A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(13)

The truck shot back onto the road and disappeared quickly from view.

“Why’s your friend in such a hurry?” asked Archer.

“Lester doesn’t like Calvin. And if Lester doesn’t like you, you know it.”

Archer eyed the fleeing Plymouth and then glanced at Howells. “So how do we get back to town then, Bobby H?”

Howells considered this dilemma and said, “Well, that’s a pickle for sure.”

The door to the bungalow opened at Howells’s knocking. In the doorway stood the largest human being Archer had ever seen. About six feet eight, his body was so thick it needed every inch the doorway provided. Archer figured him for 350 or more pounds, if he weighed an ounce. He looked like a statue whose sculptor had gotten carried away.

“Holy Lord,” whispered Callahan. “Is that one man or two?”

“Dunno,” said Archer. “But either way, don’t make him or them mad.”

Howells threw up a hand and said, “Howdy there, Lester.”

Lester did not seem pleased to see him or any of them, thought Archer. He looked like he would prefer to snap their necks like chickens and then pluck and cook them for dinner.

Lester had curly dark hair and a crooked nose that seemed to go on and on. His lips were thick, and his teeth were relative to the size of his wide mouth. He wore a stained, sleeveless undershirt that showed off thick, broad shoulders, arm muscles that seemed too weighty for the bones they were attached to, and matted black chest hair where the fabric dipped low. His stiff dungarees, while enormous, strained to contain his legs. His feet were surprisingly small for his huge frame. His nails were thick with grease, and the smell of gasoline shrouded the man like wrapping paper around a present, a big one. A cigarette was stuck behind one ear like a pale, severed finger lingering.

He looked them over one by one and said nothing.

Callahan took a subtle sniff and wrinkled her nose, taking a step back to allow the man some space and her lungs some reprieve.

Lester once more ran his gaze up and down Archer and Callahan before turning to Howells. “It’s late for a visit, Pops. What are you here for?”

His voice was low, like rumbling thunder. It didn’t quite match his girth, but it still made Archer notice his words with particular care.

“Came to see the car.” He looked at Archer. “Got a prospective buyer in Archer here.”

Lester turned once more to Archer. His gaze went from the hat to the feet and then came back up like an elevator car and stopped at the floor containing Archer’s eyes.

“He doesn’t look like he can afford it.”

“Well, looks can be deceiving,” said Archer.

Lester did not appear to take too kindly to this mild rebuke. He took a few steps toward Archer before Howells said, “So is it in the garage then?”

Lester snapped a glare at him that in the dim light seemed ferocious somehow. “Where else, Pops? Under the cover, like always.”

“Well, let’s get to it,” said Howells hastily. “Don’t want to waste what’s left of your night, Lester.”

To Archer, the old man seemed uneasy at having to deal with the giant, and that uneasiness transferred to Archer like a virus.

Lester took them to the garage, pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked a massive padlock, and slid open the doors with outward thrusts of his two-by-four arms. Inside they saw automobiles and pickup trucks in various stages of disassembly. Large rolling toolboxes stood next to some of these vehicles. Single bulb work lights were strung from the exposed rafters. The smell of grease was predominant but barely winning out over the odor of burned nicotine. Archer saw a Maxwell House coffee can full of cigarette butts. He next eyed a fifty-gallon drum marked GASOLINE with a hose and nozzle attached, and he wondered how the man had not managed to blow or burn himself up.

“Business looks good,” noted Archer in a friendly tone. He really did not want to have to try his luck with the aluminum knuckles against a man the size of this one. He doubted he could reach Lester’s chin to see if, despite his size, it was made of glass.

“Looks can be deceiving.” Lester was the only one to smile at his little joke, and it was a weak, grim effort.

In a separate room behind another set of locked slider doors was a vehicle draped with a brown canvas tarp. Lester flicked on a light and glanced at Howells, who nodded.

Archer stood next to Callahan, who had reached out and clutched his arm, as though what was about to be revealed was a wild animal instead of something you drove on the road.

Lester grabbed one end of the tarp and with one tug pulled it free of what was underneath.

“Damn,” Archer and Callahan said collectively.

Howells stepped forward and rubbed the silver trim on the side of the blood-red car, which also had a red convertible top that was now set in the down position.

“Folks, feast your eyes on a 1939 Delahaye Model One Sixty-Five, Figoni and Falaschi convertible cabriolet.”

Callahan gushed, “It . . . it looks like it’s floating on air.”

Archer eyed the long hood, which ended in a shiny grille that ran from top to bottom on the front of the vehicle like a knight’s metal vestments. Its front and rear fenders looked like waves crashing on a beach and enormous teardrop-shaped pearls, respectively. There were slashes of chrome trim on the sides and running along the bottom of the chassis. It rode so low that he could see only the bare bottoms of the whitewall tires.