Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

The rain had already passed through, but it was still drizzling and about fifteen degrees cooler than before the storm had hit. He spotted the valet captain in his hat, buttons, and military-style uniform at the key desk. Archer walked over and held up his PI license.

The captain took a long look at the photostat copy. The gent was in his fifties, with thinning gray hair, a handlebar mustache, and a nervous tic at his right eye, which made Archer nervous just watching it. His lips and nails were stained yellow from his smokes. He was every inch of five-six, and that frame carried about thirty more pounds than it ideally should have.

“Okay, what do you want?” he asked.

“You know Sawyer Armstrong?”

“No, never heard of the guy,” the man said, sarcasm dripping like the fake medals on his chest. “Oh wait a sec, ain’t he the man who owns this place?”

“You can play me for a sap and this dance will just take longer than you want it to.”

“The cops were already here, shamus. I talked to them but I don’t have to do the same to you. So scram.”

“We’re working with Chief Pickett on this case, so you might want to rethink that position, chum, unless you want a trip downtown that might leave you black and blue, if you get my meaning.”

The patronizing smile slowly faded from the captain’s features. “Okay, don’t get all tough, what do you want to know?”

Archer put his license away and said, “You have any idea what time Armstrong left last night? He was with two of his ‘associates.’ They were basically gorillas in neckties but not as good-looking.”

“Yeah, I know them all right. Hank and Tony. Not a pair you want to get on the wrong side of, mister.”

“I got that lesson yesterday right here and real good. So you saw them?”

“Yeah. I ordered Mr. Armstrong’s car up myself. It’s a Cadillac about as long as my house. He got into the back, Hank drove, and Tony sat in the passenger seat. Tony looked like he’d slipped and hit his face against something hard.”

“Yeah, he did. So what time was this?”

“Oh, I’d say eleven, give or take.”

“Give or take how many minutes?”

“Hey, what do I look like to you, buddy, a Timex? It was around eleven. They got into the car and drove off.”

“Did you know the murdered girl, Ruby Fraser?”

“Just to see her around.”

“You ever see her with a guy?”

“That’s sort of the point of Midnight Moods, ain’t it?”

“She was a singer, not one of the cigarette-and-brandy gals or the afternoon boppers.”

His lip curled back in a sneer. “Well, excuse me, I didn’t mean to speak ill of the dead. I’m sure she was a saint.”

“So did you ever see her with a guy?”

“Maybe.”

“Douglas Kemper, you know him?”

“Sure, he’s here right now playing cards.”

“You ever see him with Ruby?”

“Nope. Where is this going, fella?”

“Apparently nowhere. Thanks for nothing, Pops.”

Archer walked over the drawbridge, checked his hat, and ordered a vodka martini that went down nice after his island hunting expedition off the coast.

He was directed to the card club room by a cigarette girl who did her best to palm off a pack of Camels on him.

“I only smoke Lucky Strikes,” he said.

She looked him up and down and said in a husky voice, “You don’t look like you need that much luck , handsome.”

“Damn, I finally run into a gal who gets me and I have to go.” He flipped her a quarter and took a pack of Luckys from her tray.

A boy in buttons opened the door to the card club room and Archer ducked inside. It was a large space about forty feet square, with tables set up nearly chairback to chairback. It was only men in here; Archer didn’t know if that was a rule or not. The gentlemen wore expensive suits or high-dollar tuxes. They were smoking cigars, sipping what looked to be snifters of cognac, and looking amusingly content at their privileged status in life. Sitting on a tall stool in the middle of each table was a fellow with a colorful vest, sleeve garters, and a green visor who stood guard over the chute from which the playing cards were dealt.

It didn’t take Archer long to spot Kemper. He was lounging in a chair behind five cards and a pile of chips with four other men who looked like clones of his, but without the indifference that oozed from Kemper. None of the men were Sheen.

He crossed the room, taking a last sip of his drink, and stopped next to Kemper, who put down a full house, kings over tens, and scooped up the chips in the pot to the chagrin of the rest of the elite herd.

Kemper looked up at him and set his Havana in an ashtray. “Archer, right?” He looked around. “Where’s Willie?”

“He called it a day, but I’m more of a night owl.” He knelt down and said in a low voice, “I’d like to ask you a few questions and give you an update, if you’re interested.”

Kemper glanced at the other players and smiled. “Okay, boys, I feel sorry for you, so I’m taking my toys and going home. You can duke it out for the few dollars you have left. And you can thank me later.”

He glanced at the dealer and pointed to his chips. The man nodded. “Yes sir, Mr. Kemper. I’ll take care of it.”

“Scrape off fifty for your trouble, Harry.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Kemper rose and Archer followed him out of the room and over to one of the bars lining the grand hall that bisected the first floor. Archer refreshed his martini and Kemper opted for a stinger.

“Let’s take a walk,” said Kemper. “I don’t really care for crowds while I’m answering questions and getting updated.”

He led Archer out to the rear terrace and over to a covered area that had been sheltered from the earlier rain. They sat at a wrought iron table with orange-and-white-striped upholstered chairs set around it. The babbling waterfall Archer had seen earlier continued its walk down the terrace, ending in the spitting fire pit. The effect was nifty, thought Archer, if you were into all show and no substance.

“Give me the update first, Archer,” commanded Kemper.

Archer took a swallow of his martini before answering, just because he felt like it.

He went through what had happened thus far, including the interviews done, steps taken, and information discovered. It was all perfunctory and necessary, and yet Archer just wanted to get beyond it and on to something meaningful.

Kemper listened to all of this and then took about a minute to clip and light up another Havana, puffing thoughtfully to get it primed. He sat back, took a sip of his stinger, and said, “Wilson filled me in on some of this. Now, I don’t like it that you talked to Beth. I told you I didn’t want her learning about this garbage.”

“She was going to learn it whether you wanted her to or not. Better she heard it from us and not some rag.”

Kemper looked him over but gave no opinion on this. He said, “Now, about this Fraser girl.”

“What about her?”

“Any thoughts on who might have killed her?”

“Not yet. Have the cops talked to you?”

“Me? Why would they talk to me?”

Archer had had enough. He put his drink down and took his time lighting a cigarette from his new pack of Luckys. He waved out the match and put it in the ashtray.

“Look, I might have just started working with Willie, but I haven’t fallen off a turnip truck since I was five. And to my knowledge, no one’s removed my brain. So why don’t we just jump over the horseshit and get straight on to one essential fact. Namely, that you had a strong motive to kill the lady, and that means the cops, even the bullshit ones in this town, will want to talk to you at some point.”