Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

“The election is in four weeks,” Sheen told him.

Dash offered up a smile. “Then, by God, we haven’t a moment to waste.”

Kemper rose and joined Morrison over at the desk where he signed the papers, as did Dash. Archer came over to stand next to the desk. Kemper took his duplicate copy and passed it over to Sheen, who had risen and joined him. It was Sheen who took out a checkbook and made out the retainer check in the amount of one thousand dollars, signing it with a flourish. He handed it to Dash.

Archer saw that it was drawn on an account in the name of “Kemper for Mayor.”

Dash said, “Expenses are of course separate, and will be itemized and sent to you regularly.”

Kemper glanced at Dash and then at Archer. “Oh, joy. I wish you both luck in this endeavor.”

He and Sheen picked up their hats and left.

Dash turned to Morrison, passed her the check, and said urgently, “Okay, hon, carry that down to the bank and get it deposited ASAP. Then go over the list of outstanding bills, prioritize and whittle, stiff who you can, and negotiate the must-pays down as best you can. In the future I’ll need credit, and this is where I build it back up.”

Morrison nodded, glanced anxiously at Archer, and hurriedly left. A few moments later Archer heard the office door open and close.

Dash plucked a briarwood pipe from a stand on his desk, stuffed it with tobacco pulled from a pouch in his desk drawer, and took a moment to light it, puffing thoughtfully. He settled back on the davenport and glanced at Archer.

“Well?” asked Dash.

Archer said, “A dentist in charge? What did Sheen mean by that?”

“Kemper’s running against a fellow named Alfred Drake, who’s a dentist. But he’s no dummy. And Drake’s been on the town council for years. He knows the difference between floating a water bond and filling up a pool with water.”

“Nice of Kemper to provide a list of possible suspects.”

Dash lit his pipe again and sucked on the end to prime it. “The list, if we get it, will be worthless. He’ll put on there anyone he has a grudge against, hoping we can find dirt on them , whether it has anything to do with the election or not.”

“But if the truth won’t set Kemper free, what will?”

“I’ll tell you what, Archer, for a thousand bucks plus expenses, we will.” Dash stood and said, “Now, follow me.”

Dash led Archer out the door, past Morrison’s empty desk, and over to another door on the other side of the reception area that Archer had missed seeing before.

Dash opened the door and turned on the light. A long naked tube hissed and popped overhead before gaining purchase and staying on, feebly illuminating the small space so it looked like a partially exposed photograph. Archer looked around and took in the room that held a desk, a chair, another chair, a three-drawer metal file cabinet, and one window about as wide as his head.

Dash swept a hand across the space. “Your new office, Archer.”

“So I have the job then?”

“Not if you continue to be that slow on the uptake. Now, it’s a little dusty, but I can get Connie to spruce it up a bit. Maybe get a fresh flower for that vase over there.”

“No, that’s okay. I can clean it up.”

“You sure?”

Archer surveyed his office. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

“PIs don’t spend a lot of time on their duff in their office, Archer,” Dash said warningly.

“Give me a sec to breathe it all in, Mr. Dash. Then I’ll be raring to go.”

Dash smiled. “Well, first thing, not even my old man was Mr. Dash. I’m Willie, capiche?”

“Got it, Willie. So, do we wait on the list from Kemper?”

“I don’t like depending on clients for answers. If they can do it themselves, I might as well put myself in a coffin and pay the digging fee up front.”

“But if we find the blackmailer, what can we really do?”

“Dirt, Archer. It sticks both ways, like you said. And I’ve never met anyone who didn’t have something they’d prefer other people didn’t know.”

“So is Kemper the favorite in the race?”

“By a wide margin yes. He’s young, handsome, wealthy, smart, smooth as silk. Pure class, as I’m sure you saw for yourself. For a minute there I thought I was talking to Errol Flynn. Alfred Drake looks like a day-old cadaver by comparison.”

“And so Kemper married into a wealthy family. Talk about good fortune raining down.”

“Well, Kemper looks like he was always rich. In fact, his father came from money. Then he blew it all and Kemper went from being a rich kid to a poor adult. But he worked hard. Yeah, he married well, but the guy isn’t afraid of work, I’ll give him that.”

“And Sawyer Armstrong?”

“Armstrong is a son of a bitch. But he’s a cunning son of a bitch.”

“And his daughter?”

“She’s cut from the same wood. But she’s more nuanced than her old man, and Armstrong can be subtle when the need arises.”

“Do you believe Kemper about there being nothing between him and Fraser?”

“Yeah, and I believe that Dewey beat Truman. Assume the worst of your clients, Archer, and you’ll never be disappointed. They don’t come to us because they’re good little boys. They come because they screwed up and they want us to clean the mess.” He pointed to the desk. “In one of them drawers is a little notepad and a pen. Take ’em with you and write stuff down. Memory makes mistakes; what you write down is a lot better.”

Archer got the pad and pen, and he and Dash went back to the reception area. Dash plucked his fedora off the hook and said, “Hey, you got a car?”

“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?”