A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(107)

“They say why they want to kill me?”

“I heard them mention you were snooping around an island?”

Archer told her about the architectural mockups he and Dash had found and their connection to the island. And then his suspicions about the death of Benjamin Smalls.

“A casino, huh? Makes sense. And dying in your bathtub, Archer? Puhleez. That’s mob stuff. They either machine-gun you or do the ankle grab in the tub and under you go.”

“How come you know so much about that stuff?”

“You think the mob passed Reno by for some reason?”

Archer looked at her closely. “Is Max Shyner part of the mob?”

“I got out, Archer. Read into that what you want to. You got a gun?”

“I do.”

“And you got your aluminum knuckles?”

He nodded. “And I’m wearing underwear, too,” he said with a grin.

“Really? I’m not.”

His features sagged and his cigarette drooped. “Not now, Liberty. For chrissakes.”

She smiled demurely. “What’s your next move?”

He rose and put his hat on. “And the room where you overheard them?”

“Go right down this hall, turn left, and then right again. Second door on the left.”

He tipped his hat. “You got great gams and a great voice, but you’ve also got a great brain. Don’t let anybody ever tell you otherwise.”

“You got style, Archer, don’t let anybody ever say you don’t.”





THE DOOR TO THE ROOM WAS STANDING OPEN and it was empty, Archer could see. Hank and Tony apparently had flown the coop. He walked out to the terrace, found a seat, ordered a gimlet and a rack of olives and—because he hadn’t had his dinner yet—a roast beef sandwich with a side of potato salad. He drank and ate, and was lost in thought until he heard the voice.

“You don’t look so good, honey.”

He looked up to see it was the same waitress who had taken care of him and Kemper.

“Nah, I’m fine. Hey, you seen Kemper tonight?”

“I’m not that lucky.”

“You ever seen any other skirt here reel him in?”

“Not a one. And there wasn’t a lack of effort. Least it ain’t just me, right?”

“Right. Hey, you know Hank and Tony, Sawyer Armstrong’s bouncer boys?”

“Sure.”

“They’re here, right?”

“They were. Seen ’em leaving, oh, about an hour ago.”

“You ever try your chances with them?”

She planted a hand on her hip. “Hey, fellow, I’m not that desperate. And I like my guys with a little class. I mean, I don’t even think those goons can read. I got standards.”

Archer slipped her a buck and added a wink to it. “Thanks. And keep aiming higher. Who knows, you might just end up running General Motors one day.”

She tucked the dollar down her blouse. “What a comedian. You should try vaudeville.”

As she walked off, Archer checked his watch. He decided it was time to drive up the mountain again. And maybe bag two for the price of one.

The Bentley was gone, but the Triumph and the Phantom Rolls were out front. The door opened and the same servant appeared. He looked at Archer like he’d never seen him before.

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Kemper in?”

“Who shall I say is asking, sir?”

“It’s Archer. I was here before, with Willie Dash?”

“It is very late, Mr. Archer. I believe you should come back—”

“It’s all right, Chen, I’ll see Mr. Archer.” Beth Kemper had appeared next to her butler. “Follow me, Archer. You look like you could use a drink.”

And so, just like that, Archer followed her. He liked following her. He liked how she moved, like a panther slinking through the brush. It was inspiring, actually, simply how the lady walked. You couldn’t teach it, he knew. You could either do it or you couldn’t. And this lady could do it in spades. Just like Callahan.

She took him into one of the rooms he and Dash had passed on their previous visit. It was all marble and white and cold and, despite all that, interesting. He stared at a large figurine of a naked woman looking at something over Archer’s right shoulder.

He pointed his hat at it. “Does it cost more not to have clothes on?”

She sat beautifully on the couch, her bright red skirt fanning out and covering her legs all the way to her calves. The blouse above it was a creamy white. She looked like some sort of exotic flower in full bloom.

“In life it usually does, Archer, so why not in art? Would you like a drink? I’m going to have one.”

“You look very comfortable sitting there, so let me do the honors. Dry Manhattan do the trick?”

She smiled and waved her hand at the bar. He guessed they had a bar in every room, and wasn’t that just the stuff of everyone’s fantasies?

He poured and measured and jiggered his way through the concoctions. He presented the Dry Manhattan to her and took a seat facing the woman.

They raised the glasses to each other and took sips.

She said, “And what can I do for you so late at night?”

He dabbed a bit of vermouth off his lip. “I think your father might be mad at me, again.”