A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  Chapter 22

  DASH LED ARCHER OUT THE DOOR, past Morrison’s empty desk, and over to another door on the other side of the reception area that Archer had missed seeing before.

  Dash opened the door and turned on the light. A long naked tube hissed and popped overhead before gaining purchase and staying on, feebly illuminating the small space so it looked like a partially exposed photograph. Archer looked around and took in the room that held a desk, a chair, another chair, a three-drawer metal file cabinet, and one window about as wide as his head.

  Dash swept a hand across the space. “Your new office, Archer.”

  “So I have the job then?”

  “Not if you continue to be that slow on the uptake. Now, it’s a little dusty, but I can get Connie to spruce it up a bit. Maybe get a fresh flower for that vase over there.”

  “No, that’s okay. I can clean it up.”

  “You sure?”

  Archer surveyed his office. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

  “PIs don’t spend a lot of time on their duff in their office, Archer,” Dash said warningly.

  “Give me a sec to breathe it all in, Mr. Dash. Then I’ll be raring to go.”

  Dash smiled. “Well, first thing, not even my old man was Mr. Dash. I’m Willie, capiche?”

  “Got it, Willie. So, do we wait on the list from Kemper?”

  “I don’t like depending on clients for answers. If they can do it themselves, I might as well put myself in a coffin and pay the digging fee up front.”

  “But if we find the blackmailer, what can we really do?”

  “Dirt, Archer. It sticks both ways, like you said. And I’ve never met anyone who didn’t have something they’d prefer other people didn’t know.”

  “So is Kemper the favorite in the race?”

  “By a wide margin yes. He’s young, handsome, wealthy, smart, smooth as silk. Pure class, as I’m sure you saw for yourself. For a minute there I thought I was talking to Errol Flynn. Alfred Drake looks like a day-old cadaver by comparison.”

  “And so Kemper married into a wealthy family. Talk about good fortune raining down.”

  “Well, Kemper looks like he was always rich. In fact, his father came from money. Then he blew it all and Kemper went from being a rich kid to a poor adult. But he worked hard. Yeah, he married well, but the guy isn’t afraid of work, I’ll give him that.”

  “And Sawyer Armstrong?”

  “Armstrong is a son of a bitch. But he’s a cunning son of a bitch.”

  “And his daughter?”

  “She’s cut from the same wood. But she’s more nuanced than her old man, and Armstrong can be subtle when the need arises.”

  “Do you believe Kemper about there being nothing between him and Fraser?”

  “Yeah, and I believe that Dewey beat Truman. Assume the worst of your clients, Archer, and you’ll never be disappointed. They don’t come to us because they’re good little boys. They come because they screwed up and they want us to clean the mess.” He pointed to the desk. “In one of them drawers is a little notepad and a pen. Take ’em with you and write stuff down. Memory makes mistakes; what you write down is a lot better.”

  Archer got the pad and pen, and he and Dash went back to the reception area. Dash plucked his fedora off the hook and said, “Hey, you got a car?”

  “It’s outside.”

  “Good, mine’s in the shop.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing that paying the money owed won’t fix.”

  “What model is it?”

  “A 1942 Lincoln Continental Cabriolet, the prettiest blue with a canvas top and fat whitewalls. Did you know 1942 was the last year Detroit made cars before the war intervened?”

  “Nope.”

  “After that the big boys turned to the war effort, building trucks, tanks, planes. My ride was one of the last off the assembly line before Detroit turned to being the engine of the ‘arsenal of democracy,’ as Roosevelt termed it.”

  “Car’s nearly eight years old then. You looking for a new ride?”

  Dash frowned. “You don’t let a filly go when she’s just starting to hit her stride.”

  “Miss Morrison seems efficient.”

  Dash gave him a nuanced look. “And I’m sure Earl told you we were married and are now divorced.”

  “He did mention that. Surprised you two can still work together.”

  “We always worked together just fine. It was marriage together that didn’t work.”

  “Okay.”

  “You got a heater?” Dash said abruptly.

  “Not on me, no.”

  Archer followed Dash back to his office. Out of a desk drawer Dash drew a Colt .38 in a leather belt holster. “Irv said you were in the Army and know your way around a piece.”

  “I’m sure you do, too.”

  “I do. But at this point in my life, I’d rather think than shoot. So clip it on and don’t pull it unless you’re going to use it.”

  “By the way, what’s my salary and how often do I get paid?”

  “Don’t go too fast, Archer. Let’s take it nice and slow. I need to see you in action first.”

  They rode the elevator down. Earl gazed up at Dash, the grin stretching to both cheeks and maybe beyond.

  “You going to work, Mr. Dash? Going to get yourself some cri-mi-nal?”

  “That’s the plan, Earl.”

  “Saw Miss Morrison run outta here with a check in hand. She going to the bank, I ’spect?”

  “You’d make a good shamus.”

  “Can’t lose you, Mr. Dash. You the only one takes the elevator, ’cept this young man here. I be out of a job.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, we don’t want that to happen.”

  Outside, Archer said, “Is he always like that with you?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, gushing.”

  “Hell, Archer, the man hates my guts.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “No man ever went to prison who comes out liking the man who put him behind bars.”

  “So did you get him the job here because you keep your enemies close?”

  “I felt for the guy. But he’d stick a knife in my back in a New York minute.”

  When Dash saw the Delahaye he stopped and stared suspiciously at Archer. “This your car?”

  “Yep.”

  He read off the name. “Delahaye?”

  “It’s French.”

  “The hell you say.” As he started to get in, he stopped. “Steering wheel’s on the wrong side.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m getting the hang of it. By the way, where are we going, Willie?”

  “Straight to the source, Archer. To talk to Ruby Fraser.”

  “You think she’ll cop to blackmailing Kemper?”

  “She’s not blackmailing anybody. She’s what you call a pawn. I don’t expect her to be honest, don’t get me wrong. Midnight Moods doesn’t care about honest people. They just want gals with long legs and big tits. Miss Ruby isn’t quarterbacking this one.”

  “So, Kemper’s enemies?”

  “Or his friends.”

  “Friends who are enemies, then?”

  “Do you know of any other kind, son? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

  Chapter 23

  AS THEY WERE HEADING OUT OF TOWN, Dash pointed to a large billboard. “There’s our man.”

  Douglas Kemper’s face was about ten feet tall. He was looking off into the distance, his expression intelligent, visionary even. Next to this profile was the slogan: KEMPER FOR MAYOR. A MAN FOR OUR TIMES.

  “Catchy,” said Archer drily as they passed by and drove north.

  A half hour later they arrived at their destination. Midnight Moods looked to Archer like every shallow fantasy a man could reasonably expect to have in his life. Constructed like a faux castle, complete with turrets and towers, bastions and battlements, the high walls covered with enormous posters of the most beautiful women wearing t
he most alluring outfits that Archer had ever seen.

  The place had a vibrant view of the nearby salty ocean. Its large asphalt parking lot held about thirty cars, from junkers to lean rides, to police prowlers, to a couple of Bentleys, though it was still the afternoon.

  As they pulled to a stop Archer ran his gaze over the front of the place once more and said, “Who the hell built this thing?”

  “Who do you think? Sawyer Armstrong. He’s the only man around with the sawbucks to put up a joint like this.”

  “When did he do it?”

  “During the war. Sawyer has X-ray vision when it comes to seeing opportunities and making money off poor saps who don’t have a lot of it but don’t mind spending what they do have. It’s volume that matters.”

  “And where did that volume come from? This isn’t exactly New York City.”

  “Trains full of soldiers came through here, Archer. Sawyer put this place up in six months and made a fortune and then some for about three years just off the GIs.”

  “And now? How’s business?”

  “Popular as all get out. Lots of young guys, and older gents, coming through looking for something new.” He paused. “But in the long run, who knows.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Bay Town is turning into something that tends to shun places like this.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bay Town is doing its best to turn respectable. But there will always be an audience for this sort of thing. Even if wives and girlfriends show up here from time to time to make their feelings known. Sometimes with an iron skillet in hand and not caring who they hit with it.”

  “You ever been here?” asked Archer.

  “A few times. Some laughs, some drinks, nothing more.”

  “How many times did Connie Morrison crack you in the head with her skillet?”

  “I’m starting to like you, Archer. But don’t make it personal.”

  They climbed out and crossed over a short wooden bridge that spanned a fake moat that was filled with not water but gravel. There were chains on either side of the bridge that ran to some wheels affixed to the outside wall of the place.

  “They ever raise the drawbridge?” asked Archer.

  “Yeah, every night after the last penniless drunk falls out the door.”

  Inside it was dark, quiet, and, at least to Archer, palpably ominous. Until a woman in her late forties came to greet them. She was dressed in a long, dark gown and wearing red high heels that drove her height to a head above Dash’s. Her hair was platinum with darker roots, her skin white as cream. Her lipsticked mouth housed a smile as wide as her face, but it never once reached her baby blues. She smelled of talcum powder and ginger.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen? We’re not open quite yet. The sun’s still up.”

  “The front door was wide open,” pointed out Dash.

  “They lowered the bridge to let the beer, wine, and liquor deliveries through.”

  “And all those cars in the parking lot are…?”

  “Just visitors,” she replied, keeping her tone and expression professional. “The performers live here.”

  “You mean, the female performers?”

  “Do I? And what business is that of yours, Mister…?”

  Dash pulled out his ID card and flashed it for her. “Willie Dash, PI. My associate Archer here. We’d like to talk to Ruby Fraser.”

  The woman eyed the card. “Gumshoes at Midnight Moods. My my.”

  “And you are…?” asked Archer.

  “I would be Mabel Dawson, sonny boy. I manage this place. At least the girl part of it.”

  Dash said, “Speaking of girls, is Ruby here?”

  “Why do you want to see Ruby?”

  “It’s confidential. She should be expecting us,” Dash lied.

  “Is that a fact? She never mentioned it to me.”

  “That’s because it’s confidential,” said Archer. “While you’re getting her, mind if we look around?”

  “Yes, I would mind. And who said I was getting Ruby, handsome?”

  “Any reason why you won’t?” asked Dash.

  “I can think of about ten. And I can call the cops if this turns into harassment.”

  “Why bother the cops with something so trivial? We’ll talk to Ruby and then we’ll leave, nice and simple, no trouble to anyone,” said Dash.

  “I don’t have to do nothing except ask you to leave.” She tacked on a smile as though she were enjoying all this. “So scram.”

  “But I do know things about this place,” added Dash, looking around. “Like why have the bridge down at this hour?”

  “I told you, buster, for deliveries. You want to see the booze for yourself?”

  “I happen to know that your deliveries come in the morning. And through the tradesman entrance on the side.”

  “Like I said, we have the bridge down for the visitors to our performers. They’re entitled to have visitors, aren’t they?”

  “Sure. But they’re not entitled to get paid for it, if you know what I mean?”

  “I really have no idea what you’re getting at.”

  “Would Ruby be engaged in the thing you have no idea what I’m getting at?”

  She pursed her lips and said indignantly, “Prostitution is illegal, Mr. Dash!”

  “Lots of things are illegal, and that just makes some people want to do them even more. And there are prowlers out there, so I guess I’ll include the cops in that.”

  Dawson bristled slightly. “Ruby’s a good girl.” A chrome cigarette case appeared from down her bosom and Archer lit up her smoke when she beckoned him with a generous glance to do so. She drew in the smoke deeply. “You really just want to talk to her?”

  “We do.”

  She slid a hand along Dash’s face. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, mister? I don’t like men who lie to me, and most of them do, so that’s why I don’t like most men.”

  “Not on your life would I lie to you, Miss Dawson.”

  She lightly slapped his pudgy face. “Right.” She glanced upward. “Is that rug on tight enough for you? It can get sort of rough sailing inside here.”

  Dash tapped his toupee and said, “I never get seasick.”

  “Hey, you boys packing?”

  “And if we were?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Good for you. Nice to be curious, ain’t it, Archer?”

  “Follow me then, gents. Watch your footing. They haven’t brought the firehoses through yet to clean up from last night’s rummies. Would it surprise you that I don’t touch the stuff myself?” She eyed Archer when she said these words, running her gaze from top to bottom in a way that made Archer feel like she had peeled off all his clothes.

  “Apparently nothing could surprise me about you, Miss Dawson,” replied Archer.

  “Brawn and brains. And here I’d just about given up all hope.”

  Chapter 24

  THEY HEADED DOWN A LONG HALL and then walked up three flights of thickly carpeted stairs.

  They passed a sand bucket under a spooled firehose. Archer noted it was filled with discarded cigarette butts. If the place caught fire, the sand probably would too.

  “Is that reefer or has my sense of smell gone to hell?” said Dash.

  “Marijuana is illegal, Mr. Dash,” said Dawson.

  “Yeah, just like prostitution. And make it Willie. We’re friends now.”

  They reached the end of the hall and walked up one last set of stairs that carried them to the very top of Midnight Moods.

  “Only the best room in the house for the kid, I see,” said Dash. “Nosebleed seats. Can’t see home plate from here, no sir.”

  “In this setup, you work your way down, not up, Willie,” retorted Dawson.

  She led them to a scarred door painted black. On a stiff card inserted in a brass holder was written: RUBY FRASER.

  Dawson knocked and called out, “Ruby, you decent? Two gumshoes here to talk to you. One’s old and
chubby with a rug on top, and one’s tall and could give Clark Gable a run for it. I’ll leave it to you to decide which one to concentrate your efforts on.”

  They heard footsteps approach, hesitant, maybe fearful, thought Archer.

  The door opened and there she was, looking like a Conover model, all tall and long limbed, and supple and fresh-faced and innocent and violet-eyed. She had on silk pajamas, a top and a bottom that was a good two inches too short for her and revealed long, pale feet with nails painted a dull red. She was maybe all of twenty, and maybe not even that, yet.

  She looked from Dawson, to Dash, to Archer, holding on him, and her lips curled ever so slightly upward as she did so.

  “Yes?” she said.

  Her voice was surprisingly deep, thought Archer.

  “These gents want to talk to you, Ruby. They’re private eyes.”

  Archer thought their appearance might knock this lady for a loop; however, her smile deepened. But when he looked at her eyes more closely, he saw an unnatural languidness there, a bullet jacket with no bullet in it.

  She opened the door further and stepped back, motioning them in.

  Dawson looked at them. “I’ll leave you to it then.” She walked off.

  “I’m Ruby Fraser,” she said, holding out her hand for them to shake.

  “We know, that’s why we’re here,” said Dash, shaking her hand. He looked at Archer. “Pull out the notepad and pen, Archer. I’m sure Ruby has lots to tell us.”

  Archer did as Dash had asked. He looked around and noted that the room was small, with a pale blue davenport on one side and a dormant electric heater on the other. Against another wall was a built-in breakfast nook. A small black Emerson radio sat on a side table. It hummed low, like she might have just turned down the volume. Next to it was an ashtray stand with a burning stub resting in it. A small fan sat on the floor lazily pushing the air from one side to the other, like a cat leisurely flicking its tail.

  “What do you do for food in this joint?” asked Dash, taking a seat in a chintz chair, the only one in the room.

  “Got another room over there with a little icebox and a hot plate, and a table and two chairs. Room next to it has a Murphy bed and a closet. But mostly I go downstairs for meals. Food’s not bad. In fact, it’s pretty good.”