Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

“It’s outside.”

“Good, mine’s in the shop.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing that paying the money owed won’t fix.”

“What model is it?”

“A 1942 Lincoln Continental Cabriolet, the prettiest blue with a canvas top and fat whitewalls. Did you know 1942 was the last year Detroit made cars before the war intervened?”

“Nope.”

“After that the big boys turned to the war effort, building trucks, tanks, planes. My ride was one of the last off the assembly line before Detroit turned to being the engine of the ‘arsenal of democracy,’ as Roosevelt termed it.”

“Car’s nearly eight years old then. You looking for a new ride?”

Dash frowned. “You don’t let a filly go when she’s just starting to hit her stride.”

“Miss Morrison seems efficient.”

Dash gave him a nuanced look. “And I’m sure Earl told you we were married and are now divorced.”

“He did mention that. Surprised you two can still work together.”

“We always worked together just fine. It was marriage together that didn’t work.”

“Okay.”

“You got a heater?” Dash said abruptly.

“Not on me, no.”

Archer followed Dash back to his office. Out of a desk drawer Dash drew a Colt .38 in a leather belt holster. “Irv said you were in the Army and know your way around a piece.”

“I’m sure you do, too.”

“I do. But at this point in my life, I’d rather think than shoot. So clip it on and don’t pull it unless you’re going to use it.”

“By the way, what’s my salary and how often do I get paid?”

“Don’t go too fast, Archer. Let’s take it nice and slow. I need to see you in action first.”

They rode the elevator down. Earl gazed up at Dash, the grin stretching to both cheeks and maybe beyond.

“You going to work, Mr. Dash? Going to get yourself some cri-mi-nal?”

“That’s the plan, Earl.”

“Saw Miss Morrison run outta here with a check in hand. She going to the bank, I ’spect?”

“You’d make a good shamus.”

“Can’t lose you, Mr. Dash. You the only one takes the elevator, ’cept this young man here. I be out of a job.”

“Uh-huh. Well, we don’t want that to happen.”

Outside, Archer said, “Is he always like that with you?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, gushing.”

“Hell, Archer, the man hates my guts.”

“How do you know that?”

“No man ever went to prison who comes out liking the man who put him behind bars.”

“So did you get him the job here because you keep your enemies close?”

“I felt for the guy. But he’d stick a knife in my back in a New York minute.”

When Dash saw the Delahaye he stopped and stared suspiciously at Archer. “This your car?”

“Yep.”

He read off the name. “Delahaye?”

“It’s French.”

“The hell you say.” As he started to get in, he stopped. “Steering wheel’s on the wrong side.”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting the hang of it. By the way, where are we going, Willie?”

“Straight to the source, Archer. To talk to Ruby Fraser.”

“You think she’ll cop to blackmailing Kemper?”

“She’s not blackmailing anybody. She’s what you call a pawn. I don’t expect her to be honest, don’t get me wrong. Midnight Moods doesn’t care about honest people. They just want gals with long legs and big tits. Miss Ruby isn’t quarterbacking this one.”

“So, Kemper’s enemies?”

“Or his friends.”

“Friends who are enemies, then?”

“Do you know of any other kind, son? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

Chapter 23

AS THEY WERE HEADING OUT OF TOWN, Dash pointed to a large billboard. “There’s our man.”

Douglas Kemper’s face was about ten feet tall. He was looking off into the distance, his expression intelligent, visionary even. Next to this profile was the slogan: KEMPER FOR MAYOR. A MAN FOR OUR TIMES.

“Catchy,” said Archer drily as they passed by and drove north.

A half hour later they arrived at their destination. Midnight Moods looked to Archer like every shallow fantasy a man could reasonably expect to have in his life. Constructed like a faux castle, complete with turrets and towers, bastions and battlements, the high walls covered with enormous posters of the most beautiful women wearing the most alluring outfits that Archer had ever seen.

The place had a vibrant view of the nearby salty ocean. Its large asphalt parking lot held about thirty cars, from junkers to lean rides, to police prowlers, to a couple of Bentleys, though it was still the afternoon.

As they pulled to a stop Archer ran his gaze over the front of the place once more and said, “Who the hell built this thing?”

“Who do you think? Sawyer Armstrong. He’s the only man around with the sawbucks to put up a joint like this.”

“When did he do it?”

“During the war. Sawyer has X-ray vision when it comes to seeing opportunities and making money off poor saps who don’t have a lot of it but don’t mind spending what they do have. It’s volume that matters.”

“And where did that volume come from? This isn’t exactly New York City.”

“Trains full of soldiers came through here, Archer. Sawyer put this place up in six months and made a fortune and then some for about three years just off the GIs.”

“And now? How’s business?”

“Popular as all get out. Lots of young guys, and older gents, coming through looking for something new.” He paused. “But in the long run, who knows.”

“Meaning?”

“Bay Town is turning into something that tends to shun places like this.”

“What’s that?”

“Bay Town is doing its best to turn respectable . But there will always be an audience for this sort of thing. Even if wives and girlfriends show up here from time to time to make their feelings known. Sometimes with an iron skillet in hand and not caring who they hit with it.”

“You ever been here?” asked Archer.

“A few times. Some laughs, some drinks, nothing more.”

“How many times did Connie Morrison crack you in the head with her skillet?”

“I’m starting to like you, Archer. But don’t make it personal.”

They climbed out and crossed over a short wooden bridge that spanned a fake moat that was filled with not water but gravel. There were chains on either side of the bridge that ran to some wheels affixed to the outside wall of the place.

“They ever raise the drawbridge?” asked Archer.

“Yeah, every night after the last penniless drunk falls out the door.”

Inside it was dark, quiet, and, at least to Archer, palpably ominous. Until a woman in her late forties came to greet them. She was dressed in a long, dark gown and wearing red high heels that drove her height to a head above Dash’s. Her hair was platinum with darker roots, her skin white as cream. Her lipsticked mouth housed a smile as wide as her face, but it never once reached her baby blues. She smelled of talcum powder and ginger.

“Can I help you, gentlemen? We’re not open quite yet. The sun’s still up.”

“The front door was wide open,” pointed out Dash.

“They lowered the bridge to let the beer, wine, and liquor deliveries through.”

“And all those cars in the parking lot are…?”

“Just visitors,” she replied, keeping her tone and expression professional. “The performers live here.”

“You mean, the female performers?”

“Do I? And what business is that of yours, Mister…?”

Dash pulled out his ID card and flashed it for her. “Willie Dash, PI. My associate Archer here. We’d like to talk to Ruby Fraser.”