Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

Archer returned his attention to Kemper and Sheen, looking them over as he shook their hands. Kemper was in his late thirties, an inch shorter than Archer, trim, good-looking, and well groomed. Elegant was the descriptive term that came to Archer. His shoulders were narrow and his hips narrower still. His grip was a dishrag clench—whether that was for Archer’s benefit or the man did that with everyone, Archer didn’t know. He had a dark pencil mustache that matched his hair, which was slicked and parted and rode on his head like a flat crown. His eyes were green and his manner seemed bored, as though what he was here for held no particular interest.

He was dressed immaculately in a dark blue double-breasted worsted wool suit framing a starched gray shirt so sparkling it looked like liquid chrome. His muted red-and-blue-striped tie was double knotted and held against his throat by a gold collar pin. He looked soft but maybe wasn’t, was Archer’s conclusion.

Wilson Sheen was a different sort altogether. He was around five-eight and overweight with a bulging gut that preceded him everywhere. He had broad shoulders and hips to match. His suit was light brown, single-breasted, with a dim blue shirt and a dark brown tie that rode uncomfortably against his meaty neck like a tree leaning into a hurricane. His pants were cuffed and pleated, and his shoes were scuffed fore and aft. His manner was as intense as Kemper’s was indifferent. His ice-blue eyes raked across Archer. He drew in his nostrils like a scent dog. Archer took an instant dislike to the man and then reprimanded himself. What would Irving Shaw say? Let it play out. Don’t judge on emotion. Let the facts rule.

Both men dropped their fedoras on the table and sat down.

Dash and Archer joined them.

Dash said, “Everyone in Bay Town knows who you are, Mr. Kemper. But for the sake of my new associate understanding things, perhaps you could start from the very beginning.”

Kemper did not appear to like this suggestion, but he glanced at Sheen, who nodded in agreement. Kemper took out a gold cigarette case and pulled a gold-tipped cigarette from it. Sheen instantly lighted it with a gold-plated beauty of an ignitor that was stamped with a name that to Archer looked French.

Golden boy all around, maybe.

Kemper primed his smoke, sucked in a long one, and let it gush out both nostrils like steam from a train coming right at Archer. In a smooth, bored voice he said, “It’s like this, Archer. I’m running for mayor of Bay Town. Wilson is my right-hand man in my business and is also my campaign manager. I was chairman of the town council for two years and was content with that, but a number of very smart, important people asked me to consider running for mayor, and I decided to do just that. We’re growing fast, and a steady hand is needed to manage that growth. Otherwise it can get out of whack.”

“And we don’t need a dentist in charge,” chimed in Sheen.

While Kemper’s voice was silk, Sheen’s was like a bulldozer. It banged off all four walls of the office and fell on them like mustard gas.

“Yes, well,” said Kemper, tapping ash into a blue ashtray set on the table. “As far as personal history, I married into a very prominent family, the Armstrongs. My wife is Beth Armstrong Kemper.”

When Archer made no reply to this, Dash said, “For generations the Armstrong family dominated the cattle business around here, which made money hand over fist. They were astute enough to get out of it before the whole industry went down to nothing, and they used those funds to basically invest in and expand Bay Town, a large part of which they still own. Sawyer Armstrong is Beth’s father and the richest man in town.”

“I drove down Sawyer Avenue coming into town,” noted Archer.

Kemper blew smoke to the ceiling as he crossed his legs, showing off canary yellow socks, and swished his tasseled loafer like a leather metronome. “Sawyer loves to make his presence felt wherever he can. Naming the best and most beautiful boulevard in the town after himself was one way to do that. Hell, I’m surprised we’re not called Sawyerville or Armstrongburg. If I win the election he might just insist I do it.”

Archer continued to watch as Sheen touched Kemper’s sleeve and shot his boss a look of caution.

Kemper said, in a more controlled tone that would work well on the political stump, “He’s really made this place what it is, I have to give him that. We’re not always on the same page about what direction the town should go in now, but that’s to be expected. But I value his opinion.”

“And the matter that has brought you here?” said Dash.

Kemper glanced at Sheen before lighting another cigarette, this time with his own lighter. He took so long doing it that Archer could have rolled two of his own and smoked them both down. Kemper was apparently a man used to taking his time and used to people allowing him to do it, thought Archer.

“Yes, well, this must remain confidential, of course.”

“Once the retainer is signed and money exchanged, privilege attaches,” said Dash. “I’ve already communicated my rates to you.”

Kemper gave him a once-over sneer. “Look, Willie, you’ll get your damn money, all right? Don’t put the squeeze on me from the get-go. It affronts my sensibilities, to the extent that I have any left. It’s a damn nuisance that I have to do this at all. It’s ridiculous, in fact, but I have been persuaded that it’s in my interests to do so.”

“By the very important, smart people,” noted Archer.

Kemper turned his gaze to him and smiled. “It’s difficult to say no to such influence.”

Dash said, “I’m sure I’ll get the money, Mr. Kemper. As privilege attaches at that time . But that doesn’t get us to the heart of the problem. You came here to ask us to help you get answers, solve your dilemma. The money obviously is secondary to that. Or am I being off base?”

Archer eyed Kemper and saw the hostility fade in the latter’s eyes.

Kemper said, “No, you’re doing okay.” He impatiently stubbed out his newly lit smoke. “Well, let me get to the point then, gentlemen. I received this in the mail.” He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Dash. Archer slid closer so he could read it as well.

“There was no return address and no signature, of course,” added Kemper.

It wasn’t a long letter, and after both men read it, Dash looked up and said, “Okay, we’re talking blackmail. If you don’t drop out of the race for mayor, details of an affair between you and a Miss Ruby Fraser who works at Midnight Moods will be made public.” He glanced at Archer. “That’s the burlesque place on the edge of town.”

“Yeah, I heard of it. I have a friend who might try to get a job there.”

Dash gave him a puzzled look. “You make friends fast, Archer.”

“She actually drove out here with me.”

“Right,” said Dash before turning to Kemper. “Do you know this Miss Fraser?”

“I know her.”

“How well?”

“Not nearly as well as they claim in the letter.”

“So no affair?” said Dash.

“No.”

“If there’s no truth to it, why worry?” said Archer.

Kemper snapped, “Because the damage will be done. I’ll get creamed in the election. Women can vote, Archer. And they won’t vote for an alleged philanderer.”

Dash interjected, “So our means of attacking this sucker are limited but they’re still there.”

Kemper sat back. “And pray tell, what might those be?”

Sheen interjected, “You’re not going to suggest paying off the blackmailer?”

“There’s no such thing as paying off a blackmailer,” replied Dash. “They just keep coming back. You might as well open a bank account for them to access.”