Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

“He doesn’t look like he can afford it.”

“Well, looks can be deceiving,” said Archer.

Lester did not appear to take too kindly to this mild rebuke. He took a few steps toward Archer before Howells said, “So is it in the garage then?”

Lester snapped a glare at him that in the dim light seemed ferocious somehow. “Where else, Pops? Under the cover, like always.”

“Well, let’s get to it,” said Howells hastily. “Don’t want to waste what’s left of your night, Lester.”

To Archer, the old man seemed uneasy at having to deal with the giant, and that uneasiness transferred to Archer like a virus.

Lester took them to the garage, pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked a massive padlock, and slid open the doors with outward thrusts of his two-by-four arms. Inside they saw automobiles and pickup trucks in various stages of disassembly. Large rolling toolboxes stood next to some of these vehicles. Single bulb work lights were strung from the exposed rafters. The smell of grease was predominant but barely winning out over the odor of burned nicotine. Archer saw a Maxwell House coffee can full of cigarette butts. He next eyed a fifty-gallon drum marked GASOLINE with a hose and nozzle attached, and he wondered how the man had not managed to blow or burn himself up.

“Business looks good,” noted Archer in a friendly tone. He really did not want to have to try his luck with the aluminum knuckles against a man the size of this one. He doubted he could reach Lester’s chin to see if, despite his size, it was made of glass.

“Looks can be deceiving.” Lester was the only one to smile at his little joke, and it was a weak, grim effort.

In a separate room behind another set of locked slider doors was a vehicle draped with a brown canvas tarp. Lester flicked on a light and glanced at Howells, who nodded.

Archer stood next to Callahan, who had reached out and clutched his arm, as though what was about to be revealed was a wild animal instead of something you drove on the road.

Lester grabbed one end of the tarp and with one tug pulled it free of what was underneath.

“Damn,” Archer and Callahan said collectively.

Howells stepped forward and rubbed the silver trim on the side of the bloodred car, which also had a red convertible top that was now set in the down position.

“Folks, feast your eyes on a 1939 Delahaye Model One Sixty-Five, Figoni and Falaschi convertible cabriolet.”

Callahan gushed, “It…it looks like it’s floating on air.”

Archer eyed the long hood, which ended in a shiny grille that ran from top to bottom on the front of the vehicle like a knight’s metal vestments. Its front and rear fenders looked like waves crashing on a beach and enormous teardrop-shaped pearls, respectively. There were slashes of chrome trim on the sides and running along the bottom of the chassis. It rode so low that he could see only the bare bottoms of the whitewall tires.

“It looks…more like a dream than a car,” said Archer quietly.

Lester said, “It ain’t no dream, buddy. This baby weighs three thousand pounds, has a twelve-cylinder all-aluminum, four-point-five-liter engine, triple overhead cam, three downdraft Solex carburetors, and a four-speed transmission, with a top speed of around a hundred and fifteen miles an hour.”

“Holy hell,” said Callahan. “Just the car you want if you’re robbing a bank.”

This comment made Howells and Archer exchange a startled look.

“Figoni and Falaschi?” said Archer.

Lester replied, “Figoni and Falaschi were the designers of the car. Delahaye was an engineer and he didn’t have an in-house body shop. He built the mechanics of the car and left the body design to coachbuilders, like Figoni and Falaschi. They make really pretty cars. They’re I-talians.”

Howells said, “So what say you, Archer?”

Archer pointed at the front seat. “Well, for starters, the steering wheel’s on the wrong side.”

“No, the steering wheel is on the right side for the simple fact that it was built for an Englishman, and that is where a steering wheel is located over there,” said Howells.

“I’m not English,” said Archer. “And I’m over here, not there .”

“So do you want it or not?” said Howells.

“I can’t decide on buying a car I haven’t driven.”

“Fair enough. Lester, the key?”

Lester slipped a key off a hook on the wall and held it out to Archer. “You ever driven anything like this?”

“Hell, I’ve never seen anything like this, pal. What a sheltered life I’ve led.”

“You want me to drive it out of the garage for you, so you won’t bang nothing up?”

Archer reached out and took the key from him. “I got it.”

Lester held his hand up without the key for longer than was necessary. For a moment, Archer thought the hand would change to a fist and be swung at him. With his free hand he felt for the aluminum knuckles in his pocket. He would have preferred a howitzer.

But Lester shrugged, lowered his arm, and said, “You break it you bought it, mister.”

“Let’s go, Liberty,” said Archer.

“What, me?”

“I don’t see anybody else named Liberty hanging around.”

They climbed into the car, and Lester pushed the other door open, providing a wide space for the Delahaye to roll through.

Archer put the key in the ignition and turned it. Then he hit the starter button, and the car purred to life with suppressed power.

“Sounds like a lion yawning,” said Callahan.

Howells grinned. “This beast hasn’t been out of its cage. It needs to run free.”

Archer worked the clutch and put the car in gear using the tiny gearshift that was mounted on the steering column. The steering wheel was the same color as the car. It was like he was holding a circle of fire in his hands. He was relieved that there was no grinding sound as he geared up, and they pulled through the opening. They passed the other humbled cars, which seemed to bow to the Delahaye like a pride to its king. As they rolled through the double doors, Archer turned on the headlights; they overcame the darkness with stunning visibility.

Howells and Lester followed them out.

“Which way should we go?” Archer asked.

“Well, first things first. Move over, gal,” said Howells to Callahan.

“What?” said Callahan, staring up wide-eyed at the old man.

“You think I’m going to let you ride off into the night all by your lonesome in the most beautiful car ever built before giving me a dime for it?”

“I’m no car thief,” said Archer.

“Glad you think so. I’m not convinced myself.”

“I can ride with them,” said Lester.

“Hell, Lester,” said Howells. “I don’t think you would fit in there if it was just you.”

Callahan slid over tight to Archer, and Howells climbed into the car, crowding the other two. “Now go west, young man,” he said pointing to the left. “That way.”

Archer pulled onto the road and pressed down the gas.

Howells pursed his lips. “Come on, Archer. Let it rip.”

Archer mashed the pedal down.

The acceleration was immediate, popping their heads back and exhilaratingly so.

“My goodness,” exclaimed Callahan. “If this car was a man, I think I’d propose.”

Chapter 8

SO HOW MUCH ARE YOU ASKING FOR IT?” Archer said as they spun around a tight curve in the road before reaching a long straightaway.

Howells scratched his cheek and then smoothed down both ends of his white mustache. “Like I said, there’s only five known One Sixty-Fives around. And a fellow in Beverly Hills, California, just bought one for $12,000.”

“Christ Almighty,” yelled Callahan.