Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

She walked over to the pianist, said something to him, quickly skimmed through his music, and tapped her finger against a piece.

Then she backed up to the piano, gripped the sides with both hands, and nimbly launched herself on top of it, sitting on her bottom. She crossed her legs and gave a nod to the pianist, and he started tickling the ivories with enthusiasm, perhaps as intrigued as the rest of them with this recent development.

When Callahan began to sing Archer felt chills run up and down his arms. The song was one he knew well.

“That Old Black Magic.”

Archer had heard Glenn Miller and his band play that song when he was in London in 1944, after Archer had killed enough Germans to make any human sick of war. At the end of that year, Miller would die in a plane crash in the English Channel, but that night the man could do no wrong. The song had sent chills up him that night, too, but not like Callahan’s rendition was doing to him.

In midsong she slunk off the piano and marched across the stage in full command of both it and the audience. As she reached the end of the song, she tipped her head back, showcasing that long, elegantly curved neck, and held the final note for a remarkable period. She then let it die elegantly in her throat, like a thunderstorm dwindling to a gentle rain shower. There was silence for what seemed the longest moment and then the cheers rained down. The crowd lurched as one to its feet and thunderous applause filled the room. Hats and flowers and cash were tossed on the stage along with probably a few business cards and maybe a stray engagement ring or two. Callahan picked up one long-stemmed rose, cuddled it to her bosom, and blew kisses at the audience as she walked offstage looking like she owned the place. And right then, Archer knew, she did.

He felt the tug on his arm. It was Shirley.

“This way,” she whispered.

Shirley led him backstage, where Callahan was sipping a glass of champagne and Dawson was staring at her like she was a bundle of cash with Dawson’s name on it. She looked at Archer as he walked up.

“Okay, she says you’re her agent. How much is she going to cost me?”

Archer shot Callahan a glance as she finished her drink and set it down next to the long-stemmed rose. She hiked her plucked eyebrows and said, “How about it, Archer? What am I worth to a joint like this?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Two hundred and fifty a week. And she gets Monday and Tuesday off. After six months we look at your books and see what bump in pay she deserves for bringing in new business.”

“You’re nuts,” barked Dawson. “That’s what some Hollywood actors make.”

“Did you see the audience out there?” said Archer. “Because I did. You’ll need to get a bigger room or squeeze in more seats if you bring her on full-time. And if the pie gets larger it’s good for everybody.”

Callahan looked impressed by this but said nothing.

Dawson glared at Archer, grabbed the bottle of champagne that was chilling in a bucket of ice, and swilled right from it. She pointed at Callahan. “I’ll need you to start this Friday. Get here around five. We have big crowds on Fridays and then through the weekend, of course. And it’ll still give us time to get some posters and billboards up. You’re a real pro, so we don’t need to prep that much. Hell, you could do what you did tonight and it’ll bring the house down again. You can do a quick rehearsal with the full band. And we can select a rack of songs for you to move through. We might want to throw in some dance moves, too, nothing too complicated, but I saw how natural you were onstage, so you’ll make it look easy. Then you can do your big debut.”

“And what will the billboards say?” asked Archer.

“I don’t think they need to say much. They’ll just have her picture. I had Barry, our staff photographer, take some stills of Liberty. We’ll blow them up and use them on the billboards.”

“How about something like, ‘If you liked Liberty Bonds, you’re going to love this Liberty,” suggested Archer.

“I like that, Archer, it’s catchy,” said Dawson, who then turned to Callahan. “So how about it?”

“I don’t have a car to get here.”

“That’s not a problem, because all of our performers live here. We’ll have a nice room for you.”

“I can go for that,” said Callahan.

Archer said, “But nicer than what I saw in Ruby Fraser’s place. And not in the nosebleed seats.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And her own bathroom,” added Archer.

“ I don’t even have that.”

Archer said nothing.

“Okay, okay,” said Dawson again. She glared at Callahan. “If only you weren’t so damn talented, I’d throw the pair of you out.”

Archer looked at Callahan. “Well? Your call, boss.”

“Get the contract printed up and we’re good to go,” said Callahan.

Dawson put out a hand for Callahan to shake, which she did. “With the dough we’ll be paying you, this is a full-time gig. Starting Saturday you come in at four sharp every day—” she glanced at Archer — “except Mondays and Tuesdays. You’ll start with rehearsal, then eat your meal and do your acts, which will also include some freelancing and playing to the crowd, pictures and handshakes and the like. You’ll do four to five official sets a night. But you work until we say stop, which is usually two-ish. Understood?”

“Sure.”

Dawson gazed admiringly at her. “I have to admit, I thought you were going to fall flat on your face with your audition.” She looked at Archer. “She sang ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ for me. I think Patty Andrews would’ve been jealous.”

“It’s a crowd pleaser, Archer, and that’s the business I’m in,” said Callahan.

Her face was flushed with her triumph, and Archer had to admit it was a good look on the woman.

“Well, well, what’s all the fuss here? Good tidings, I hope.”

The tall man had appeared in the doorway.

Archer saw that Dawson’s smile faded and her confident look eroded. She took a step back and stared at the floor.

“Hello, Mr. Armstrong, I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

Sawyer Armstrong stood an impressive six feet five. He was lanky and loose-jointed, with long white hair and a beard of the same color that dipped slightly off his lean face. His nose ran a long, crooked line down to nearly his top lip. He wore a brown slouch leather hat, dark denim pants, a white vest with a blue collared shirt under that, and a brown corduroy jacket with green elbow patches. His skin was weathered and tanned, and the man’s features seemed carved with the most precise of instruments wielded by talented hands. The eyes were flints of blue surrounded by a sea of shimmering white. He sort of looked like Walt Whitman, thought Archer, that is, if Whitman had been a throat slitter instead of a poet.

Armstrong put out a hand to Archer. “I’m Sawyer Armstrong. I believe you’ve talked to my son-in-law, Mr. Archer.”

Archer shook hands while casting a look behind Armstrong, where two bulky figures lurked in pinstripes with bulges at their chests where large weapons presumably perched.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Armstrong, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m sure you have, Archer. You saw my daughter as well, I heard.”

“Your hearing is real good, then,” said Callahan, drawing Armstrong’s attention to her.

“And you are?”

“Liberty Callahan. I’m Archer’s best friend. We came to town together. Miss Dawson just hired me to work here.”

“Did she now?” said Armstrong.

Dawson glanced up, her face full of trepidation as Archer watched this exchange warily. He had never seen a person change so much as the woman had, and there must be good reason for it.