A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  “Then stop worrying,” said Callahan calmly, holding the gun as expertly as the best-trained soldiers Archer had seen. “Unless you want the next slug drilling your balls. Which one do you love the least?”

  Still whimpering, the man instinctively covered his crotch.

  “Come over here, Bobby H,” said Archer again as he grabbed the .32, slipping it into his waistband. He also picked up the knife and put it in his jacket pocket.

  Howells snatched up his hat, spat on the big man lying at his feet, and tottered over to Archer. They all three hustled out of the alley and back to the main street.

  “What was that about?” said Archer. “Why were they giving you the business?”

  Howells turned to the side and spit blood and possibly part of his inner lip out of his mouth. “I told you I got enemies, Archer. It’s why I wanted you to help me, son.”

  “You know this piece of work?” said Callahan, who had put her revolver back in her purse as casually as though it were merely her lipstick and powder.

  He shook his head. “We don’t even qualify as acquaintances. And how come you have a gun?”

  She gave him an illustrative eye roll. “I’m a good-looking, young dancer and I live in Reno. What else do you need to know, choirboy?”

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” said Archer to Howells. The old man was trying to wipe the blood off his face, but he just made a mess of it.

  “The bar we’re going to has a washroom,” said Callahan. “If he can make it that far.”

  “I’ll make it,” said Howells. “But only because I sure as hell need a drink.”

  “Okay, but you can buy,” said Callahan.

  “Why’s that?” said a startled Howells.

  “We just saved your bacon is why, you old geezer. Don’t be simple.”

  “Well, okay,” said Howells doubtfully. “But my funds are limited at the moment.”

  “Great,” she said spitefully.

  Howells turned to Archer, “And who is your charming friend, Archer?”

  “Hey, bub, I’m right here,” she said. “Archer doesn’t have to speak for me. And the name’s Liberty Callahan.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said a bug-eyed Howells.

  She turned to Archer. “Hey, how’d you knock those two guys out with one punch anyways?”

  Archer held up the set of aluminum knuckles he had earlier pulled from his pocket. “I always keep these around for emergencies.”

  “Is that legal?” she asked. “You could get in trouble.”

  “I figure if you can carry a gun, I can carry these.”

  She cracked a smile. “I’m starting to like you, Archer.”

  “Hell, what took you so long?”

  Chapter 6

  ARCHER HELPED HOWELLS CLEAN UP in the men’s washroom and then they joined Callahan at the bar, after he dumped both the snub-nosed and the knife in the waste can. They didn’t want to be near any windows, in case the three guys came looking for them. Although Archer was of the opinion that at least two of them would need a doctor when they came to, and the third a change of undershorts after Callahan’s antics with her .38.

  Archer ordered a bourbon straight up, Callahan a Tom Collins, and Howells a sidecar.

  “Go heavy on the brandy and triple sec, hon,” the old man told the waitress, a tired-looking woman in her forties with a Dutch boy haircut and a way of looking at you that made you feel like a heel even if you weren’t one. “I got serious troubles,” he added by way of explanation.

  “Tell it to somebody who cares, hon,” she said before walking off.

  “So give it to us straight, Bobby H,” said Archer. “Why were those guys giving you the heavy lifting?”

  “I…I, uh, got a little gambling debt issue.”

  “Then maybe you should stop gambling,” said Callahan. “That ever occur to you, genius?”

  Howells looked down at the shiny surface of the bar. “I tried but it didn’t go too well.”

  “How much do you owe?” said Archer.

  “Eighteen hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Eighteen hundred and fifty dollars!” exclaimed Callahan. “Are you that bad a gambler or what?”

  “Every bettor loses if he plays long enough, missy.”

  “Can you find that kind of dough?” asked Archer.

  “I have no, what you would call, liquid assets. But I have a car. A mighty fine one. I’m loath to part with it, but I’m more loath to part with my life.”

  “What kind of car?” asked Callahan.

  “A Delahaye.”

  “What’s that?” said Callahan. “Like a Ford?”

  “It is nothing like a Ford,” said Howells indignantly as he tapped his fingers against the mahogany bar. “It is a work of art. It’s French made, truly one of the most beautiful cars ever conceived. Indeed, only five of this model were ever built.”

  “How come? Was it no good?” asked Callahan.

  “No, a little thing called World War II intervened,” retorted Howells in a bristling tone. “It is in every respect a spectacular example of automotive genius.”

  “How’d you get your mitts on something like that?” asked Archer suspiciously. “Your story isn’t adding up to me. You’re going to have to fill in the holes.”

  “I didn’t get my mitts on it. My son did. He left it to me when he passed away last year.”

  “Sorry to hear that. He must’ve been a young guy.”

  “He was. You’re not supposed to bury your children,” Howells added somberly, staring at his hands.

  Callahan and Archer exchanged a sympathetic glance.

  “How’d your son get the car?” Archer asked quietly, after a few moments of silence. “There has to be a story in there worth telling,” he added encouragingly.

  “He, like you, fought in the war. And did so bravely.”

  “Okay, but I didn’t get a car in the bargain,” said Archer. “What did he do?”

  “Why should I tell you anything?” replied Howells sharply.

  Archer took out the aluminum knuckles and placed them between himself and Howells. “Because a few minutes ago I made your enemies my enemies. That’s at least worth a little information, friend.”

  Howells eyed the knuckles and nodded, his expression now contrite.

  “Near the end of the conflict my boy saved the life of a French soldier who was the son of one of the Delahaye company owners. As a gesture of thanks they shipped the car here. It’s a 1939 model, but it’s never really been driven and looks brand-new. It was actually built for a wealthy Englishman and was supposed to be delivered in early 1940. For obvious reasons, it was never shipped out to him.”

  “How’d your son die?” asked Archer.

  “He, too, had gambling debts.”

  “You mean, they killed him over that?” said Archer.

  “That can happen,” Callahan said knowingly, drawing a meaningful glance from Archer.

  He rubbed at one of his swollen fingers and stretched out his stiff arm. “Go on, Bobby H, don’t stop now,” he said. “It’s just getting good.”

  “He left the car to me. It was really all he had.”

  “How come the folks he owed money to didn’t try to get it?”

  “They didn’t know he had it. They don’t know I have it.”

  “You mean, he never drove it?” said Callahan.

  “Never. It’s an unforgettable-looking automobile. If they had seen him in it…well, he wouldn’t have had it long. Same goes for me. Plus, I don’t even know how to drive a car.”

  “Where is it?” asked Archer.

  “Outside of town in a safe place. Why?”

  “Well, looks like you’re going to have to sell it. Like you said, you’re more loath to part with your life than with the car.”

  Their drinks came, and they each lighted up cigarettes and drank their spirits with enthusiasm.

  Through a sheen of smoke Archer eyed Howells. “And you’ll need to make a decision fast. We sa
ved you tonight, but I at least won’t be here tomorrow to do the same.”

  “And saving you is not my job,” added Callahan. “We all have problems.”

  “There’s no one I know with enough money to buy it.”

  “How much you asking?” said Archer.

  “Don’t be crazy,” said Callahan sharply. “Why do you need a car like that?”

  “I’m just asking,” replied Archer, whittling down his Lucky and his bourbon. “No harm in that.”

  “What would you do with a car like that?” asked Howells cautiously.

  Archer didn’t answer right away as he blew lazy smoke rings to the filthy ceiling. “Maybe drive it to California.”

  “California?” Callahan snapped. “Is that where you’re headed? Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  He tilted his gaze at her. “Before what? We just met.”

  “But I told you that’s where I’m going.”

  “Well, hell, you two can go out west together,” said Howells, smiling happily as if Archer and Callahan had just exchanged marriage vows.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” said Callahan. “And I barely know Archer. I can’t drive all the way to California with someone I barely know.”

  “Well, the same goes for me,” replied Archer. “Particularly a gal with a gun.”

  “What are you going out to California for?” Howells asked her.

  “To get into pictures, what else?”

  “Well, once you see the Delahaye, you may change your mind about not wanting to drive out there with Archer in it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll arrive in style. You’ll be in all the newspapers.”

  “But I’m not going to Hollywood,” said Archer.

  “Oh, hell, son, California is California. Do you want to see it or not?”

  “What do you say?” Archer asked Callahan.

  She mulled over this. “It can’t hurt to look.”

  “But how about one more round of drinks first?” suggested Howells.

  “Only if you’re buying,” said Archer. “I busted a knuckle for you. That’s enough without you attacking my wallet, too.”

  “Well, I will, on the condition that you buy the car.”

  Archer sat back on his stool. “How do we get out to this place?”

  “Got a buddy who can give us a lift in the back of his truck.” Howells checked his watch. “He gets off work in about ten minutes.”

  “The back of his truck?” exclaimed Callahan.

  “Well, you can sit in the front. Me and Archer can ride in the back.”

  Callahan threw down money for the booze. “But let’s just keep it to the one round then, in case Archer doesn’t buy the damn car.”

  Chapter 7

  THE FRIEND’S PICKUP TRUCK WAS A RAMBLING, ancient mess of a Plymouth held together by wire, tape, and probably prayer by the gent driving it. That “gent” was a burly fellow dressed in blue overalls, dusty brogans, and a dirty, tan snap-brim hat with a fat cigar stuck in the red band. Howells didn’t provide a name for the man, and the man didn’t volunteer one.

  Howells’s friend ogled Callahan as he held open the rusted passenger door for her. She tucked herself primly inside the cab and wouldn’t look at him. The lady didn’t need a magnifying glass to discern the man’s primal desire. Archer noted that Callahan kept a firm hand on her clutch purse, in which the .38 lay like a coiled rattler.

  Archer hefted Howells into the back, where he sat next to a passel of tools. Archer rode higher up on the truck bed’s side panel. He buttoned up his jacket and turned up his collar because the air had gone cool. As they headed west, the sky was clear and the stars were stitched to the dark fabric in random patterns of elegance.

  They were moving at too brisk a pace for Archer to light up a cigarette, so he just watched the dirt pass by. The land was flat, the vegetation uninteresting, and the occasional animal unremarkable.

  “Not much out this way,” Archer commented after a few miles.

  “Men came here for gold a long time ago. Now it’s just a stop on the way to somewhere else, unless you’re enamored of desert land.”

  “I like the water.”

  “You grew up on the ocean?”

  “No. But I took a long boat ride home and it was the sweetest ride I’ve ever had.”

  “Smooth, was it?”

  “No, we actually went through a hurricane. Thought we were going to sink for about three straight days, guys puking and praying all over the place. I’d settled on the fact that I was gonna drown right then and there in the old Atlantic.”

  “So why the hell do you like the water then?”

  “I survived the war and that boat was taking me home. It affects a man.”

  “I can see that,” said Howells thoughtfully. “I fought in the First World War.”

  “I’m hoping there won’t be a third.”

  “So California, eh?”

  Archer shrugged. “Good a place as any, I reckon.”

  “I wish I’d done more moving about when I was young.”

  “You from here, then?”

  “Not exactly. But I call it home now, for better or worse.”

  “If you pay those boys off, who’s to say you won’t get back into debt? And you won’t have another car to sell.”

  “You make a fair point, Archer, but right now I don’t see another option.”

  Archer shrugged. “It’s your funeral, and any man who can’t see that deserves what he gets.”

  “That’s a hard line, friend,” Howells replied, frowning.

  “No, that’s life. And you’ve seen more of it than me, so you should know better.”

  The truck rolled on until they reached an unwieldy conglomeration of buildings. A gas station, an automobile repair garage, and a small bungalow that looked like someone had let the air out. Out front was parked a big sparkling-blue Buick and a smaller dented Ford two-door, Mutt and Jeff in mechanical splendor.

  “What is this setup?” asked Archer as he helped Howells down.

  “My buddy’s place, like I told you. He has the garage and a filling station. And he lives in that little house there.”

  “Your buddy have a name?” asked Callahan, who had gotten out of the cab before the man had stopped the truck fully, probably so he couldn’t hurry around and try to see up her skirt like he had when she’d gotten in.

  Howells pointed to the sign above the garage. It read: LESTER’S AUTO REPAIR. “Lester’s had this place a long time.”

  The truck shot back onto the road and disappeared quickly from view.

  “Why’s your friend in such a hurry?” asked Archer.

  “Lester doesn’t like Calvin. And if Lester doesn’t like you, you know it.”

  Archer eyed the fleeing Plymouth and then glanced at Howells. “So how do we get back to town then, Bobby H?”

  Howells considered this dilemma and said, “Well, that’s a pickle for sure.”

  The door to the bungalow opened at Howells’s knocking. In the doorway stood the largest human being Archer had ever seen. About six feet eight, his body was so thick it needed every inch the doorway provided. Archer figured him for 350 or more pounds, if he weighed an ounce. He looked like a statue whose sculptor had gotten carried away.

  “Holy Lord,” whispered Callahan. “Is that one man or two?”

  “Dunno,” said Archer. “But either way, don’t make him or them mad.”

  Howells threw up a hand and said, “Howdy there, Lester.”

  Lester did not seem pleased to see him or any of them, thought Archer. He looked like he would prefer to snap their necks like chickens and then pluck and cook them for dinner.

  Lester had curly dark hair and a crooked nose that seemed to go on and on. His lips were thick, and his teeth were relative to the size of his wide mouth. He wore a stained, sleeveless undershirt that showed off thick, broad shoulders, arm muscles that seemed too weighty for the bones they were attached to, and matted bla
ck chest hair where the fabric dipped low. His stiff dungarees, while enormous, strained to contain his legs. His feet were surprisingly small for his huge frame. His nails were thick with grease, and the smell of gasoline shrouded the man like wrapping paper around a present, a big one. A cigarette was stuck behind one ear like a pale, severed finger lingering.

  He looked them over one by one and said nothing.

  Callahan took a subtle sniff and wrinkled her nose, taking a step back to allow the man some space and her lungs some reprieve.

  Lester once more ran his gaze up and down Archer and Callahan before turning to Howells. “It’s late for a visit, Pops. What are you here for?”

  His voice was low, like rumbling thunder. It didn’t quite match his girth, but it still made Archer notice his words with particular care.

  “Came to see the car.” He looked at Archer. “Got a prospective buyer in Archer here.”

  Lester turned once more to Archer. His gaze went from the hat to the feet and then came back up like an elevator car and stopped at the floor containing Archer’s eyes.

  “He doesn’t look like he can afford it.”

  “Well, looks can be deceiving,” said Archer.

  Lester did not appear to take too kindly to this mild rebuke. He took a few steps toward Archer before Howells said, “So is it in the garage then?”

  Lester snapped a glare at him that in the dim light seemed ferocious somehow. “Where else, Pops? Under the cover, like always.”

  “Well, let’s get to it,” said Howells hastily. “Don’t want to waste what’s left of your night, Lester.”

  To Archer, the old man seemed uneasy at having to deal with the giant, and that uneasiness transferred to Archer like a virus.

  Lester took them to the garage, pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked a massive padlock, and slid open the doors with outward thrusts of his two-by-four arms. Inside they saw automobiles and pickup trucks in various stages of disassembly. Large rolling toolboxes stood next to some of these vehicles. Single bulb work lights were strung from the exposed rafters. The smell of grease was predominant but barely winning out over the odor of burned nicotine. Archer saw a Maxwell House coffee can full of cigarette butts. He next eyed a fifty-gallon drum marked GASOLINE with a hose and nozzle attached, and he wondered how the man had not managed to blow or burn himself up.