Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

“I’m not a cop, I’m a private dick, so what exactly could I do about it? But look at it this way — depending on who wins the election, certain things are going to happen in this town to benefit someone.”

“So you think the murders are connected to the election?”

“They’re both tied to Douglas Kemper, so I would say yes.”

“What do you think about Armstrong’s take on the mob and boys from Vegas?”

“Why would they want to come here? Like Armstrong said, they can get their hooks into Frisco and LA and Santa Barbara with the same amount of effort. And they’re all bigger prizes than Bay Town.”

“Like you said, you think Pickett is on the take. Low-hanging-fruit kind of thing, if they have him in their pocket.”

Dash nodded slowly. “That’s a good deduction, Archer. Very good. So Pickett might be at the center of this, clearing out the way for those boys to come here.”

“So their preferred candidate is Drake, the dentist. Why?”

“Maybe we need to have a talk with old Drake.”

“You know him?”

“Oh, yeah. Really smart guy, but he’s a dishrag, Archer. With about as much curb appeal as a bag of trash. Kemper would win in a landslide, if he’s allowed to keep running.”

“If Kemper drops out, could someone else enter the race?”

“Deadline was last week. It’s Kemper versus Drake, for better or worse.” He looked at his watch. “Drake will probably be home by now. So let’s go see the tooth fairy.”

Alfred Drake’s home was a large two-story dwelling made of red brick painted white. It had views of the ocean on an elevated plot of land that was lush and green and filled with palm trees, live oaks, and pretty much every native species in between.

“Damn, how much does it cost to get your teeth fixed in this town?” said Archer. He pulled the car to a stop in front of the columned verandah that spanned the entire length of the house, with a sea of emerald-green grass spreading out before it.

“For a while Drake was the only quality game in town and he made a tidy sum. Then he invested well and he’s also done some real estate projects around here. He’s a sharp guy, like I said. I found out his father was in real estate in New York and made a small fortune, which went to Drake. He built this place about five years ago.”

Archer gave him a sidelong glance. “Why do I think you might have investigated Drake before?”

“Why, Archer, that’s confidential.” But Dash tacked on a grin. “Number of years ago some guy got really upset over a deal he did with Drake. He thought Drake had cheated him. Turned out my client was the one cheating and just hired me to hassle Drake into a quick settlement. But Drake stuck to his guns. I always respected him for that.”

A black woman in a maid’s uniform answered the door and told them that Drake was out by the pool. She took Dash’s card and left them there while she checked to see, as she put it, “whether Mr. Drake is accepting visitors at this time.”

After she left, Archer said, “I thought we were going to see a dentist, not the president.”

“The man can put on airs,” noted Dash. “In that regard, he’s just like most politicians.”

“Right. Are there any honest politicians?”

“Sure. They’re mostly all honest in the first six months. It’s only the time after that where they convince themselves they can do no wrong and everything that comes out of their mouths is the gospel, but all they really care about is getting reelected.”

“Franklin Roosevelt was pretty good.”

“He was already rich. Nobody could touch him.”

Archer gave him a dubious look. “So you’re saying only rich people are incorruptible?”

“Hell no, they’re the most corrupt of all. But FDR was different. He was rich but he inherited it and then he got polio. That made him see the world in a different light, least I think it did. He got the plight of the workingmen and — women like nobody else since Teddy Roosevelt. Too bad we don’t have more Roosevelts waiting in the wings.”

The maid returned and without a word escorted them back to the rear terrace and left them there.

Alfred Drake was tall and skinny with a sunken chest. He had few hairs left on his head and had perhaps compensated for that by growing one of the biggest mustaches that Archer had ever seen outside of a carnival. He was dressed in a white terrycloth robe, and his pale, thin, bare legs protruded from underneath. Though the evening was cool, his droopy mustache and wet footprints on the pool surround showed the man had already taken a dip. He had sandals on his feet that revealed neatly trimmed toenails. He was holding a martini complete with a trio of olives on a toothpick and sitting at a table with an open white umbrella poking through a center hole. He was staring out toward the ocean and gave no indication he even knew they were there.

“Mr. Drake?” prompted Dash.

Without looking at them, Drake pointed to two empty seats at the table.

As they drew near Archer could see that the bottom of the pool had inlaid aquamarine tile in the shape of a large stallion in full gallop. The rear grounds were as immaculate as the front. In the distance Archer could see a muscular, bare-chested young man shoveling a hole with a large bush standing next to it, presumably waiting to be planted.

Whether Drake was really staring at the ocean or the young man, Archer couldn’t tell for sure. He thought the odds were fifty-fifty.

After they sat and put their hats on the table, Drake said, “Well?” He still had not turned to look at them and didn’t seem inclined to offer them a drink.

Archer took out his notepad and readied his pen.

“This is Archer, my new associate,” said Dash.

“Am I supposed to applaud or do you want to get to the point?”

“Hope there’s no hard feelings after that case I worked involving you.”

“You were professional and honest, Willie” was Drake’s surprising reply, at least to Archer, who was still sizing up the man’s hostile attitude.

Drake continued, “It was your client who was neither of those things. I appreciated how you got him to back off when you realized the truth.”

“Well, thanks for being understanding. Now, we wanted to talk to you about the upcoming election.”

Drake turned his chair around to face them. “Why is it any of your concern?”

Before Dash could answer, a Persian cat ambled out from somewhere and jumped onto Drake’s lap. He absently stroked the animal while he waited for an answer.

“Two people have been recently murdered.”

“What does that have to do with me?” said Drake bluntly.

“Did you know them?”

“Why don’t you tell me who they are and maybe I can answer the question.”

“You don’t know?” said Dash skeptically.

“Enlighten me.”

“Ruby Fraser. She was a singer at Midnight Moods.”

“I’ve never been there. It’s not really my thing, if you get my meaning.”

“So you don’t know her?”

“I thought I just said that.”

“The other victim was Wilson Sheen.”

Drake flinched just a bit, causing the Persian to hiss. “I knew him. We weren’t friends or anything, but I knew him through the usual social circles. And also from the election. He’s running, or he was running, Kemper’s campaign.”

“Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill him?” asked Dash.

“I just told you I didn’t really know the man. I guess he had enemies, what man doesn’t?”

“So how’s the campaign going?” asked Dash.

“You’ve seen the ads in the paper, and heard the radio spots, I’m sure. And the billboards where Kemper looks off broodingly into the distance, or the future, or maybe he’s gazing at some woman’s ass, who knows? Anyway, they’re everywhere. And he owns a hotel and a country club, and a winery and has a beautiful home and a beautiful wife. And look at me and look at Kemper. Physical appearance shouldn’t matter, but it sure as hell does. Just ask any woman. He’s got that vote wrapped up.”