Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

“You’d make a good shamus.”

“Can’t lose you, Mr. Dash. You the only one takes the elevator, ’cept this young man here. I be out of a job.”

“Uh-huh. Well, we don’t want that to happen.”

Outside, Archer said, “Is he always like that with you?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, gushing.”

“Hell, Archer, the man hates my guts.”

“How do you know that?”

“No man ever went to prison who comes out liking the man who put him behind bars.”

“So did you get him the job here because you keep your enemies close?”

“I felt for the guy. But he’d stick a knife in my back in a New York minute.”

When Dash saw the Delahaye he stopped and stared suspiciously at Archer. “This your car?”

“Yep.”

He read off the name. “Delahaye?”

“It’s French.”

“The hell you say.” As he started to get in, he stopped. “Steering wheel’s on the wrong side.”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting the hang of it. By the way, where are we going, Willie?”

“Straight to the source, Archer. To talk to Ruby Fraser.”

“You think she’ll cop to blackmailing Kemper?”

“She’s not blackmailing anybody. She’s what you call a pawn. I don’t expect her to be honest, don’t get me wrong. Midnight Moods doesn’t care about honest people. They just want gals with long legs and big tits. Miss Ruby isn’t quarterbacking this one.”

“So, Kemper’s enemies?”

“Or his friends.”

“Friends who are enemies, then?”

“Do you know of any other kind, son? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

As they were heading out of town, Dash pointed to a large billboard. “There’s our man.”

Douglas Kemper’s face was about ten feet tall. He was looking off into the distance, his expression intelligent, visionary even. Next to this profile was the slogan: KEMPER FOR MAYOR. A MAN FOR OUR TIMES.

“Catchy,” said Archer drily as they passed by and drove north.

A half hour later they arrived at their destination. Midnight Moods looked to Archer like every shallow fantasy a man could reasonably expect to have in his life. Constructed like a faux castle, complete with turrets and towers, bastions and battlements, the high walls covered with enormous posters of the most beautiful women wearing the most alluring outfits that Archer had ever seen.

The place had a vibrant view of the nearby salty ocean. Its large asphalt parking lot held about thirty cars, from junkers to lean rides, to police prowlers, to a couple of Bentleys, though it was still the afternoon.

As they pulled to a stop Archer ran his gaze over the front of the place once more and said, “Who the hell built this thing?”

“Who do you think? Sawyer Armstrong. He’s the only man around with the sawbucks to put up a joint like this.”

“When did he do it?”

“During the war. Sawyer has X-ray vision when it comes to seeing opportunities and making money off poor saps who don’t have a lot of it but don’t mind spending what they do have. It’s volume that matters.”

“And where did that volume come from? This isn’t exactly New York City.”

“Trains full of soldiers came through here, Archer. Sawyer put this place up in six months and made a fortune and then some for about three years just off the GIs.”

“And now? How’s business?”

“Popular as all get out. Lots of young guys, and older gents, coming through looking for something new.” He paused. “But in the long run, who knows.”

“Meaning?”

“Bay Town is turning into something that tends to shun places like this.”

“What’s that?”

“Bay Town is doing its best to turn respectable . But there will always be an audience for this sort of thing. Even if wives and girlfriends show up here from time to time to make their feelings known. Sometimes with an iron skillet in hand and not caring who they hit with it.”

“You ever been here?” asked Archer.

“A few times. Some laughs, some drinks, nothing more.”

“How many times did Connie Morrison crack you in the head with her skillet?”

“I’m starting to like you, Archer. But don’t make it personal.”

They climbed out and crossed over a short wooden bridge that spanned a fake moat that was filled with not water but gravel. There were chains on either side of the bridge that ran to some wheels affixed to the outside wall of the place.

“They ever raise the drawbridge?” asked Archer.

“Yeah, every night after the last penniless drunk falls out the door.”

Inside it was dark, quiet, and, at least to Archer, palpably ominous. Until a woman in her late forties came to greet them. She was dressed in a long, dark gown and wearing red high heels that drove her height to a head above Dash’s. Her hair was platinum with darker roots, her skin white as cream. Her lipsticked mouth housed a smile as wide as her face, but it never once reached her baby blues. She smelled of talcum powder and ginger.

“Can I help you, gentlemen? We’re not open quite yet. The sun’s still up.”

“The front door was wide open,” pointed out Dash.

“They lowered the bridge to let the beer, wine, and liquor deliveries through.”

“And all those cars in the parking lot are...?”

“Just visitors,” she replied, keeping her tone and expression professional. “The performers live here.”

“You mean, the female performers?”

“Do I? And what business is that of yours, Mister...?”

Dash pulled out his ID card and flashed it for her. “Willie Dash, PI. My associate Archer here. We’d like to talk to Ruby Fraser.”

The woman eyed the card. “Gumshoes at Midnight Moods. My my.”

“And you are...?” asked Archer.

“ I would be Mabel Dawson, sonny boy. I manage this place. At least the girl part of it.”

Dash said, “Speaking of girls, is Ruby here?”

“Why do you want to see Ruby?”

“It’s confidential. She should be expecting us,” Dash lied.

“Is that a fact? She never mentioned it to me.”

“That’s because it’s confidential,” said Archer. “While you’re getting her, mind if we look around?”

“Yes, I would mind. And who said I was getting Ruby, handsome?”

“Any reason why you won’t?” asked Dash.

“I can think of about ten. And I can call the cops if this turns into harassment.”

“Why bother the cops with something so trivial? We’ll talk to Ruby and then we’ll leave, nice and simple, no trouble to anyone,” said Dash.

“I don’t have to do nothing except ask you to leave.” She tacked on a smile as though she were enjoying all this. “So scram.”

“But I do know things about this place,” added Dash, looking around. “Like why have the bridge down at this hour?”

“I told you, buster, for deliveries. You want to see the booze for yourself?”

“I happen to know that your deliveries come in the morning. And through the tradesman entrance on the side.”

“Like I said, we have the bridge down for the visitors to our performers. They’re entitled to have visitors, aren’t they?”

“Sure. But they’re not entitled to get paid for it, if you know what I mean?”

“I really have no idea what you’re getting at.”

“Would Ruby be engaged in the thing you have no idea what I’m getting at?”

She pursed her lips and said indignantly, “Prostitution is illegal, Mr. Dash!”

“Lots of things are illegal, and that just makes some people want to do them even more. And there are prowlers out there, so I guess I’ll include the cops in that.”