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

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.”

“Toilet?”

“Down the hall. We take turns with the shower. Me and three other girls.”

“Good to know,” said Dash. “Take a seat on the davenport and let’s have a little chat.”

She did so, and Archer leaned against the wall with his notepad and pen. The woman was calm, patient, and unmoved. All things she shouldn’t have been with them. The room had a scent to it other than the cigarettes. He eyed her clothes. The pajamas were polka-dotted and looked like a man’s outfit, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips. He wondered where she had gotten them. Not from Kemper, they were too short for him.

“What is it that you do here, Ruby?” asked Dash.

“I sing and dance and do skits. And I work with Ralph Jeffries. He’s good, showing me the ropes. He was in vaudeville before the war. You know him?”

Dash shook his head. “Where you from?”

“Illinois.”

“Chicago?”

“Never been to Chicago. I usually tell people I’m from Peoria because that was the closest big city to where I’m from. But I’ve never been there neither.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for something besides Peoria.”

Archer noted that she put her hand to her mouth while speaking. When she removed it, he noted the line of yellowed uneven teeth, with scraggly points at either end.

Archer said, “You sticking around here long, Miss Fraser?”

“Just call me Ruby. Long enough to learn my craft, that’s what they call it. Then I’m off to Hollywood. I want to be in pictures. Soon as I get my teeth fixed. I’m saving up.” She now opened her mouth wide to show them.

“Hollywood, huh?” said Archer. “That seems to be going around like the flu.”

“Douglas Kemper?” said Dash.

“What about him?”

“So you know him?”

“He comes here pretty regular. They have a card club here. He’s a member.”

“Card club?” said Archer.

Dash said, “California doesn’t allow casino gambling like they do in Nevada, Archer. They used to have gambling ships just past the three-mile mark, but before the war a state attorney general by the name of Earl Warren, and who is now our esteemed governor, got them outlawed. Now the card clubs are the only game in town, unless you’re into horse racing, which is allowed as well.”

“But isn’t card playing still gambling?”

“There’s no House to play against. The players are pitted against one another.”

“How does the House make money, then?”

“Various fees. Players pay for their seats, they pay by the hand, things like that. The House provides the space, the dealer, the cashier. They make good money. The clubs are real popular. The one here does very well. The more players, the more money you make.”

Fraser said, “Mr. Kemper is