A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(130)

“Champagne, of course. Lots to celebrate. You want a glass?”

“Thanks, but I’m saving myself for something a little more amber in color.” He crossed the reception area and went into his office. He sat down at his desk and noted the single sunflower that presumably Morrison had put in the vase. It was already drooping from lack of sun. Archer moved it to the windowsill, and it seemed to perk right up.

There was a knock on his door.

“Yeah?”

It opened and there stood Dash.

“Forgot something, Archer.” He took out his wallet, peeled off eight C-notes and ten Jacksons, and handed them to Archer. “Your weekly wages. Just don’t expect that kind of dough every time, capiche?”

“Thanks, Willie,” said Archer.

“Now how about using some of it to buy me lunch?”

“I know a place down by the water.”

“I know you know a place down by the water, only my gams aren’t nearly as fetching as Beth Kemper’s, so don’t get your hopes up, son. Hey, I wonder if they serve Cream of Wheat?”

The two men walked out into the clearest sky Archer had seen since he’d been in Bay Town.





EARLY THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON Archer drove to Midnight Moods. Mabel Dawson was back from Long Beach, and she nodded to him as he walked in.

“Long time no see, Archer.”

“Yeah, I can’t seem to stay away from this place.”

“This place is under new management,” she added. “Beth Kemper came by this morning. Told me no reason to change a ship’s course midvoyage, though she did say the girls can’t have ‘visitors’ at lunchtime.”

“They were probably bad for the digestion, anyway.”

“You’re here to see Liberty, I suppose?”

“I am.”

“Well, considering it’s only just after one, you’ll probably find her in bed.”

He headed up to Callahan’s room and knocked on the door. “Yeah, who is it?”

“It’s Archer. You decent?”

“Same answer as last time, Archer.”

The door opened and there she stood in a sheer black silk number, her hair tousled and her face puffy from sleep. And she looked more beautiful than ever, Archer thought. If Beth Kemper was all cool class, Liberty Callahan was the white-hot flame of the working-class gal used to the rough and tumble of the world. And it wasn’t a close competition which one intrigued Archer more.

“Miss me?” he asked.

“Yeah, you’re all I’ve been thinking about, buster.”

She stepped back so he could pass through.

He looked around and saw the few personal touches she had made to the place.

“How’re your eyes?” he asked, noticing they were still a bit swollen but the black and yellow was fading back to pale white.

“Nothing makeup can’t take care of. Nobody notices when I’m doing my act. And my arm’s all better where they twisted it.”

“Still packing the house?”

“What can I say? I’m a star.”

“Beth Kemper owns this place now.”

“Yeah, I heard. Good to see a woman taking charge.”

“So you still happy here?”

“Well, I signed a contract for a year, as you know. After that, I’ll probably be taking a bus to Hollywood. That’s where I need to be. I’m not getting a star turn in Bay Town, at least the one I want.”

She sat in a chair and crossed her legs and that got Archer’s attention, and he sat, too, and tried not to think about her leaving in a year, or about how little she was wearing.

She looked at his gloomy expression. “Why, you going to miss me?” she said.

“Yeah, I will, actually.”

“Don’t make me get all weepy,” replied Callahan in a mocking tone, but her expression showed that his words had touched her.

He twirled his hat between his fingers. “Look, I came here to apologize for getting you involved in all this.”

“No need. Almost getting killed makes a girl feel more alive than a dozen roses, a plate of oysters on the half shell, or soaking in a tub full of Chanel Number Five.”

She lit a cigarette and Archer mimicked her.

They blew smoke and stared across at each other, maybe both looking for some sign of something in the other.

“Decent of you to see it that way.”

She crossed her legs again and she said, “That’s me, Archer, decent to my core, as you can see for yourself.”

“So what are we really doing here?” said Archer.

“Beats me. I’m just making it up as I go along. And, in case you forgot, you knocked on my door.”

“Yeah, I did,” he said and then fell into an awkward silence. This was clearly not going how he intended.

“You want a drink?” she asked in a helpful tone.

“Sure, why not? Seems like everybody’s drinking these days.”

She rose and went to a small cabinet. She got down on her knees, opened one of the doors, and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. He could see that the bottoms of her feet were pale and smooth, and that, of all things, made something go haywire in part of his brain.

“You know, technically to be called ‘bourbon,’ it has to be made in Kentucky,” said Archer quickly, loosening his tie to allow more air to come in.