Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

A dark hat with a blue ribbon was on a wall hook. A tan raincoat hung next to it, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Next to that hung a dented crown fedora with a bloodred ribbon. He assumed that belonged to Willie Dash.

He tipped his hat in greeting as she reached him.

“Mr. Archer, nice to meet you.”

Her long fingers managed a grip that was firm and reassuring, her expression less so. The periwinkles took him in as thoroughly as his gaze had done her. She seemed to come away impressed, although that could have simply been Archer’s wishful thinking.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Morrison. I’m really hoping I can go to work for Mr. Dash.”

The periwinkles dulled a bit, and the firm jaw clenched even tighter, and the lines around her eyes and mouth deepened into ditches. “Um, yes. Give me a minute. We’ve had a, uh, development since you called.”

She turned and left him there, opening and then quickly closing the door to the interior office, where, Archer was certain, Willie Dash bided his professional time.

A development since I called ten minutes ago?

He took off his hat, twirled it between his fingers, and took a long, slow loop around the room, arriving at the Royal typewriter and the paper wound into its maw that had clickety-clack marks all over it. He bent over to read the typing better.

It was addressed to the First National Bank of Bay Town.

Dear Mr. Weaver, Due to my recent illness coupled with a sudden downturn in business, I will be unable to meet my payment obligations on the loan to your institution in the near term. I would like to discuss a different payment plan that might

The words ended here. Archer slid back around the desk as the inner office door opened, and Morrison appeared once more. She wouldn’t meet his eye but said, “Mr. Dash will see you now, Mr. Archer.”

“Great. Everything okay?”

She lifted her elegant chin and dead-eyed him with the periwinkles that had instantly hardened to glowing bits of molten iron. “Why shouldn’t it be okay?” She glanced sharply at her typewriter.

Archer said, “You mentioned developments. I took that as maybe there was a problem. My mistake, sorry.”

The fire in the eyes dimmed and the periwinkles sparkled back at him. “No apology necessary.” She held the door open for him.

He passed by her and went in. He heard the door close firmly behind him and listened to the efficient heels of Connie Morrison marching the short distance back to her desk to finish her boss’s letter of developments.

Next, Archer heard a belch and swiveled his attention to a battleship-sized dark walnut desk that turned out to not have a single sailor on board. This office was three times the size of the outer room but seemed far smaller because it was crammed with so much stuff Archer wasn’t sure whether he was in a private eye’s office or a fence’s warehouse.

Against one wall was a Murphy bed that was in the down position. It was neatly made up with two pillows plumped on its surface like white geese on a rectangular pond.

“Keep your eyes looking, Archer, you’ll get there, son.”

Archer did as the voice suggested and came to rest on the man lying shoeless on a pale blue davenport. His cuffed pants were held up by white plastic suspenders rather than a belt or leather braces. His collar was undone, and his blue dotted bow tie hung off limply to one side of his neck like a broken arm dangling.

His broad face was flushed, and his scalp was as bald as a cue ball and close to the same color, which provided an odd and unsettling juxtaposition. His white shirt was wrinkled beyond perhaps the remediation of an iron, and one of his dark socks needed darning where his little toe poked out like a hatching chick.

His eyes were cloudy gray, like the color of a naval ship. They seemed to peer right through Archer.

On the coffee table in front of the davenport was a bottle of Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon and two glasses, one of which had been used. A newspaper lay next to them.

“Willie Dash, sir. Come on and take a seat and let me have a closer look at you.”

Archer crossed the room and noted the plank floor was worn smooth, perhaps from a man pacing in his socks for a number of years.

He sat down, placed his hat next to the Beam, and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, waiting.

Dash had a line of sweat on his broad forehead, each drop perfectly lined up with its neighbor—blackbirds on a phone line. When he opened his mouth wide, Archer saw twin porcelain crowns, one on either side and occupying the lower back forty.

A grinder who has worn down his grinders .

“You live here?” said Archer, eyeing the bed.

“I sleep here sometimes. Depends on the job. This ain’t no nine-to-fiver, son. You want that life, go apply at the bank to count other people’s money and be bored to death for the next forty years.”

“So how are developments ?” asked Archer. “Things looking up or still down? To put it as squarely as I can, will you be able to hire me if I pass muster?”

With an effort Dash sat up and swung his short, thick legs down to the floor. The toes touched, but not the heels. He was no more than five-seven, but his burly build looked strong. He wasn’t much under two hundred pounds. His age was difficult to say. Archer thought over sixty rather than under.

“I like your directness, Archer. It’s good, up until it’s not so good. And you eyeballed the letter in Connie’s typewriter because she sure wouldn’t have told you. That shows initiative and a certain disregard for the rules. Both okay in my book and maybe essential to the task.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket, hocked into it, and set it down next to him.

“The developments can come later, and maybe not the ones you’re thinking of. Now, Irving Shaw wrote very highly of you.”

“He’s a good man. Learned a lot from him.”

“And you no doubt want to continue your education under me.”

“I hoped my letter to you made that clear.”

“You’re coming in from this Poca City place? Irv told me that in his letter.”

“Yes. I stopped over in Reno for a little bit and then headed west.”

Dash hocked once more into the cloth and sat back, lifting his feet fully off the floor. “You got a ticket?”

“Come again?”

“A PI’s license.”

“Nope. Do I need one?”

“State of California says you do. Law enacted back in 1915.”

“What do I have to do to get it?”

“You have to apply to the State Board of Prison Directors.”

Archer felt like someone had just shivved him in the carotid. “Prison Directors!”

“Yes. You have to provide background on yourself, where you were last employed, and where in the state you intend to work as a PI. And you have to provide facts that you’re of good moral character. You have to sign that application, and then you have to find five reputable people in Bay Town who will approve of the application and also sign it before an officer duly authorized to take acknowledgment of deeds.”

“I don’t even know five people in town.”

“And the State Board will review the application and may do its own investigation to confirm that you are indeed a person of good moral character and integrity. If they do, they will issue a license good for five years, and the fee is ten dollars a year.”

Archer stared at him. “And if they find out I’ve been in prison, will that knock out any chance of me getting my license?”

“It might. But there’s another way.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s a provision in the law that allows you to act under the auspices of the license I have for this firm.”