Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

“The truth will be enough,” said Beth firmly.

“Yeah,” said Archer. “That and ten cents won’t get you a cup of coffee. So talk to me about the island.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“I need you to try. You were at the harbor that night when your father came back in on the boat. Why were you there?”

“I... thought he might be there.”

Archer shook his head. “It was almost three in the morning. You didn’t take a ride down there on the chance that you might run into him.”

She lit another cigarette and blew puffs of smoke to the ceiling. She finally looked at him. “I need a drink,” she said.

“Dry Manhattan again?”

“Something stronger than that.”

Archer rose and poured out three fingers of scotch, neat. “If that doesn’t do it for you, go to the hospital and get some morphine.” He sat back down and picked up his glass and watched the lady drink hers. “When your father gets here, will the two palookas be with him?”

“I don’t know. Probably. They usually go where he goes.”

“I have it on good authority that they’ve been ordered to do me in on account of I’ve been snooping around that island.”

She glanced up sharply. “What good authority?”

“ Good authority.”

“You’re saying that my father wants to have you killed because of your snooping around that island?”

“You need to try that line again, Beth, and add in surprise this time. It’s like eating spaghetti without the meatballs.”

“Oh, so now I’m in on the conspiracy against you?”

Archer swallowed the rest of his drink and shook his head. “Wanting a man dead doesn’t have to constitute a conspiracy. You just need someone willing to do the deed and a weapon with which to do it. And there are lots of both around this town, I’ve found.”

“Well, then you better scram before the death squad gets here.”

“Since you won’t spill on the island, let me do some spilling.” He lit up a Lucky, bent the match, and flicked it into the empty fireplace. “Casinos on that island would be worth more money than even your old man has ever made, I’m thinking.”

“You can’t have casinos in California. You can only bet on horses and play in card clubs.”

“Yeah, like the ones your hubby likes to frequent. He was at Midnight Moods tonight in the front row watching my friend Liberty Callahan light up the place. She’s the only woman I know around here who might give you a run for your money in the loveliness business.”

“My, my, Archer, you’re so free with your compliments.”

“My point is, why go out for filet mignon if you already have it at home?”

She looked down and said demurely, “Sometimes, the grass is greener. But casinos really are a no-go in this state. So why all the interest in that island?”

“That chunk of rock isn’t part of California. It was owned by the feds and then sold to Stearman Enterprises. The surveyors have already started to work it.”

“Which surveyors?”

“Lancet.”

He watched her catch a breath and her face changed color.

“Yeah, I thought that might be the case. There’s only one hitch in the giddy-up I haven’t pegged yet.”

“What’s that?” she said dumbly.

Before Archer answered, they could hear footsteps. A few moments later Sawyer Armstrong appeared, hat in hand, and, thankfully, with no Hank and Tony behind him.

Armstrong’s gaze flicked around the room before alighting and holding on his daughter.

He hurried across and wrapped his long arms around her. “Oh, honey, this must be very distressing for you.”

Archer watched Beth Kemper. If he had used the flower metaphor before, now it was like acid had been thrown on the bloom. She wilted as though every molecule of water had been drained from her at the man’s touch.

He tilted her chin up so she would look at him. He was dressed more formally tonight, a three-piece wool suit with a colorful cravat. His hat was a dark brown fedora with a crimson band. A pair of specs poked out from his breast pocket.

“We will make this right, Beth,” he said.

Archer thought, Well, there’s a lot of wriggle room in that statement.

He looked around and spotted Archer. Armstrong slowly let the woman go and faced him. “I was under the impression that you had been warned to stay away from Beth.”

“It’s all right, Dad,” said Beth. “I said—”

He put up a hand, and she stopped and stepped back. “Archer? I’m waiting for an answer.”

“I didn’t hear a question. But maybe that’s just me. By the way, where are Laurel and Hardy? Out beating up some old ladies for their church money?”

Those lines didn’t even warrant the tiniest of smiles from Armstrong.

The man turned to Beth. “I’ll talk to Carl. I’m sure this can be rectified.”

“They have evidence, or so they say,” commented Archer, one eye on Armstrong and his other on the doorway waiting for Hank and Tony to appear. “Pretty compelling stuff. Cufflinks, bloody shirt with guess-who’s blood on it, eyewitness testimony, stomach contents from Sheen. I’m no lawyer, but even a bad DA could make hay out of that.”

Armstrong said, “You and Willie never gave me an answer on my offer. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I work for him. It’s his call.”

“Then tell him what I said. And just do it.”

“By any means necessary?” asked Archer, with a glance at Beth, who looked at the floor and nothing else.

“I won’t tell Willie or you how to do your job. I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”

“Yeah. Well, I guess I’ll be going then.” He looked at Beth. “You going to be okay?”

“She’ll be fine, Archer, now that I’m here,” Armstrong answered for her.

The night sky was bursting with stars, the air chilly enough to make him feel alive, and yet with all that, part of Archer felt dead inside as he steered the Delahaye back down the mountain. The scent of eucalyptus was so strong he felt his eyes start to water. He glanced at his timepiece. He debated whether to go back to Midnight Moods, but then decided against it. He opted to return to the office, call Dash, wake him up if necessary, and get his advice.

He pulled to the curb in front of the office building and got out. The front door to the building was unlocked and Archer proceeded down the hall toward the stairs. He reached the elevator and stopped. The elevator’s outer door was partially open because there was something blocking it. And that something was an arm, with a gnarled hand at the end of it.

Archer quickly pushed the door all the way open, revealing Earl lying there, his face pointed to the side.

“Earl, you okay? Earl?”

The man’s eyes were closed, and it was dark enough that Archer couldn’t see whether he was breathing or not. He might have had a heart attack or maybe a stroke.

He knelt down and felt around the man’s neck. He didn’t need to check for a pulse, because when he pulled his fingers back the clotted blood came with them. Archer pivoted on the balls of his feet for a better look at the little man. He tipped the chin back a bit and saw the slash across the neck.

This was Ruby Fraser all over again. The man was cold. He’d been dead awhile, but his limbs weren’t stiff. Archer looked around the elevator car and saw what looked to be a pile of blankets in one corner along with a newspaper and the bottle of booze he had seen before. Archer sniffed the air. From out of the pile of blankets he pulled a raw onion, half eaten, and a knuckle of bread with some roast beef inserted in it. Along with a pair of underwear and a torn sock.