Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

Next, Archer heard a belch and swiveled his attention to a battleship-sized dark walnut desk that turned out to not have a single sailor on board. This office was three times the size of the outer room but seemed far smaller because it was crammed with so much stuff Archer wasn’t sure whether he was in a private eye’s office or a fence’s warehouse.

Against one wall was a Murphy bed that was in the down position. It was neatly made up with two pillows plumped on its surface like white geese on a rectangular pond.

“Keep your eyes looking, Archer, you’ll get there, son.” Archer did as the voice suggested and came to rest on the man lying shoeless on a pale blue davenport. His cuffed pants were held up by white plastic suspenders rather than a belt or leather braces. His collar was undone, and his blue dotted bow tie hung off limply to one side of his neck like a broken arm dangling.

His broad face was flushed, and his scalp was as bald as a cue ball and close to the same color, which provided an odd and unsettling juxtaposition. His white shirt was wrinkled beyond perhaps the remediation of an iron, and one of his dark socks needed darning where his little toe poked out like a hatching chick.

His eyes were cloudy gray, like the color of a naval ship. They seemed to peer right through Archer.

On the coffee table in front of the davenport was a bottle of Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon and two glasses, one of which had been used. A newspaper lay next to them.

“Willie Dash, sir. Come on and take a seat and let me have a closer look at you.”

Archer crossed the room and noted the plank floor was worn smooth, perhaps from a man pacing in his socks for a number of years.

He sat down, placed his hat next to the Beam, and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, waiting.

Dash had a line of sweat on his broad forehead, each drop perfectly lined up with its neighbor — blackbirds on a phone line. When he opened his mouth wide, Archer saw twin porcelain crowns, one on either side and occupying the lower back forty.

A grinder who has worn down his grinders .

“You live here?” said Archer, eyeing the bed.

“I sleep here sometimes. Depends on the job. This ain’t no nine-to-fiver, son. You want that life, go apply at the bank to count other people’s money and be bored to death for the next forty years.”

“So how are developments? ” asked Archer. “Things looking up or still down? To put it as squarely as I can, will you be able to hire me if I pass muster?”

With an effort Dash sat up and swung his short, thick legs down to the floor. The toes touched, but not the heels. He was no more than five-seven, but his burly build looked strong. He wasn’t much under two hundred pounds. His age was difficult to say. Archer thought over sixty rather than under.

“I like your directness, Archer. It’s good, up until it’s not so good. And you eyeballed the letter in Connie’s typewriter because she sure wouldn’t have told you. That shows initiative and a certain disregard for the rules. Both okay in my book and maybe essential to the task.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket, hocked into it, and set it down next to him.

“The developments can come later, and maybe not the ones you’re thinking of. Now, Irving Shaw wrote very highly of you.”

“He’s a good man. Learned a lot from him.”

“And you no doubt want to continue your education under me.”

“I hoped my letter to you made that clear.”

“You’re coming in from this Poca City place? Irv told me that in his letter.”

“Yes. I stopped over in Reno for a little bit and then headed west.”

Dash hocked once more into the cloth and sat back, lifting his feet fully off the floor. “You got a ticket?”

“Come again?”

“A PI’s license.”

“Nope. Do I need one?”

“State of California says you do. Law enacted back in 1915.”

“What do I have to do to get it?”

“You have to apply to the State Board of Prison Directors.”

Archer felt like someone had just shivved him in the carotid. “Prison Directors!”

“Yes. You have to provide background on yourself, where you were last employed, and where in the state you intend to work as a PI. And you have to provide facts that you’re of good moral character. You have to sign that application, and then you have to find five reputable people in Bay Town who will approve of the application and also sign it before an officer duly authorized to take acknowledgment of deeds.”

“I don’t even know five people in town.”

“And the State Board will review the application and may do its own investigation to confirm that you are indeed a person of good moral character and integrity. If they do, they will issue a license good for five years, and the fee is ten dollars a year.”

Archer stared at him. “And if they find out I’ve been in prison, will that knock out any chance of me getting my license?”

“It might. But there’s another way.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s a provision in the law that allows you to act under the auspices of the license I have for this firm.”

“So I don’t even have to apply?”

“But you might want to anyway, sometime down the road, Archer. I won’t be around forever, and the license I have is not transferable to you. And I have to tell you that there’s talk of changing the law, making it even more restrictive next year. It might well require several years of apprenticing as a PI, and also require that the applicant not have been convicted of any serious crime.”

Archer nodded. “Okay.”

“So you might want to find five people and get yourself grandfathered in, if you can. Me and Connie can be two of them, so you’re nearly halfway home on that score. In the meantime, I can provide a ticket for you that allows you to operate under the license of this firm. I’ll have Connie get going on that.”

“Didn’t know it was so involved.”

“It’s a profession, Archer. And it’s getting all the riffraff out and making way for us professionals. I went to the CAPI conference last year and it was quite informative.”

“The what?”

“California Association of Private Investigators. Had a woman named Mildred Gilmore speak. She’s a licensed PI and an attorney, and good at both jobs. She argued for adopting a code of ethics for PIs. She also said that women make better operators because they’re more ethical and no one would suspect them of being PIs.”

“What do you think?”

“I’ve got my own ethics, and I don’t want other folks telling me what they should be.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“What’s your first name again?”

“Aloysius.”

“Then I’ll just call you Archer.”

“I, uh, I saw the billboards around town. Miss Morrison told me they were from a while ago.”

Dash cocked his head and the mouth flatlined. “Don’t play me for a fool, son. You put up billboards to get business, least I did when I first got here. The fact is I soon had more than enough business, so no need for more billboards. Plus, I sort of like driving around and seeing what I used to look like.”

“But you need business now, sounds like.”

“Things have slowed, I won’t debate that point with you.”

“So you were with the FBI?”

Dash poured out small measures of Beam in both glasses and nudged one toward Archer.

“How is Earl? In fine form? Man loves to talk.”

“He thinks the world of you.”

“I did him one act of kindness and he did the rest.”

“Nice of you after sending him to San Quentin.”

Dash said sharply, “He sent himself to San Quentin. That liquor store didn’t rob itself.”