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

she smiled to show she wasn’t serious.

Archer stopped and asked a woman walking her dog where Porter Street might be. She told him and then said, “What kinda car is that? Steering wheel’s on the wrong side.”

“French,” said Archer.

The woman looked at him funny. “French? How’d it get to America?”

“We drove it over,” said Callahan. “It turns into a boat when you press that button,” she added, pointing to a knob on the dash.

“Well, isn’t that something,” said the woman.

“You sure are,” said Callahan as Archer pulled off with a grin. He hung a left and headed up a steeply ascending road.

“When do you meet with that private eye who’s going to teach you all the dirty tricks you’ll need to be a full-fledged shamus?” asked Callahan.

“I was going to call him when I got in and arrange to meet him.”

“What was the name again?”

“Willie Dash.”

“That Willie Dash?”

She was pointing at a large faded sign pasted on the side of a brick building.

On it was the image of a short, broad-shouldered man in his late forties with a pugnacious expression dressed in an old-fashioned pinstripe suit, and sporting a fedora worn at a sharp angle on his wide head. He was pointing a sausage finger apparently at the world in general. The words written below him read:

GOT A PROBLEM NEEDS SOLVING? PRIVATE EYE WILLIE DASH IS YOUR MAN.

After that was a five-digit phone number but no address. It was the same phone number as on Archer’s letter from the man.

Archer stopped the car and looked up at the sign, gaping. “Yeah, that Willie Dash. I thought he’d be older. But he came highly recommended.”

“Yeah? And who recommended the guy who recommended him?”

Archer drove on without answering her.

They pulled to a stop in front of the rooming house, a broad building with a narrow front porch, wood siding painted gray, red shutters, and a peaked metal roof the color of olive green. It looked old and seemed to be slightly leaning to one side. A sign out front said there were vacancies.

“My lucky day,” remarked Callahan as she noted this. “But we might have to spend half our time holding the sucker up.”

They took out their bags and walked up to the front porch. The screen door opened, revealing a woman standing there. She was seventy if she was a day. Her rimless specks made her small eyes enormous. One pupil hugged the inner wall of its socket. She had on a threadbare sweater over a homemade dress that dipped below her knee. She eyed, with a certain disdain, the turbaned Callahan in her tailor-made outfit.

“Can I help you?” she said sharply.

“Name’s Archer. I have a room reserved.”

“Yes. I already have you on the books.” She eyed Callahan. “And who might this be?”

“This might be Liberty Callahan. I need a room, too.”

“For how long?”

“I’ll have to let you know. My plans are what you call fluid.”

The woman glanced past them to the Delahaye and her already giant eyes became the size of a full moon.

“Is that your car?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Archer.

“It’s a Delahaye.”

Surprised, Archer said, “Yes it is. How’d you know?”

“I’m French. I came over long before the war. I don’t really sound French anymore, do I?”

“No ma’am, you don’t.”

She looked upset by this. “Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it? J’ai perdu la beauté de ma culture. Je suis américaine maintentant.”

“If you say so,” replied Archer.

“And you are?” asked Callahan.

“You may call me Madame Genevieve.”

“You’re married, then?” said Archer.

“Not anymore,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Come in and sign the register and I’ll show you to your rooms. I take a week’s rent in advance. No exceptions.”

“Seems like a nice town. You like it here?” asked Archer.

“I like it fine. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t stay.”

She turned and walked off down the hall. Archer and Callahan exchanged a glance and then followed.

Chapter 18

ARCHER TOOK A MOMENT TO LOOK AROUND the small room that he would be calling home at least for a while. Everything in it was old, but the place was spotless and smelled of soap and furniture polish. He pocketed the large metal key, put his suitcase down, dropped his hat on the small bed, and went over to the rear window. His immediate view was the back of another building. But rising behind that and the rest of Bay Town were the Santa Ynez Mountains. The high rock dwarfed the town like Goliath had David.

But then look who won that fight.

He crossed the room and looked out the front window. They weren’t on the ocean side of town, but the elevated position of the boardinghouse allowed an unobstructed view of the Pacific. To the right of that was a long wharf where ships were docked, and Archer could see large cranes either taking off or loading on cargo. Men swarmed around this operation like ants on a hunt. Archer knew that directly up the coast was the Army’s Camp Cooke. Farther down he saw a couple of oil derricks bowing and straightening like ostriches pecking for food as they lifted black gold from the earth. He knew off the coast and farther to the south were the Channel Islands.

Archer unknotted his tie, pulled his flask, and took a sip of his rye. It quenched his thirst just enough to persuade him to take another belt. From his suitcase he hung up the clothes that needed hanging and put away the others in the chest of drawers stacked against one wall. They held the scent of Murphy’s Oil soap, a product he’d often used in prison to clean his own cell. He would have to find a board and an iron to press everything.

He went back downstairs and out to the Delahaye after finding out from Madame Genevieve where he could park the car. He drove it into a two-bay garage behind the boardinghouse. After that he went back up to his room, took off his jacket and shirt and undershirt, but kept his pants and shoes on.

He had