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

only one was occupied. On one side was a woman in her fifties with white hair and a long, horsey face. Her cherry-red purse sat on the table next to her plate of raw oysters on the half shell and a bourbon, neat, percolating in a short glass. Across from her was a gentleman, also in his fifties, suited in a three-piece worsted wool with a loosened dark tie. He was chubby and sweaty, and his napkin was pinned across his white shirt front like a bull’s-eye. A plate of spaghetti and clams lay in front of him, and he methodically worked his fork and spoon in tandem as he ate. He had a glass of red wine as his meal’s liquid companion.

At first no one looked up when they walked in. Then Chubby with the clams saw Callahan and made such a fuss that White Hair turned to see. Her long face became pinched and sour. She turned back to her tablemate and said something low, snappy, and apparently pointed as a spear because the clams once more became Chubby’s sole focus. The bartender looked up, saw Callahan, grabbed a glass, and started polishing it to a fine sheen, a sloppy grin spreading across his face, as though he’d just won a prize that would take him away from here. The young drunk turned, eyed Callahan, and almost fell off his stool. The old drunk would probably have done likewise, but he had already fallen face-first into the mahogany and was now snoring.

The swinging door did its thing and a woman in her twenties with sandy brown hair and short, muscular legs and attired in a light brown waitress uniform with faded red piping came out carrying a platter of clean glasses. She saw them and pointed with her free hand to a table.

“Have a seat, be with you folks in a sec.”

Archer and Callahan sat, and after the waitress deposited the glasses in a double-door wooden cabinet, she came over with menus and cloth napkins folded around cutlery. She handed it all out and said, “Can I get you something to drink? If you want food, the kitchen closes in twenty minutes.”

“Then we must be getting close to ‘whenever,’” noted Archer.

“Yeah, you’re the first person to come up with that line,” she said in a bored tone.

“I’ll have coffee, black,” said Archer. “You folks know how to make a gimlet?”

“Yes. We’ve done those before.”

“Great, then a gimlet chaser for the coffee, and go easy on the Rose’s and let the gin make its mark for me. Or do I tell that to friendly behind the bar?”

“I’ll give him the order,” she said as she turned to Callahan. “And you, ma’am?”

“You got cranberry juice?” asked Callahan.

“Yes. Is that all you want?”

“Yeah, so long as it goes with the vodka.”

The woman grinned and gave Archer a condescending look. “Now, that’s wit, buckaroo. I’ll get your drinks.”

Archer took his hat off and set it on the table. He looked around the room. He’d been in bars better than this and lousier than this. The same alcohol was served here that was dished out in the best bars in the world, LA, New York, Paris, London, and Berlin, what was left of it. So in that respect a bar in Coalinga, California, was as good as any of those. But Archer was still in Coalinga and not Paris.

Callahan slipped out a Camel and tapped the lighting end on the hard surface to make the tobacco as good as it could be. “You think that little goon headed back to Reno?” she said.

Archer shrugged. “Maybe. He’s out of guns and bigger goons. I don’t see him following us alone.”

“He might still come after us with some other muscle.”

“Good luck finding us. California is a pretty big place.”

“That’s true,” she replied, her spirits seeming to lift.

They sat there in silence until his coffee and gimlet came along with her cocktail. The waitress pulled out her pad and pen.

“You folks had a chance to look over the menu? No more oysters and no more clams, by the way.”

“What would you recommend?” asked Archer.

“The steak. We got two pieces left. And baked potato. We got two of those left, too.”

“Steak and potatoes, why didn’t I think of that?” said Callahan. “Sold.”

“Make it a deuce,” added Archer.

The waitress went off. Archer drank down the rest of his coffee and turned his attention to the gimlet.

Callahan shot him a nervous glance. “You’re looking pensive again, Archer.”

“You still want to go on to Hollywood?”

She gave him a pointed look that seemed to peek right into his soul. She finished a long drag on her smoke before saying, “That was the original plan. You see any reason why I should change it?”

“Yeah, two of them, same as the number of bodies we left up in the mountains.”

“Do we have to go over that again?”

“Hear me out.”

“Okay.”

She sat back and crossed one long leg over the other, which rode her skirt way up, and commenced to jiggling her foot, letting her high heel dangle precariously off her toes. Chubby glanced over and saw this, and seemed to whimper before his companion kicked him under the table.

“It might be better if we stuck together, at least for a while.”

“You mean, if he comes after us with more goons?”

“Yeah.”

“But you said he wouldn’t be able to find us, Archer.”

“I know I did, but I’ve been thinking about that. I’m not sure I didn’t let it slip when I was in Reno about where I was headed. And the Delahaye sort of sticks out. And if you go to Hollywood and start making a name for yourself? He sure as hell knows what your name is. He would’ve gotten it from Howells. Mine too.”

“But then should we go to Bay Town, if he knows that’s where you’ll be?”

“I have to, Liberty. I want a shot at this job. And I told the guy I’d be coming.” Archer now looked uncertain. “But maybe you shouldn’t