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

it out wide like a door opening. “And you strike me as the sort that if I can’t cut it here, you’ll gladly throw me out on my very cute derriere.”

Dawson lit a cigarette and blew a lungful of smoke at Archer. She eyed Callahan through the mist. “Sure, I’ll see what you got. But if you get the gig, there’s no drinking or drugging on company time. You’re here, you serve the house. You get paid a salary. Tips are your business. Whatever else you can earn on your own time, that’s your business, too.”

“I’ve heard the song before.”

Dawson eyed the bag. “Your working clothes in there? We got some of our own.”

“But these show me off the way I like.”

Dawson again blew a lungful of smoke at Archer. “You can really find them, Archer. And where’s your gumshoe twin?”

“Thinking.”

“Right.” She looked at Callahan. “Okay, let’s go back to the dressing room, and I can put you through your paces. Sound good?”

“You sure you can spare the time now? You look busy.”

“I can teach a monkey to greet people at the door. And I’m not just saying that. I have. Shirley!” she called out.

A little minx with bushy red hair flew out of some hidey-hole like a mouse stirred by a cat’s charge and stood cringing in front of her boss.

“Yes, Miss Dawson?”

“Take Archer here, get him a drink on the house, and find him a seat at the next show. I’ll wait here until you get back, and then you got greeter duty for the next half hour.” She glanced at Callahan and said in a syrupy tone, “That enough time for you, honey, or are you a slow starter?”

“That’ll do,” said Callahan.

“Where you coming in from?”

“Reno.”

“Casinos?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, don’t ‘sort of’ perform for me or you will get tossed out on that very cute ass. And I’ll be the one doing the tossing.”

“Just so long as we know where we stand,” retorted Callahan.

Dawson said, “Don’t worry, Archer, I’ll have her back to you in half an hour, one way or another.”

Before Shirley led him away Archer said anxiously to Callahan, “Hey, you okay with this?”

She smiled. “Not only am I okay with it, Archer, I’m really looking forward to it.”

Chapter 31

SHIRLEY GOT ARCHER A GIN AND TONIC and settled him in the back row of a large theater where the dancing girls were in high gear, parading to music played on a baby grand set off to one side of the stage. The pianist was a man in a black tux with a pompadour hairdo, a waxed and curly-tipped mustache, and hands whizzing over the keys like skates over ice. He watched the girls high-kicking it across the stage in unison and seemed to be changing the music to fit the dancing instead of the other way around. All the girls were tall and long limbed, which to Archer made them look a lot like Callahan. He wondered if maybe the competition here was stiffer than in Reno. And he also wondered how her audition was going.

The theme was a patriotic one, as the skimpy outfits were embedded with red, white, and blue sparkles and the top hats were of the Uncle Sam vintage. The legs were encased in fishnets, the shoes were silver and sparkled like diamonds, and every man in the front row was getting an enhanced view with each kick of the long legs and the accompanying lift of the dancers’ skirts. All included in the price of admission.

Twenty-eight minutes went by. Archer checked his timepiece and began to grow a bit anxious, as there was no sign of Callahan. Had she gotten thrown out?

And then around ten or so the curtains parted, and Archer stiffened and sat up straight as Callahan walked out onto the stage at the same time the sea of chorus girls scampered off. She was dressed in the outfit Archer had first seen her in at the Dancing Birds Café minus the six-foot feather. Every eye in the house was on her, including Archer’s.

She walked over to the pianist, said something to him, quickly skimmed through his music, and tapped her finger against a piece.

Then she backed up to the piano, gripped the sides with both hands, and nimbly launched herself on top of it, sitting on her bottom. She crossed her legs and gave a nod to the pianist, and he started tickling the ivories with enthusiasm, perhaps as intrigued as the rest of them with this recent development.

When Callahan began to sing Archer felt chills run up and down his arms. The song was one he knew well.

“That Old Black Magic.”

Archer had heard Glenn Miller and his band play that song when he was in London in 1944, after Archer had killed enough Germans to make any human sick of war. At the end of that year, Miller would die in a plane crash in the English Channel, but that night the man could do no wrong. The song had sent chills up him that night, too, but not like Callahan’s rendition was doing to him.

In midsong she slunk off the piano and marched across the stage in full command of both it and the audience. As she reached the end of the song, she tipped her head back, showcasing that long, elegantly curved neck, and held the final note for a remarkable period. She then let it die elegantly in her throat, like a thunderstorm dwindling to a gentle rain shower. There was silence for what seemed the longest moment and then the cheers rained down. The crowd lurched as one to its feet and thunderous applause filled the room. Hats and flowers and cash were tossed on the stage along with probably a few business cards and maybe a stray engagement ring or two. Callahan picked up one long-stemmed rose, cuddled it to her bosom, and blew kisses at the audience as she walked offstage looking like she owned the place. And right then, Archer