A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  “How many of those drinks have you had?” Archer said with a grin.

  “It is not alcohol that speaks, Mr. Archer.”

  “What then?”

  “Perhaps it is the wisdom of an old woman who has seen much. Perhaps too much.” She cradled her drink. “What are you really doing in Bay Town?”

  “Got a job. I’m a private eye. Working for Willie Dash. You know him?”

  “I’ve seen the billboards. And do you like being a private investigator?”

  He shrugged. “Haven’t been doing it long enough to really know. But it has its good points and bad points.” He rubbed his neck. “I saw the bad points a few hours ago.” He looked down at his shoes. “Look, you know anything about Sawyer Armstrong? Or Beth and Douglas Kemper?”

  “Everyone in Bay Town knows of them.”

  “But you don’t know them?”

  “I don’t know them, not really.” She said these words as though they were distasteful lingering in her mouth for even a moment.

  “You trying to tell me something? If so, I’d prefer if you just say it.”

  “I will not say anything of the sort. I live here. I have a business here that I need to operate in order to survive.”

  “We have the right to speak our minds in this country.”

  She glanced dourly at him. “Free speech is not really free if it costs you all that you have.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  She shook her head and held the glass against her withered cheek.

  “Douglas Kemper is running for mayor,” said Archer.

  “I know.”

  “Thinking of voting for him, or for the dentist he’s running against, Alfred Drake?”

  “I haven’t thought much about it, quite frankly. I liked our last mayor.”

  Archer perked up. “And who was that?”

  “Benjamin Smalls. He was honest. He did right by the people.”

  “Why isn’t he running again, then?”

  “He died while in office, just a month ago. The upcoming election is a special election. The winner will finish out Smalls’s term, which is three more years.”

  Archer squinted at her. “How’d he die?”

  “They say he drowned in his bathtub.”

  “They say? You don’t know for sure?”

  “I don’t know for sure, because the police don’t know for sure. No one apparently knows for sure. They only thing they know for sure is that Benjamin Smalls is dead.”

  “People do drown in their bathtubs.”

  “Yes, I suppose they do.”

  “I guess maybe he was old, or drunk.”

  She rose, went over to a bureau, opened the drawer, and took out a framed photo. “This is Benjamin Smalls. He was thirty-five and a teetotaler.”

  Archer looked at the photo that was signed to her and studied Smalls. He was tall, with slicked-back dark hair parted on the side. He had a dimple under his chin that must have been annoying to shave. He also had nice, comely features and wore a white linen suit with a Panama hat held in one hand. This was actually the second time he had seen a picture of the man.

  “That photo was taken last year, when he won reelection.”

  “Maybe he died of a seizure, then, or a heart attack.”

  “The police could find no evidence of that.”

  Archer pulled out a Lucky and lit up, catching the ash in his hand. “You seem to think there was more to it.”

  “You’re a private eye, maybe you should turn your ‘eye’ to that.”

  “I think I have enough on my plate.”

  She shrugged. “Why do you want to know about Armstrong and the Kempers?”

  “Something to do with my investigation.”

  “Then I would be careful if I were you. Very careful.”

  “I’m starting to figure that out.” He didn’t think she could see the bruises on his face and neck in the dim light, but maybe she had better vision than he was giving her credit for. “I might go for a stroll. Is it safe out there at night?”

  “Is anywhere safe at night, Mr. Archer?”

  He tipped his hat and left her there with her toddy and her moody introspection.

  Outside, he headed toward Sawyer Avenue, lighting another cigarette on the way and feeling for the gun in the belt holster. Its presence lifted his spirits considerably. And if he ran into Tony or Hank again, he planned to shoot first and ask not a single question later.

  There was no one out and about that he could see. All shops were closed at this hour, even the ones that, when open, catered solely to the baser pleasures of its patrons. A sliver of moon crept out from behind the clouds and cast a delicate glow over Bay Town.

  A prowler slowly pulled up to him; he tipped his hat to the officer who stared suspiciously at him from the passenger seat. Archer tried to remain calm, but his aching body was stiffening all over with anxiety, and for an obvious reason.

  Could this be about Ruby Fraser? Could they be here to arrest me?

  “Everything okay, bub?” asked the cop, giving Archer a once-over.

  “Yes sir, officer. Just got into town and couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d walk around and get the lay of the land.”

  The cop at the wheel leaned forward so as to be in Archer’s line of vision.

  “That wouldn’t include casing any joints, would it?” But he smiled to show he was kidding.

  “Only the best liquor joints. But that can wait until the sun comes up,” he said, grinning back, but his heart beat even harder.

  They drove off and he picked up his pace.

  He wondered how many cops were up at Midnight Moods right now. Maybe every one of them besides those two yokels.

  Crossing Sawyer Avenue, he turned away from the fancy areas of furs and teas and Bentleys and headed to the working-class wharf. He wanted to hear the breakers better and smell the salt air with more vigor. He had no idea why, he just did. Maybe it would help him not to think of dead Ruby.

  He reached the wharf after a brisk walk of fifteen minutes, during which he saw not another soul, or another car, prowler or not. Bay Town was clearly bedded down for the night.

  He walked along the pier and finally settled on a bench built into the wooden wall there and which looked directly out to sea. The territory of Hawaii was out there, he knew, thousands of miles away. And beyond that, and more thousands of ocean miles, was Japan, which was still no doubt licking its war wounds after having two atom bombs dropped on it four years ago. Archer was just glad he hadn’t had to fight his way to mainland Japan. He’d had enough of war to last him forever. Any man who had seen and done what he had would feel the same way. And if they didn’t there was something wrong with them that nothing could fix except copious amounts of booze. He figured if Prohibition were still in place after the war, America would be no more. They would have rolled up the carpet and headed for Europe, where a man could get a decent shot of booze and a kind word from a woman at any time of the day or night.

  The breakwater built out parallel to the land was made of enormous boulders which, like an iceberg, was just the tip of the rock out there. He sat staring at the jetty and the moored boats bobbing slightly, and worked through two more cigarettes and half his flask while he listened to the waves leisurely hitting the rocks and let the salt air carve his insides smooth.

  The moon cast finger shadows over the water. The Pacific was basically flat and calm, the air not moving much, no storm clouds overhead to cause trouble. He might just sit here until sunrise and surprise the longshoremen and fishermen on their way to work. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander.

  A few minutes later he opened them, and his thoughts focused on one thing. It was constant and perfectly replicated, meaning it was mechanical. As he continued to listen and watch, the motorboat came into view. There was a spotlight deployed on its bow, and the light gashed over the water as it tried to discern solids from fluids. As it came more fully into view and passed the breakwater, and started navigating th
rough the minefield of moored boats, he could see that it was about twenty-five feet long and there were a number of people on board. It veered southward as it approached the pier and ran parallel to it for about two hundred yards, until it was well away from the port operations.

  A minute before this, Archer had taken to his heels and was jogging along in that direction. He reached a spot where he took up position behind a waist-high wall and eyed the boat as it docked at a pier.

  Two men got off and secured the boat’s lines to the dock cleats. Then the bow light was extinguished and more people got off. Archer continued to watch as they walked toward the lot adjacent to where Archer was hidden. He sank lower, turned his head, and saw two vehicles parked there.

  As the men drew closer to the cars, another automobile came down the wharf road, turned, and pulled into the parking lot. Due to the thrust and reach of its headlights, the group from the boat was fully revealed to him.

  The tall figure of Sawyer Armstrong was prominent among them, as were his two goons, Tony and Hank.

  And there were three other men that Archer didn’t recognize.

  The car pulled to a stop but kept on its headlights. Stepping out of the car was another person that Archer did know.

  Beth Kemper hurried over to her father, and they held a quick and apparently heated conversation, at least by their body language, because Archer could hear none of it. The brief meeting ended with Armstrong and his group climbing into the two cars and driving off, leaving Kemper alone.

  Archer saw the dot of flame emerge as the woman lit a cigarette and leaned against her car, which he now recognized as the little Triumph Roadster convertible he’d seen back at the Kemper estate. The woman stared out at the ocean and smoked her cigarette while Archer continued to watch and contemplated what to do. Part of him wanted to approach her, see what was going on. But his professional instincts—such that he had—told him that would be the wrong move, for any number of reasons. If he did that and she told her father that Archer had seen them come in on the boat from God knew where in the middle of the night, Archer figured he would get another visit from Tony and Hank, and it would be his last visit with anyone ever. His final resting place might be the very same ocean Beth Kemper was staring at, with cement shoes encasing his feet as he sank to the bottom to realize his new destiny as plankton.

  She dropped her finished cigarette and scrunched it flat with the heel of her shoe, then got into her car and drove slowly off. Archer swiftly moved after the convertible. He knew full well there was no way he could really follow her on foot if she sped up and vanished from sight. Fortunately, she didn’t go far. As Archer trotted along behind, she drove only three blocks before she parked the car at the curb and got out. Two motorcycles, one with a sidecar, were pulled up on the pavement in front.

  Archer eyed the twenty-four-hour sign of the restaurant as she walked in.

  He waited for a few minutes and followed.

  Chapter 36

  ARCHER STOOD IN THE DOORWAY of the hole-in-the-wall diner. Its yellow, pebbled floors were sticky linoleum, its booths shiny red vinyl, its tabletops slapdash laminate of no memorable design, and its walls painted a sea-foam green with the overhead whirly fans moving at the pace of a man with nowhere to go. There was a jukebox, but it was as dark and silent as the night.

  There were three other customers in the place besides Beth Kemper. All three were around nineteen or twenty, and all were clustered around her booth, apparently giving the lady trouble, while a flustered waitress in her forties hovered nearby, looking uncertain as to what to do.

  Archer heard one of the young men, tall and pudgy with a crew cut and muscled arms and shoulders showing under his T-shirt, say, “Hey, baby, we got some gin back at our place. You need to join us. Good times, sugar doll, good times.”

  His skinny, acned friend laughed and parroted, “Good times, sugar doll.”

  “Sure like to see your gams without anything on ’em,” said Crew Cut. “Bet they’re a knockout, like you.”

  The third man was lean and lanky, had dark, greased hair, and wore denim jeans stiff as a two-by-four, scuffed black motorcycle boots, and a brown leather bomber jacket; the fanned-out top half of a switchblade stuck out of his rear pants pocket like a cobra’s head.

  Kemper, for her part, was smoking another cigarette and looking extremely bored. She seemed to perk up when she saw Archer coming.

  “Mrs. Kemper?” said Archer, walking over.

  All of the men turned to eye him, and there wasn’t a friendly look in the bunch, which was no surprise, thought Archer. What guy liked his crude lovemaking interrupted?

  Crew Cut said, “Hey, Bud, we’re having a talk with the lady here, so take a powder.”

  Archer drew closer. “That’s funny. I have a scheduled meeting with the ‘lady.’”

  “Scram,” said Switchblade, transferring an unlit cigarette from between his lips to behind his right ear, as though that movement constituted a plain threat.

  Archer moved closer while Kemper continued to eye him with interest. “Don’t make this difficult, boys,” he said.

  Crew Cut seemed to take this reference personally because he shoved Acne aside and said, “Who you calling a boy, mac?”

  Archer looked around and shrugged. “We seem to be the only males here, so I’ll leave it to you to figure out.”

  Kemper snorted at that one, which only made Crew Cut angrier. “You know him?” he demanded, wheeling around on Kemper.

  She smiled benignly and waved her cigarette smoke away from her. “Not as much as I’d like to.”

  Confused by this, Crew Cut turned and shot Switchblade a glance along with a jerk of the head in Archer’s direction that could not have been clearer.

  Archer sighed. If he had a sawbuck for every time he’d seen that same look communicated in that same clumsy fashion.

  Switchblade went for his knife, but before he could open the blade, Archer laid him out with a punch so hard, it knocked him into the next booth. He lay there, his nose bloody, a tooth wobbly, and his mind crushed into unconsciousness.

  Crew Cut screamed profanities and drew a fist back. Archer swept aside the front of his jacket where the .38 sat prominently. Crew Cut froze.

  Archer said, “You want to see my credentials now, or wait until after you get booked for harassing this lady and trying to have your buddy knife me?”

  Acne said fearfully, “Y-you’re…a cop, mister?”

  Archer didn’t even bother to look at him. He kept his gaze on Crew Cut with his fist still cocked. “In the meantime, unless you want your parents to have to spend their hard-earned money bailing you ‘boys’ out, grab your friend, throw some cold water on his face, get on your tricycles out there…and beat it. Now!”

  Crew Cut and Acne grabbed their knocked-out chum and slid him out the door. About thirty seconds later Archer heard the bikes fire up. He went to the door and watched them ride off. Switchblade was slumped in the sidecar, as both bikes disappeared into the night with their owners’ egos tucked between their legs.

  The waitress said, “Gee, thanks, mister. They’ve been nothing but trouble all night.”

  “No problem. Can I get a cup of joe? Rumbling punks is thirsty work.”

  “Coming right up. And it’s on the house.”

  She went off to get the coffee while Archer walked back over to the booth shaking out his achy hand.

  “Mrs. Kemper,” he said again.

  She looked up at him, her expression one of intrigue.

  “Mr. Archer, why don’t you join me for our scheduled meeting?”

  He slid into the booth, took off his hat, and set it next to him.

  “That was impressive. And I so like to see a man enjoy his work.”

  He ran his eye over her. She was dressed far more casually than last time. Flared white pants with black buttons on the side, a checkered cotton shirt in blue and gold, a kerchief at her neck, and a fitted dark blue jacket over both. And a pair of gold ho
ops graced her delicately lovely ears.

  “Surprised to see you here.”

  “As I am seeing you.” She tapped ash into the ashtray. “I hope you haven’t been following me,” she said with enough behind it to put Archer on his guard.

  “Following you?” he said with feigned incredulity that he hoped was genuine enough to carry away her suspicions. “That’s your car outside. I recognized it from my visit to your house. If I’d been following you, you would have either seen my headlights, since there are no other cars out there, or heard my car. Did you hear a car behind you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I walked here from my place over on Porter. Asked my landlady for a place to eat. I woke up in the middle of the night all hungry. Turns out she’s a night owl. She recommended here.”

  “Porter Street. Why didn’t you drive?”

  “Because I wanted to walk and smoke. And it’s not that far. Your trip here was a lot farther. Must be tough navigating those switchbacks in the dark and the fog.”

  He pulled the ashtray closer, lit up, and tapped ash into it as his coffee arrived. It was hot and good.

  “What, no notepad to write down my answers?” she said mockingly as the waitress departed.

  “I’m off duty.”

  “I didn’t come from my home,” said Kemper.

  “Really, where then?”

  “That’s no concern of yours.”

  “You’re right, it’s not.”

  “I spoke to my father. Have you heard the news?”

  He exhaled smoke and shook his head. “What news?”

  “There was a murder.”

  Archer furrowed his brow and said sharply, “A murder? Where?”

  “At Midnight Moods.”

  “Hell, I was there last night, meaning about five hours ago. Went there with a friend who was auditioning for a job. Who got killed?”

  “Ruby Fraser.”

  Archer let his jaw go slack and he laid his smoke on the lip of the ashtray before clasping his hands on the table and assuming what he hoped was a judicious look. “The Ruby Fraser?”