A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(12)

“What are you going out to California for?” Howells asked her.

“To get into pictures, what else?”

“Well, once you see the Delahaye, you may change your mind about not wanting to drive out there with Archer in it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll arrive in style. You’ll be in all the newspapers.”

“But I’m not going to Hollywood,” said Archer.

“Oh, hell, son, California is California. Do you want to see it or not?”

“What do you say?” Archer asked Callahan.

She mulled over this. “It can’t hurt to look.”

“But how about one more round of drinks first?” suggested Howells.

“Only if you’re buying,” said Archer. “I busted a knuckle for you. That’s enough without you attacking my wallet, too.”

“Well, I will, on the condition that you buy the car.”

Archer sat back on his stool. “How do we get out to this place?”

“Got a buddy who can give us a lift in the back of his truck.” Howells checked his watch. “He gets off work in about ten minutes.”

“The back of his truck?” exclaimed Callahan.

“Well, you can sit in the front. Me and Archer can ride in the back.”

Callahan threw down money for the booze. “But let’s just keep it to the one round then, in case Archer doesn’t buy the damn car.”





THE FRIEND’S PICKUP TRUCK WAS A RAMBLING, ancient mess of a Plymouth held together by wire, tape, and probably prayer by the gent driving it. That “gent” was a burly fellow dressed in blue overalls, dusty brogans, and a dirty, tan snap-brim hat with a fat cigar stuck in the red band. Howells didn’t provide a name for the man, and the man didn’t volunteer one.

Howells’s friend ogled Callahan as he held open the rusted passenger door for her. She tucked herself primly inside the cab and wouldn’t look at him. The lady didn’t need a magnifying glass to discern the man’s primal desire. Archer noted that Callahan kept a firm hand on her clutch purse, in which the .38 lay like a coiled rattler.

Archer hefted Howells into the back, where he sat next to a passel of tools. Archer rode higher up on the truck bed’s side panel. He buttoned up his jacket and turned up his collar because the air had gone cool. As they headed west, the sky was clear and the stars were stitched to the dark fabric in random patterns of elegance.

They were moving at too brisk a pace for Archer to light up a cigarette, so he just watched the dirt pass by. The land was flat, the vegetation uninteresting, and the occasional animal unremarkable.

“Not much out this way,” Archer commented after a few miles.

“Men came here for gold a long time ago. Now it’s just a stop on the way to somewhere else, unless you’re enamored of desert land.”

“I like the water.”

“You grew up on the ocean?”

“No. But I took a long boat ride home and it was the sweetest ride I’ve ever had.”

“Smooth, was it?”

“No, we actually went through a hurricane. Thought we were going to sink for about three straight days, guys puking and praying all over the place. I’d settled on the fact that I was gonna drown right then and there in the old Atlantic.”

“So why the hell do you like the water then?”

“I survived the war and that boat was taking me home. It affects a man.”

“I can see that,” said Howells thoughtfully. “I fought in the First World War.”

“I’m hoping there won’t be a third.”

“So California, eh?”

Archer shrugged. “Good a place as any, I reckon.”

“I wish I’d done more moving about when I was young.”

“You from here, then?”

“Not exactly. But I call it home now, for better or worse.”

“If you pay those boys off, who’s to say you won’t get back into debt? And you won’t have another car to sell.”

“You make a fair point, Archer, but right now I don’t see another option.”

Archer shrugged. “It’s your funeral, and any man who can’t see that deserves what he gets.”

“That’s a hard line, friend,” Howells replied, frowning.

“No, that’s life. And you’ve seen more of it than me, so you should know better.”

The truck rolled on until they reached an unwieldy conglomeration of buildings. A gas station, an automobile repair garage, and a small bungalow that looked like someone had let the air out. Out front was parked a big sparkling-blue Buick and a smaller dented Ford two-door, Mutt and Jeff in mechanical splendor.

“What is this setup?” asked Archer as he helped Howells down.

“My buddy’s place, like I told you. He has the garage and a filling station. And he lives in that little house there.”

“Your buddy have a name?” asked Callahan, who had gotten out of the cab before the man had stopped the truck fully, probably so he couldn’t hurry around and try to see up her skirt like he had when she’d gotten in.

Howells pointed to the sign above the garage. It read: LESTER’S AUTO REPAIR. “Lester’s had this place a long time.”