A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(111)

He tilted her chin up so she would look at him. He was dressed more formally tonight, a three-piece wool suit with a colorful cravat. His hat was a dark brown fedora with a crimson band. A pair of specs poked out from his breast pocket.

“We will make this right, Beth,” he said.

Archer thought, Well, there’s a lot of wriggle room in that statement.

He looked around and spotted Archer. Armstrong slowly let the woman go and faced him. “I was under the impression that you had been warned to stay away from Beth.”

“It’s all right, Dad,” said Beth. “I said—”

He put up a hand, and she stopped and stepped back. “Archer? I’m waiting for an answer.”

“I didn’t hear a question. But maybe that’s just me. By the way, where are Laurel and Hardy? Out beating up some old ladies for their church money?”

Those lines didn’t even warrant the tiniest of smiles from Armstrong.

The man turned to Beth. “I’ll talk to Carl. I’m sure this can be rectified.”

“They have evidence, or so they say,” commented Archer, one eye on Armstrong and his other on the doorway waiting for Hank and Tony to appear. “Pretty compelling stuff. Cufflinks, bloody shirt with guess-who’s blood on it, eyewitness testimony, stomach contents from Sheen. I’m no lawyer, but even a bad DA could make hay out of that.”

Armstrong said, “You and Willie never gave me an answer on my offer. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I work for him. It’s his call.”

“Then tell him what I said. And just do it.”

“By any means necessary?” asked Archer, with a glance at Beth, who looked at the floor and nothing else.

“I won’t tell Willie or you how to do your job. I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”

“Yeah. Well, I guess I’ll be going then.” He looked at Beth. “You going to be okay?”

“She’ll be fine, Archer, now that I’m here,” Armstrong answered for her.

The night sky was bursting with stars, the air chilly enough to make him feel alive, and yet with all that, part of Archer felt dead inside as he steered the Delahaye back down the mountain. The scent of eucalyptus was so strong he felt his eyes start to water. He glanced at his timepiece. He debated whether to go back to Midnight Moods, but then decided against it. He opted to return to the office, call Dash, wake him up if necessary, and get his advice.

He pulled to the curb in front of the office building and got out. The front door to the building was unlocked and Archer proceeded down the hall toward the stairs. He reached the elevator and stopped. The elevator’s outer door was partially open because there was something blocking it. And that something was an arm, with a gnarled hand at the end of it.

Archer quickly pushed the door all the way open, revealing Earl lying there, his face pointed to the side.

“Earl, you okay? Earl?”

The man’s eyes were closed, and it was dark enough that Archer couldn’t see whether he was breathing or not. He might have had a heart attack or maybe a stroke.

He knelt down and felt around the man’s neck. He didn’t need to check for a pulse, because when he pulled his fingers back the clotted blood came with them. Archer pivoted on the balls of his feet for a better look at the little man. He tipped the chin back a bit and saw the slash across the neck.

This was Ruby Fraser all over again. The man was cold. He’d been dead awhile, but his limbs weren’t stiff. Archer looked around the elevator car and saw what looked to be a pile of blankets in one corner along with a newspaper and the bottle of booze he had seen before. Archer sniffed the air. From out of the pile of blankets he pulled a raw onion, half eaten, and a knuckle of bread with some roast beef inserted in it. Along with a pair of underwear and a torn sock.

The guy was living here?

He backed out of the car and hurried toward the stairs. And stopped again.

A door off the hall was open. The doorjamb was shredded and the locking side of the door had a long crack in it.

Archer eyed the name stenciled on the door.

MYRON O’DONNELL, M.D.

Archer recalled the name because O’Donnell was the surgeon who’d recently removed Beth Kemper’s appendix.

He eased the broken door open.

“Hello? Dr. O’Donnell, you okay? It’s Archer from upstairs. I work for Willie Dash.”

There was no response. The place had the feel of a tomb. Archer nipped out his gun and pointed it around. He worked his way through the front reception room, which had six wooden-back chairs all in a row, and a coffee table with magazines spread out on it. He spied an old Look magazine from 1948. And a Life magazine from August with a toothy Joe DiMaggio on the cover.

“Hello?” said Archer.

He reached another door and pushed it open. This must be where O’Donnell kept his drug dispensary. The glass cabinet was smashed open, and bottles and spilled pills littered the floor.

Archer left this room and headed on. The next room was O’Donnell’s office. Archer could tell because the man’s diplomas were on the wall. There was a desk with two chairs on the patient’s side, and one office chair on the other.

And in the office chair was a dead man.





ARCHER RUSHED UP TO THE FOURTH FLOOR to make sure that Dash had not been a victim as well. When he unlocked the door and burst into Dash’s office’s a few moments later, he heard a voice call out, “One more step and you get a third eye, buster.”