A Gambling Man by David Baldacci (best short books to read txt) 📗

as he asked.

She held out the Smith & Wesson. “Now what? Do you want me to start shooting?”

“No. I need you to take the wheel.”

“What! How?”

“Put your hands on the wheel. I’ll slide under you and you go over me. I’ll keep my foot on the gas as long as I can. Soon as you’re in place, you mash it to the floor.”

“Archer, I don’t think I can do this.”

“I wouldn’t be asking unless I knew you could. And Bobby H can’t drive.”

“Oh, Lord help me.”

“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” interjected Howells in a knowing manner.

“Oh shut up, you old fool. You got us into this. And I doubt very seriously you of all people know anything about the Lord.”

Archer said, “Go up. Now.”

Callahan put her hands on the wheel, took a deep breath, then arched her back and slid to the right while Archer sunk low and edged to the left. A moment later Archer dropped into the middle of the seat and she into the driver’s. “Floor it,” he called out as he gripped the .38, turned around in the seat so he was facing backward, and lined up his shot through the revolver’s iron sights.

Archer turned to Callahan. “On the count of three start to ease off the gas until you get it down to around sixty.”

“But you said—”

“Just do it, Liberty!”

She gave him a sulky look and waited.

“One…two…three.”

The Delahaye slowed to a hundred and then eighty, and then stuck at sixty as Callahan eyed the speed gauge.

“We’re there,” she said.

The Buick was now catching up fast.

Archer aimed but didn’t fire.

Wait for it, wait for it…

He placed two quick shots into the grill and followed those with one each in the front tires. When he pulled the trigger again, the hammer banged empty. He was out of bullets. But he didn’t need any more.

Steam immediately started pouring out of the Buick’s radiator, covering the windshield in a thick fog. The blown-out front tires wobbled madly, and finally rubber separated from the metal rims, and the treads went spinning off into the darkness.

The Buick ended up crashed in a ditch while the Delahaye roared triumphantly on.

“Nice shooting there, Archer,” complimented Howells.

Archer sat forward in his seat and looked at Callahan. “You okay to drive?”

“Yes. But I’m sure as hell not going as fast as you did.”

“Okay, the three of us are staying together until the government building opens and we can get the title to the car transferred all official.”

“I got a room,” said Bobby H.

“And I’m sure those boys back there know it, too,” replied Archer. “So that’s out.”

“We can stay at my place,” said Callahan, drawing surprised looks from both men. “Well, it’s got two rooms. One of you can sleep on the couch, the other the floor. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

Howells looked at Archer with a pained expression. “I got me a real bad back, son. Real bad.”

“Of course you do,” said Archer as the Delahaye roared on.

Chapter 9

THEY HAD TO GO UP THE FIRE ESCAPE to Callahan’s place because the landlady was, in Callahan’s words, “an old battle-ax determined not to let young women have any fun.” And that obviously included no men staying the night.

They had parked the car in a lean-to attached to a garage behind Callahan’s building. Archer had found a cover in the trunk and thrown that over the Delahaye.

As she led them into her room via the fire escape and then a window she said, looking at Howells, “Now, she probably wouldn’t mind you. But Archer is definitely a no-no.”

Howells seemed to swell up with indignity. “I may not be as young as I once was, and who among us is, but I’m still a man who can appreciate female beauty when it is so obviously presented to me.”

“Well, thanks for the compliment, I guess,” responded Callahan, giving Archer a funny look.

Howells took the couch, which was lumpy but serviceable. He took off his hat and coat and shoes, revealing toeless socks, and then promptly fell asleep, his soft snores settling over Archer and Callahan as they watched him.

“Exciting times must have exhausted him,” noted Archer, holding his hat and peering down at the man.

Callahan shook her head. “I’m not ready for bed. I’m a night owl.”

“What are you ready for?” asked Archer.

“A drink.”

“Afraid my flask is almost empty.”

“I’ve got a bottle and two glasses hidden away under my bed. Old Fitz Kentucky bourbon work for you? It’s wheat, not rye.”

“I like pretty much any grain that’s been liquefied.”

They sat on the fire escape as they sipped their drinks.

“So California, huh?” said Callahan.

“Yep.”

“What’s out there for you?”

“A private eye named Willie Dash. I’m hoping he’ll take me under his wing and teach me the business.”

“So you wanna be, what, a gumshoe like Humphrey Bogart?”

“Bogie just pretends to be a gumshoe. I want to be one for real.”

“Taking pictures of married men and women cheating? Running down lousy deadbeats for money? Poking into people’s secrets? That’s your idea of a job?”

“Must be,” said Archer bluntly. “Because I haven’t thought of another one.”

She cocked her head and appraised him carefully. “You could be in the pictures, Archer. Sure, you’re rough around the edges and you’re definitely not Cary Grant, but you’re all right. And you’re tall and you have broad shoulders and you got a nice voice.”

“Funny, those are exactly the requirements for a private eye.”

“Stop teasing and pour me another drink.”

He did so, then helped himself to another finger of Old Fitz and settled back against the hard metal of the fire escape. After the wild ride in the Delahaye, it felt good not to be moving or shot at.

“So you got any family hereabouts?” he asked.

“No, because I’m not from here.”

“Where then?”

“None of your business.”

He gave her a bemused look. “I thought we were getting along okay.”

“I don’t like talking about myself all that much. And I told you where I worked during the war and about my brother and cousin. Hell, that’s pretty much