Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

And my office.

He smiled and spent the next hour cleaning the place up and putting things just so. He almost felt like he was back in prison where small tasks like this—straightening something, cleaning something—allowed him to get through the day and the next day and the next. Finished, he looked out the small window and watched as two men walked down the alley four stories below smoking cigarettes and sharing a bottle.

Archer drove back to the boardinghouse and knocked on Callahan’s door.

“Yeah?” she called out.

“It’s me, Archer.”

He heard footsteps approach. When she opened the door, he found himself a little disappointed that she had so many clothes on.

“What?” she said, her hand on her hip and attitude dripping from her features.

“You want to grab some dinner?”

“No. I’m not hungry. Did you find out who killed that girl?”

“We’re working on it, Liberty. But I did have one favor to ask.”

“Then you better come in. It would be humiliating for you if I turned you down in public.”

She sat on the bed and he leaned against the wall. He could see that she had a number of outfits out on the bed and others hanging on various wall pegs.

“You going through your wardrobe?”

“Yeah. What Dawson had for me just didn’t work. Luckily I brought a few things that will.”

“More than a few. You excited about it?”

“It’s not Hollywood, but it’ll do. For now. What’s the favor?”

“I was wondering when you start work there if you could keep your eyes and ears open at Midnight Moods and report back to me.”

“You mean, act as a spy for you?”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it.”

“Seems to me like it’s the only way, Archer.”

“It might help us find out who killed that woman.”

Callahan’s hard features collapsed when he said that, and she looked down and started fussing with one of her nails. “Whoever did it, didn’t have to kill her like that. They didn’t have to…do that to her.”

Archer sat on the bed next to her. “If you go all soft on me, I’ll think somebody kidnapped the real Liberty and left you behind.”

“What girls like me do, Archer, what girls like Ruby Fraser did, is hard. We have to navigate a thousand different things at once, most of them shitty and almost all of them having to do with men. All at the same time we’re pursuing our dreams, or at least what we think we’d like to do with our lives. And unlike men, we can do a hundred things right and one thing wrong and our dream is over. That kind of gets to you, makes you…light on your feet, unwilling to…”

“To trust anybody. Including men like me.”

She touched his face. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not when you rub it like that. Feels good, actually.”

“I’ll be your spy, Archer. And I need you to drive me over there on Friday to sign my contract.”

“Okay, but you need to be careful. Something’s not right at Midnight Moods.”

“Something’s not right with the whole world.”

He left her there to continue her wardrobe choices, and ate a quick dinner at a place across the street. Steak, peppers, and onions washed down with a beer, and bread hard enough to hammer nails with.

Archer walked around the streets for a bit, enjoying the falling temperatures and light ocean breeze, and watched the marine fog build in the hollows leading up to the palaces resting above them. As he walked he thought about Beth Kemper, visualizing the woman in his mind. The first word that came to him as he did this was fragile . That surprised him because she didn’t appear to be fragile. But he wondered what Beth Kemper’s breaking point was. He thought at some point he might get to see it.

Having some time before he headed to Midnight Moods, he walked back to the boardinghouse and retrieved the Delahaye. He drove down to the wharf and saw that the boat Armstrong and the others had been on the other night was still tied up to the dock.

He sought out and found the harbormaster’s office. The gray-bearded old man sitting in there had on a thick turtleneck sweater along with a sailor’s pea jacket and a captain’s hat. He looked like an advertisement for a seaman’s life, at least from Herman Melville’s time. He plucked his briarwood pipe from between tobacco-stained teeth and looked up at Archer from the perch in his quarters, which were not much bigger than a phone booth. Hanging on the wall behind him was a nautical chart of the harbor, complete with depth markings, the exact outline of the coast and seabed, along with navigational aids and hazards. Next to it was a picture of a pinup model who looked a lot like Callahan and was showing about as much leg.

Archer pointed out the window at the boat. “That’s a nice-looking craft. Does someone own it, or can it be rented?”

The man said, “That there is Sawyer Armstrong’s vessel.”

“Sawyer Armstrong?” said Archer, feigning ignorance.

“Why, he’s the richest man around here. Has a big place up in the mountains. Grows olives. But he owns most of Bay Town.”

“Oh, right, I think I’ve heard of him. But I’ve only just moved here.” Archer lit up a Lucky Strike and looked out at the boat. “Where do people go on boats around here? Are there islands and such?”

“Sure. The Channel Islands.”

“Channel Islands? Can you get out there fast?”

“Depends on what you mean by fast, young man, and depends on which island. There’re eight of them in what they call an archipelago . Goes from San Miguel to the north to San Clemente on the southern side. Santa Cruz and Anacapa are the closest to us, but you’re still talking over an hour or more to get to them.”

“Are the islands inhabited?”

“Just Santa Catalina, really. The others are either empty or just have a few folks. Used to be Indians lived on the Channel Islands. Chumash on the northern islands and the Tongva tribe to the south. But the Spaniards came and moved them out way back when. Now, on Catalina some rich feller built a town out there, like a tourist destination, so to speak. Avalon, it’s called. Then he went broke and some other fellers tried their hand and kept building. Then they had a fire and money problems and had to sell out to other investors. Then that chewing gum feller, Wrigley, came along and bought most everything up. Spent millions out there, so’s I heard. Catalina Casino is real popular.”

Archer blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Casino? I thought casinos were outlawed in California.”

The man chuckled. “Ain’t no gambling there. ‘Casino’ is I-talian for ‘gathering place,’ at least some feller told me that. Anyway, Wrigley owned the Chicago Cubs. Team used to go there for spring training. Long time ago, I went over there once to watch ’em. Lotta fun. Then Mr. Chewing Gum died and his son took over and kept building it up. Then the military came in and took everything over during the war. They still do tests and stuff out there on some of ’em.”

“How far is it?”

“Catalina’s part of the Southern Channel Islands chain. Takes you about an hour or so by boat from way down in Long Beach to get there. Whole lot longer from here. Have to make it a full day trip.”

“I hear there’s another island out there, a lot closer to us here. Sort of a man-made place the military put together.”

The seaman eyed him suspiciously and tapped the smoking end of his pipe against his desktop. “You hear a lot for someone who just got to town.”

“I like to keep my ears open. Is it true?”

“Military folks did lots of things during the war. We don’t know them all, expect we never will. Hush-hush, right?”

Archer eyed the man’s seafaring garb. “So you’ve never been out there? Thought you’d have been all over these waters.”