our lives. And unlike men, we can do a hundred things right and one thing wrong and our dream is over. That kind of gets to you, makes you…light on your feet, unwilling to…”

  “To trust anybody. Including men like me.”

  She touched his face. “Does it still hurt?”

  “Not when you rub it like that. Feels good, actually.”

  “I’ll be your spy, Archer. And I need you to drive me over there on Friday to sign my contract.”

  “Okay, but you need to be careful. Something’s not right at Midnight Moods.”

  “Something’s not right with the whole world.”

  He left her there to continue her wardrobe choices, and ate a quick dinner at a place across the street. Steak, peppers, and onions washed down with a beer, and bread hard enough to hammer nails with.

  Archer walked around the streets for a bit, enjoying the falling temperatures and light ocean breeze, and watched the marine fog build in the hollows leading up to the palaces resting above them. As he walked he thought about Beth Kemper, visualizing the woman in his mind. The first word that came to him as he did this was fragile. That surprised him because she didn’t appear to be fragile. But he wondered what Beth Kemper’s breaking point was. He thought at some point he might get to see it.

  Having some time before he headed to Midnight Moods, he walked back to the boardinghouse and retrieved the Delahaye. He drove down to the wharf and saw that the boat Armstrong and the others had been on the other night was still tied up to the dock.

  He sought out and found the harbormaster’s office. The gray-bearded old man sitting in there had on a thick turtleneck sweater along with a sailor’s pea jacket and a captain’s hat. He looked like an advertisement for a seaman’s life, at least from Herman Melville’s time. He plucked his briarwood pipe from between tobacco-stained teeth and looked up at Archer from the perch in his quarters, which were not much bigger than a phone booth. Hanging on the wall behind him was a nautical chart of the harbor, complete with depth markings, the exact outline of the coast and seabed, along with navigational aids and hazards. Next to it was a picture of a pinup model who looked a lot like Callahan and was showing about as much leg.