Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

“Just in town,” replied Archer with a bit of a shiver as the sun began its descent after a hard day’s labor, and the heat shriveled down into the pavement like a receding flame.

The man eyed both the satchel and the bus depot behind and nodded. “Can see that.”

“And I’m not lost. Just going to my hotel.”

“Didn’t mean geographically. More metaphorically.”

“You sound educated, or are you just fortunate with how words spill out of your mouth?”

“Time fills your head up, if you allow it. Some don’t. They just put a lid on and end their life as they began it, ignorant as babies.” He put out a shaky, thinly veined hand with dark spots here and there. “I’m Robert Howells, but my friends and some of my enemies call me Bobby H. And you are?”

Archer shook his hand but said, “Why do you want to know?”

“Just making small talk, son, don’t get jumpy on me.”

“I go by Archer.”

“Your first time in Reno?” asked Howells.

Archer puffed on his smoke and nodded slowly. “Just passing through.”

“On to California? San Fran? Los Angeles? That’s where Hollywood is. Most beautiful women in the world. Streets paved with gold, and the water tastes like wine.”

“And none of that is true.”

“Not a bit. Well, maybe the gals. But they ain’t free, son. And there goes all my standard conversation right out the window.”

“Fact is, I am heading to California, but it’s a place north of Los Angeles. According to the Rand McNally.”

“You have a certain look the camera might find interesting. Maybe I’m staring at the next Gary Cooper?”

“I have no interest in being the next Gary Cooper or looking into cameras. I’m not saying I can’t act, because I pretty much do every time I open my mouth.”

“What is your ambition then?”

Archer finished his smoke and patted it dead on the pavement with the heel of his right wingtip. “No offense, Bobby H, but I don’t know you. And trouble with strangers is not something I’m casting about for.”

Howells frowned. “You seem closer to my age, at least in your lack of adventurous nature.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Do you know why they call Reno the biggest little city in the world?”

Archer shook his head.

“It’s because you can get whatever New York or Philadelphia or Boston or even Los Angeles can provide.”

“And what do you think I want?”

“What do most young men want after a war? You fought, I take it?”

“That’s nearly five years gone by now.”

“But it was a big war with long legs. We won’t be forgetting it anytime soon.”

“So what do I want?” Archer asked again.

“A good time with no duties appurtenant thereto.”

“ Appurtenant ? Now you sound like a lawyer. They run second to dead last in popularity with me to undertakers. And it’s a long way up from there.”

“Do you wish a good time with no consequences?”

Archer wondered if the old man was drunk or doped or both. “I never assumed there was such a thing.”

“In Reno there is.”

“Well, good for Reno. And what do you get out of telling me that?”

“You don’t believe in generosity for generosity’s sake?”

“And I don’t believe in Santa or pennies from Heaven either. Ever since age seven.”

“For a young man you seem old and gray in spirit.”

“And getting older every minute I’m standing here gabbing with you.”

“The passion of youth has been smote clean from you, and that’s a damn shame, son.”

Archer lit another Lucky and eyed the man, awaiting his next move. It was at least passing the time in the biggest little city on earth.

“Okay, I can understand your cynicism. But let me make another observation. One that has personal advantages to me.”

Archer flashed a grin. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I knew you had it in you.”

Howells fingered his chin. “You look like a man able to take care of himself.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know.”

“Here it is then: Can you protect others?” asked Howells.

“Who are we talking about here?”

“We are talking about me.”

“And why do you need protection?” asked Archer.

“I have enemies, as I said.”

“And why do you have enemies?”

“Some folks have them, unfortunately, and I’m one of those folks. So what do you say?”

“I have no interest in making your enemies my enemies. So you have a good day.”

Archer tipped his hat, turned, and walked off with his satchel. Howells called after him. “You would desert an old man in need, soldier?”

Over his shoulder Archer said, “Just wait for a fellow to fall off a truck and he’s your man, Bobby H .”

Chapter 2

IN HIS HOTEL ROOM, which looked like a shower stall with half-hearted ambition, Archer ditched his hat on the bed, tucked his satchel in the narrow closet with two feeble hangers dangling from the wooden rod, and sat in the one chair by the one window. He parted the faded and frayed curtains and stared out at Reno. It just looked average, maybe a little below that, in fact. Yet maybe it punched above its weight, like he always tried to do.

He smoked another Lucky and took a drink from the flask he carried in his jacket pocket. Archer didn’t need beautiful women, watery wine, or golden boulevards. He just desired a steady paycheck, something interesting to do with his time, and the small slice of self-respect that came with both.

The rye whiskey went down slow and burned deliciously along the way. Thus fortified, he took out the letter typed on sandpaper stationery with the name “Willie Dash, Very Private Investigations” imprinted at the top and giving an address and a five-digit phone number in Bay Town, California. Included with the letter was the man’s business card, stiff and serious looking with the same address and telephone information as the letter. A tiny magnifying glass rode right under the business name. Archer liked the effect. He hoped he liked the man behind it. More to the point, he hoped Willie Dash liked him.

The missive was in response to one Archer had written to Dash at the advice of Irving Shaw, a state police detective Archer had met while in a place called Poca City, where Archer had served his parole. Shaw and Dash were old friends, and Shaw believed Archer had the makings of a gumshoe; he’d thought Dash might be a good mentor for him. Archer had mentioned Shaw in the letter because he hoped it would move Dash to at least write back.

Not only had Dash written back but he’d suggested that Archer come to Bay Town and see what might be possible. He had promised Archer no job, just the opportunity to seek one, depending on how Dash viewed things. Archer didn’t need false promises or mealymouthed platitudes. He just needed a fair shot.

He put the letter and business card back in his jacket pocket, gazed out the window again, and noted that it was nearing the dinner hour. He had passed clusters of eateries along the way here, and one had stood out to him because it had also been the establishment naughty Ginger had told him about.

He grabbed his hat, pocketed his hefty room key, which could double as a blunt instrument if need be, and set out to fill his time and his belly.

It was a short walk to the Dancing Birds Café. The place was tucked away down a side street off Reno’s main drag. The broad windows were canopied by red-and-green-striped awnings, the door was solid oak with a brass knocker barnacled to the wood, and a flickering gas lantern hung on the wall to the right of the door. Archer took a moment to light up a Lucky off the open flame. Breathing in the methane reminded him of the war, where if you weren’t sucking foul odors like cordite into your lungs, you’d think you were either dead or someone had upped and taken the war elsewhere.