Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

Dawson looked at Callahan. “Don’t be late on Friday, Liberty. We need to sign your deal and get things sorted out.”

They left, got into the Delahaye, and were driving out when the first patrol car came flying up the road and passed them heading to the entrance. As they made their way down the road, two more prowlers sailed past them, their lights flinging away the gloomy darkness and their sirens cutting through the sounds of the breakers off in the distance.

“What now, Archer?” said Callahan.

“Now we go back to the boardinghouse.”

“You want to go get a drink?”

“No, I’ve had enough.”

“Okay, I guess I can understand that. I just feel bad leaving her there like that.”

He gripped her shoulder. “Get that out of your mind. And don’t slip up if anybody asks you, Liberty. We didn’t go up there and we didn’t see anything. You got that square?”

“Sure, Archer, sure.”

“Because if the police start asking questions and you mess up, we’re both in trouble. Big trouble.”

They rode the rest of the way back in silence.

A distraught Callahan had gone to her room, and Archer to his. He got undressed and climbed into bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He felt that if he closed his eyes, they wouldn’t reopen. And his whole body ached even more.

It was nearly two in the morning now, but he rose, padded down to the bath, and splashed cold water on his face and neck. He went back to his room, slipped on the same clothes, and laced up his shoes. He opened the window and looked out. Even from the other side of Sawyer Avenue, he could hear the beat of the ocean, smell its pungent scent, and feel the mist from the marine fog that chilled him to the bone and made his injuries more painful still.

He pulled his PI license from his jacket pocket and looked at it.

Though it looked official and important, it represented nothing to him, really, because he’d done nothing to earn it. This could have been handed out to any Tom, Dick, or Harry.

Or Aloysius.

He was a shamus solely under the auspices of Willie Dash. Anyone could be under the auspices . It was like hitching a ride in someone’s car and then claiming you owned it.

He pulled his pocket flask, and, despite telling Callahan he’d had his fill, he took several swallows of rye whiskey, which flamed his already inflamed body. It felt good, as though it was fire of his own making, and not a by-product of another’s man angry attack.

He closed the window and went downstairs as quietly as he could. He had no desire to run into Callahan or anyone else. But that desire was to be defeated.

In the front room Madame Genevieve sat in an upholstered chair wearing a thick woolen robe and frayed white slippers. She was nursing what looked like a hot toddy in a clear glass mug with a handle. Her hair was mostly hidden under an old-fashioned cloth sleeping bonnet. Her ankles protruded from the robe and were bony and the color of the dead.

She looked up at him. “You cannot sleep, Mr. Archer?”

He leaned against the stair post and shook his head. “Might just be the new place.”

“Your ‘friend’ does not appear to have that difficulty. I passed her door earlier and heard the snores. Soft but still audible.”

“Well, she had a big night. We both did.” Archer sat down in a chair across from her. “So what are you doing up? Can’t sleep either?”

“I like this time of night. There is no one around and it is quiet. I can think. But I can also open the window and I can hear the water speaking to me. I can smell it. I can let it embrace me like a shroud.”

“How many of those drinks have you had?” Archer said with a grin.

“It is not alcohol that speaks, Mr. Archer.”

“What then?”

“Perhaps it is the wisdom of an old woman who has seen much. Perhaps too much.” She cradled her drink. “What are you really doing in Bay Town?”

“Got a job. I’m a private eye. Working for Willie Dash. You know him?”

“I’ve seen the billboards. And do you like being a private investigator?”

He shrugged. “Haven’t been doing it long enough to really know. But it has its good points and bad points.” He rubbed his neck. “I saw the bad points a few hours ago.” He looked down at his shoes. “Look, you know anything about Sawyer Armstrong? Or Beth and Douglas Kemper?”

“Everyone in Bay Town knows of them.”

“But you don’t know them?”

“I don’t know them, not really.” She said these words as though they were distasteful lingering in her mouth for even a moment.

“You trying to tell me something? If so, I’d prefer if you just say it.”

“I will not say anything of the sort. I live here. I have a business here that I need to operate in order to survive.”

“We have the right to speak our minds in this country.”

She glanced dourly at him. “Free speech is not really free if it costs you all that you have.”

“Care to elaborate?”

She shook her head and held the glass against her withered cheek.

“Douglas Kemper is running for mayor,” said Archer.

“I know.”

“Thinking of voting for him, or for the dentist he’s running against, Alfred Drake?”

“I haven’t thought much about it, quite frankly. I liked our last mayor.”

Archer perked up. “And who was that?”

“Benjamin Smalls. He was honest. He did right by the people.”

“Why isn’t he running again, then?”

“He died while in office, just a month ago. The upcoming election is a special election. The winner will finish out Smalls’s term, which is three more years.”

Archer squinted at her. “How’d he die?”

“They say he drowned in his bathtub.”

“They say ? You don’t know for sure?”

“I don’t know for sure, because the police don’t know for sure.

No one apparently knows for sure. They only thing they know for sure is that Benjamin Smalls is dead.”

“People do drown in their bathtubs.”

“Yes, I suppose they do.”

“I guess maybe he was old, or drunk.”

She rose, went over to a bureau, opened the drawer, and took out a framed photo. “This is Benjamin Smalls. He was thirty-five and a teetotaler.”

Archer looked at the photo that was signed to her and studied Smalls. He was tall, with slicked-back dark hair parted on the side. He had a dimple under his chin that must have been annoying to shave. He also had nice, comely features and wore a white linen suit with a Panama hat held in one hand. This was actually the second time he had seen a picture of the man.

“That photo was taken last year, when he won reelection.”

“Maybe he died of a seizure, then, or a heart attack.”

“The police could find no evidence of that.”

Archer pulled out a Lucky and lit up, catching the ash in his hand. “You seem to think there was more to it.”

“You’re a private eye, maybe you should turn your ‘eye’ to that.”

“I think I have enough on my plate.”

She shrugged. “Why do you want to know about Armstrong and the Kempers?”

“Something to do with my investigation.”

“Then I would be careful if I were you. Very careful.”

“I’m starting to figure that out.” He didn’t think she could see the bruises on his face and neck in the dim light, but maybe she had better vision than he was giving her credit for. “I might go for a stroll. Is it safe out there at night?”

“Is anywhere safe at night, Mr. Archer?”

He tipped his hat and left her there with her toddy and her moody introspection.

Outside, he headed toward Sawyer Avenue, lighting another cigarette on the way and feeling for the gun in the belt holster. Its presence lifted his spirits considerably. And if he ran into Tony or Hank again, he planned to shoot first and ask not a single question later.