Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

“I’m not used to nice places like this. In Reno, we just had crap, really.”

“And you think I’m used to them?”

“No, I mean, I don’t know. But you can tell the people in here are somebody. They have class. The men probably all went to college for an education, and the women probably all went to college to find a husband.”

Archer eyed the woman closely because this was the first real hint of insecurity he had seen in her.

He tapped her hand. “You’re as good as all of these people, Liberty, and don’t think you’re not.”

“Sure, sure, Archer, and I’m the queen of England, too.”

“Where is this coming from?” he asked. “Until we walked in here I never would have thought you had an ounce of self-doubt or gave a damn what anybody thought about you.”

“Shows how good an observer you are.”

“I guess,” he said.

They both ended up with the trout, which was moist and tender. And rice pilaf and a green vegetable that was not readily identifiable to either of them. But it was good if oversalted. Their cocktails were followed by a bottle of wine, recommended by a short man wearing a bow tie and holding a cork opener on a chain. It cost three dollars, which almost gave Callahan a fit and amused Archer.

Archer examined the bottle’s label. It had the silhouette of a woman on it that looked familiar to Archer. The wine was called the BK. On the back he read off the name of the vineyard that had produced it. “Kemper Enterprises. BK must stand for Beth Kemper.”

Archer explained who she was and what they were investigating. “Her hubby has a vineyard and he named the wine after her.”

“Well, wasn’t that sweet? I guess the louse figures he owes her after cheating on her.”

“Could be, yeah. Although I probably shouldn’t have told you that, so keep it to yourself.”

She gave him the eye. “Gee, what’s it worth to you, Archer?”

“See, you keep charging and I keep retreating. Thing is, I don’t want you to be disappointed. You have such a high opinion of me and everything.”

“You’re actually getting funnier, and I mean that.”

They finished their meal, retrieved the Delahaye, and drove out of town toward Midnight Moods.

It was well dark now and cool enough to ride with the top up.

“No mountains, right?” said Callahan. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were no Boy Scout.”

“What do you have in that thing?”

She had earlier placed a small, hard-sided piece of luggage on the seat between them.

“ Things for the job interview, Archer.”

“Okay.”

They reached Midnight Moods forty minutes later. It was very different from earlier in the day. The parking lot was packed, the façade of the building was ablaze in neon and spotlights, and the sounds inside reached all the way to the parking lot as they pulled in.

“Gee, this place is dead,” said Callahan sarcastically.

He found a space in the back of the parking lot and Callahan grabbed her bag. They walked in and looked around. Mabel Dawson, now bedecked in a black sequined number with shoes that matched, greeted them at the door.

“Oh, the puppy dog came back,” she said to Archer before giving Callahan the long eye. “And who is your friend?”

“Liberty Callahan,” said Callahan, putting out her gloved hand. “Archer said you might be looking for some new girls.”

“Is that right, Archer?”

“New blood,” said Archer. “Can’t hurt to take a look.”

She turned to Callahan and gave her an even longer scrutiny. “So what’s your shtick?”

“Singing, dancing, acting, skits. You name it, I can slot it. And that includes the fast hands and lousy stage timing from the guys.”

Dawson pursed her lips and inched up her nose like a smell had come along she didn’t care for. “You strike me as being overly confident.”

Callahan put a hand on her hip and stuck it out wide like a door opening. “And you strike me as the sort that if I can’t cut it here, you’ll gladly throw me out on my very cute derriere.”

Dawson lit a cigarette and blew a lungful of smoke at Archer. She eyed Callahan through the mist. “Sure, I’ll see what you got. But if you get the gig, there’s no drinking or drugging on company time. You’re here, you serve the house. You get paid a salary. Tips are your business. Whatever else you can earn on your own time, that’s your business, too.”

“I’ve heard the song before.”

Dawson eyed the bag. “Your working clothes in there? We got some of our own.”

“But these show me off the way I like.”

Dawson again blew a lungful of smoke at Archer. “You can really find them, Archer. And where’s your gumshoe twin?”

“Thinking.”

“Right.” She looked at Callahan. “Okay, let’s go back to the dressing room, and I can put you through your paces. Sound good?”

“You sure you can spare the time now? You look busy.”

“I can teach a monkey to greet people at the door. And I’m not just saying that. I have. Shirley!” she called out.

A little minx with bushy red hair flew out of some hidey-hole like a mouse stirred by a cat’s charge and stood cringing in front of her boss.

“Yes, Miss Dawson?”

“Take Archer here, get him a drink on the house, and find him a seat at the next show. I’ll wait here until you get back, and then you got greeter duty for the next half hour.” She glanced at Callahan and said in a syrupy tone, “That enough time for you, honey, or are you a slow starter?”

“That’ll do,” said Callahan.

“Where you coming in from?”

“Reno.”

“Casinos?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, don’t ‘sort of’ perform for me or you will get tossed out on that very cute ass. And I’ll be the one doing the tossing.”

“Just so long as we know where we stand,” retorted Callahan.

Dawson said, “Don’t worry, Archer, I’ll have her back to you in half an hour, one way or another.”

Before Shirley led him away Archer said anxiously to Callahan, “Hey, you okay with this?”

She smiled. “Not only am I okay with it, Archer, I’m really looking forward to it.”

Shirley got Archer a gin and tonic and settled him in the back row of a large theater where the dancing girls were in high gear, parading to music played on a baby grand set off to one side of the stage. The pianist was a man in a black tux with a pompadour hairdo, a waxed and curly-tipped mustache, and hands whizzing over the keys like skates over ice. He watched the girls high-kicking it across the stage in unison and seemed to be changing the music to fit the dancing instead of the other way around. All the girls were tall and long limbed, which to Archer made them look a lot like Callahan. He wondered if maybe the competition here was stiffer than in Reno. And he also wondered how her audition was going.

The theme was a patriotic one, as the skimpy outfits were embedded with red, white, and blue sparkles and the top hats were of the Uncle Sam vintage. The legs were encased in fishnets, the shoes were silver and sparkled like diamonds, and every man in the front row was getting an enhanced view with each kick of the long legs and the accompanying lift of the dancers’ skirts. All included in the price of admission.

Twenty-eight minutes went by. Archer checked his timepiece and began to grow a bit anxious, as there was no sign of Callahan. Had she gotten thrown out?

And then around ten or so the curtains parted, and Archer stiffened and sat up straight as Callahan walked out onto the stage at the same time the sea of chorus girls scampered off. She was dressed in the outfit Archer had first seen her in at the Dancing Birds Café minus the six-foot feather. Every eye in the house was on her, including Archer’s.