Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

She dropped her finished cigarette and scrunched it flat with the heel of her shoe, then got into her car and drove slowly off. Archer swiftly moved after the convertible. He knew full well there was no way he could really follow her on foot if she sped up and vanished from sight. Fortunately, she didn’t go far. As Archer trotted along behind, she drove only three blocks before she parked the car at the curb and got out. Two motorcycles, one with a sidecar, were pulled up on the pavement in front.

Archer eyed the twenty-four-hour sign of the restaurant as she walked in.

He waited for a few minutes and followed.

Chapter 36

ARCHER STOOD IN THE DOORWAY of the hole-in-the-wall diner. Its yellow, pebbled floors were sticky linoleum, its booths shiny red vinyl, its tabletops slapdash laminate of no memorable design, and its walls painted a sea-foam green with the overhead whirly fans moving at the pace of a man with nowhere to go. There was a jukebox, but it was as dark and silent as the night.

There were three other customers in the place besides Beth Kemper. All three were around nineteen or twenty, and all were clustered around her booth, apparently giving the lady trouble, while a flustered waitress in her forties hovered nearby, looking uncertain as to what to do.

Archer heard one of the young men, tall and pudgy with a crew cut and muscled arms and shoulders showing under his T-shirt, say, “Hey, baby, we got some gin back at our place. You need to join us. Good times, sugar doll, good times.”

His skinny, acned friend laughed and parroted, “Good times, sugar doll.”

“Sure like to see your gams without anything on ’em,” said Crew Cut. “Bet they’re a knockout, like you.”

The third man was lean and lanky, had dark, greased hair, and wore denim jeans stiff as a two-by-four, scuffed black motorcycle boots, and a brown leather bomber jacket; the fanned-out top half of a switchblade stuck out of his rear pants pocket like a cobra’s head.

Kemper, for her part, was smoking another cigarette and looking extremely bored. She seemed to perk up when she saw Archer coming.

“Mrs. Kemper?” said Archer, walking over.

All of the men turned to eye him, and there wasn’t a friendly look in the bunch, which was no surprise, thought Archer. What guy liked his crude lovemaking interrupted?

Crew Cut said, “Hey, Bud, we’re having a talk with the lady here, so take a powder.”

Archer drew closer. “That’s funny. I have a scheduled meeting with the ‘lady.’”

“Scram,” said Switchblade, transferring an unlit cigarette from between his lips to behind his right ear, as though that movement constituted a plain threat.

Archer moved closer while Kemper continued to eye him with interest. “Don’t make this difficult, boys,” he said.

Crew Cut seemed to take this reference personally because he shoved Acne aside and said, “Who you calling a boy, mac?”

Archer looked around and shrugged. “We seem to be the only males here, so I’ll leave it to you to figure out.”

Kemper snorted at that one, which only made Crew Cut angrier. “You know him?” he demanded, wheeling around on Kemper.

She smiled benignly and waved her cigarette smoke away from her. “Not as much as I’d like to.”

Confused by this, Crew Cut turned and shot Switchblade a glance along with a jerk of the head in Archer’s direction that could not have been clearer.

Archer sighed. If he had a sawbuck for every time he’d seen that same look communicated in that same clumsy fashion.

Switchblade went for his knife, but before he could open the blade, Archer laid him out with a punch so hard, it knocked him into the next booth. He lay there, his nose bloody, a tooth wobbly, and his mind crushed into unconsciousness.

Crew Cut screamed profanities and drew a fist back. Archer swept aside the front of his jacket where the .38 sat prominently. Crew Cut froze.

Archer said, “You want to see my credentials now, or wait until after you get booked for harassing this lady and trying to have your buddy knife me?”

Acne said fearfully, “Y-you’re…a cop, mister?”

Archer didn’t even bother to look at him. He kept his gaze on Crew Cut with his fist still cocked. “In the meantime, unless you want your parents to have to spend their hard-earned money bailing you ‘boys’ out, grab your friend, throw some cold water on his face, get on your tricycles out there…and beat it. Now!”

Crew Cut and Acne grabbed their knocked-out chum and slid him out the door. About thirty seconds later Archer heard the bikes fire up. He went to the door and watched them ride off. Switchblade was slumped in the sidecar, as both bikes disappeared into the night with their owners’ egos tucked between their legs.

The waitress said, “Gee, thanks, mister. They’ve been nothing but trouble all night.”

“No problem. Can I get a cup of joe? Rumbling punks is thirsty work.”

“Coming right up. And it’s on the house.”

She went off to get the coffee while Archer walked back over to the booth shaking out his achy hand.

“Mrs. Kemper,” he said again.

She looked up at him, her expression one of intrigue.

“Mr. Archer, why don’t you join me for our scheduled meeting?”

He slid into the booth, took off his hat, and set it next to him.

“That was impressive. And I so like to see a man enjoy his work.”

He ran his eye over her. She was dressed far more casually than last time. Flared white pants with black buttons on the side, a checkered cotton shirt in blue and gold, a kerchief at her neck, and a fitted dark blue jacket over both. And a pair of gold hoops graced her delicately lovely ears.

“Surprised to see you here.”

“As I am seeing you.” She tapped ash into the ashtray. “I hope you haven’t been following me,” she said with enough behind it to put Archer on his guard.

“Following you?” he said with feigned incredulity that he hoped was genuine enough to carry away her suspicions. “That’s your car outside. I recognized it from my visit to your house. If I’d been following you, you would have either seen my headlights, since there are no other cars out there, or heard my car. Did you hear a car behind you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I walked here from my place over on Porter. Asked my landlady for a place to eat. I woke up in the middle of the night all hungry. Turns out she’s a night owl. She recommended here.”

“Porter Street. Why didn’t you drive?”

“Because I wanted to walk and smoke. And it’s not that far. Your trip here was a lot farther. Must be tough navigating those switchbacks in the dark and the fog.”

He pulled the ashtray closer, lit up, and tapped ash into it as his coffee arrived. It was hot and good.

“What, no notepad to write down my answers?” she said mockingly as the waitress departed.

“I’m off duty.”

“I didn’t come from my home,” said Kemper.

“Really, where then?”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

“You’re right, it’s not.”

“I spoke to my father. Have you heard the news?”

He exhaled smoke and shook his head. “What news?”

“There was a murder.”

Archer furrowed his brow and said sharply, “A murder? Where?”

“At Midnight Moods.”

“Hell, I was there last night, meaning about five hours ago. Went there with a friend who was auditioning for a job. Who got killed?”

“Ruby Fraser.”

Archer let his jaw go slack and he laid his smoke on the lip of the ashtray before clasping his hands on the table and assuming what he hoped was a judicious look. “ The Ruby Fraser?”

“Yes, the same one you were asking me about yesterday.”