Дэвид Балдаччи: A Gambling Man [calibre]

He opened the door and surveyed the place. Seven in the evening on the dot, and it was packed as tight as a passenger ship’s steerage class, only these people were better dressed and drinking niftier booze. Waiters in black bow ties and short white jackets seemed to hop, skip, and jump in frenetic furtherance of their duties. Archer looked for the “dancing birds” but saw no evidence of winged creatures performing the jitterbug. Either the place was misnamed, or he was in for a real surprise at some point.

At the far end of the room was a raised stage with a curtain, like one would see at a theater. As Archer stood there, hat in hand, the curtains parted and out stepped four long-limbed platinum blondes dressed so skimpily they looked ready to hop into bed for something other than sleep. Each of them held a very large and very fake bird feather in front of them.

A short, tubby man in a penguin suit waddled onstage and over to a microphone the size of two meaty fists resting on a stand. With deliberate dramatics he announced that the four ladies were the eponymous Dancing Birds and would be performing for the entertainment of the patrons now either eating or, in the case of half the tables that Archer could see, drinking their dinners.

About the time the ladies started to sing and hoof it across the wooden stage while twirling their feathers and twitching their hips, a bow-tied gent came up and told Archer there was room for him if he didn’t mind sharing a table.

“Works for me,” Archer said amiably.

He was led to a table that was nestled right next to the stage, where a man in his fifties sat. He was short and well-fed, and his calm, regal expression and sharply focused eyes told Archer that he was a man used to giving orders and seeing them obeyed, which was a decent gig if you could get it and then hold on to it. The tux handed Archer a stiff menu with the food items written in free-flowing calligraphy, took his order for three fingers of whiskey and one of water, and departed. Archer hung his fedora on the seat back and nodded to the other man.

“Thanks for the accommodation, mister,” he said.

He nodded back but didn’t look at Archer; he kept his gaze on the Birds.

When Archer’s drink came the man turned and eyed the whiskey. “Good choice. It’s one of the best they serve.”

“You have knowledge of the bar here?”

“In a way. I own the place. Max Shyner.” He raised a flute of champagne and clinked it against the whiskey glass.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Shyner. My name’s Archer. And thanks a second time for the table spot, then. Wondered why you had such a good seat for the show.”

“You like the Dancing Birds?” he said, returning his gaze to the stage.

Archer gave a long look at the Bird on the end, who responded with a hike of her eyebrows, the lift of a long fishnet-stockinged leg in a dance kick, and a come-hither smile before she tap-tapped to the other end of the stage with the rest of the feathered flock.

“Let me just say how could a breathing man not?”

“You just in town?” Shyner asked.

“Why, do I look it?”

“I know most of the regulars.”

“Passing through. Bus out tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“West of here,” he said vaguely, not wanting to offer anything more.

“California, then?” Shyner said.

“Maybe.”

“Well, son, any farther west and you’d be drinking the Pacific.”

“Suppose so,” replied Archer as he took a sip of the whiskey. He picked up the menu. “Recommend anything?”

“The steak, and the asparagus. They both come from near here. Get the Béarnaise sauce. You know what that is?”

“We’ll find out.” Archer gave that order to the waiter when he next came by and got a finger of whiskey added to what he had left. “So how long have you owned this place?”

“Long enough. I was born in Reno. Most are from someplace else, at least now. Great transition after the war, you see.”

“I guess I’m one of them,” replied Archer.

“Where in California? I got contacts, in case you’re looking for work.”

“Thanks, but I think I got something lined up.”

“The Golden State is growing, all right, why people like you are rushing to get there. Me, I’m more than content with this piece of the pie.”

“Who’s she?” asked Archer, indicating the Bird who had given him the eye.

“Liberty Callahan, one of my best. Sweet gal.” He pointed a finger at Archer. “No ideas, son. She wants to get into acting. Don’t think she’ll be here long, much to my regret.”

“I’m just passing through, like I said. I’ve got no ideas about her or any other lady.”

Shyner leaned forward, his look intense and probing. “You like to gamble?”

“My whole life’s been a gamble.”

“I mean, in a casino?”

Archer shook his head.

Shyner drew a fist of cash from his pocket and peeled off fifty dollars in sawbucks.

“You take this, with my compliments, and go try your luck at the Wheelhouse. It’s my place.”

“You give out folding money to all the folks passing by?” said Archer. “If you do, you might want to stop before you run out.”

Shyner leaned in more so Archer could smell the champagne on the man’s breath and Old Spice cologne on the ruddy cheeks. “Little something you need to know about casinos, young fella. No matter what the game, the casinos have the edge. With blackjack and roulette it’s a little less, with craps and slots a little more. But there’s no game where the House doesn’t have the advantage. My job is to get folks into my place. Even if I have to front them a bit. In the long run it pays off for me.”

“Well, with that warning, aren’t you defeating your purpose of recruitment?”

Shyner laughed. “You forget the element of human nature. I give you a little seed money and you’ll pay that back and more on top in no time.”

“Never got the point of gambling. Life’s uncertain enough as it is.”

“Gambling will be here long after I’m dead and buried, and you too. People are born with weaknesses and they pass them on. Sort of like Darwinism, only the stupid survive.”

“I might try your place, but I’ll do it with my own coin, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Sure as I’m sitting here with a man who owns a casino.”

Shyner put the cash away and lit up a short, thin cigar and blew wobbly rings to the high plastered ceiling. “You surprise me, Archer. I’ve done that fifty-dollar bit more times than I can remember and you’re the first to turn it down.”

“So what about all those casinos in Las Vegas? Don’t they give you competition?”

Shyner waved this concern away. “In twenty years it’ll be a ghost town and no one will even remember the name Las Vegas, you mark my words.”

His steak and asparagus came, and Archer ate and washed it down with another two fingers.

“Can I at least comp your meal, Archer?”

“What do I have to do in return?”

“Just go to my casino. Two blocks over to the west. You can’t miss it.”

Archer laid down a dollar for his meal and drinks.

“So you’re not going to the Wheelhouse then?” said Shyner in a disappointed tone.

“No, I am. Just on my terms instead of yours.”

“Action doesn’t start up till around ten. You’ll want the full picture.”

As he left, Archer gave Liberty Callahan a tip of his hat as she was singing a solo while reclining on a baby grand piano that had been wheeled onstage. She hit him with a dazzling smile and then kept right on singing without missing a beat. Her voice sounded awfully good to Archer. She waved bye-bye with her fake feather as he left the nest.

Archer had to admit, he liked the lady’s style.