A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(21)
“On these sorts of roads, I’m not sure. We cross the Diablos, head for the coast and then go south for a way, cross the Santa Lucias, and then go straight for the Pacific. It’d be good if we could make it in one trip, but I’m getting pretty tired and it’s another three hours just to Coalinga.”
“Then why don’t you pull over and rest your eyes, at least? I don’t want us running off a cliff because you’re beat.”
He found a rest area on the side of the road that had a small picnic table and an old, rusted charcoal grill. They sat at the table with their coats wrapped around them, since the sinking sun had brought drastically cooler temps, and the winds, funneled down the valley, had picked up. Callahan had brought a paper sack of sandwiches, and they ate one each and split a fat pickle. As they smoked their cigarettes and Callahan took a pull on Archer’s flask, he said, “We’ll need to gas up again. We can do that in Coalinga. And maybe we can get a cup of coffee.”
“Or a slug of gin.”
“Right. Then we’re good until we get to Bay Town.”
“And you can be a private eye,” said Callahan. “Or die trying.”
Archer glanced over at her. “And you can go to Hollywood and be a movie star. And ditto.”
She looked over at the Delahaye admiringly. “Nice ride so far.”
“Except for the mountains, you mean.”
“I’m getting used to them, actually. I can learn to accept pretty much anything.”
“That’s real good, lady, ’cause you’re gonna have to.”
They looked up to see three men standing there.
ARCHER STARED OVER AT THE TRIO of intruders. One guy was small, but he stood in front of the other two. He was clearly the leader. Archer sized up the pair as the necessary muscle on a mission of this kind. They were built like pickup trucks, and their expressions betrayed as much intellect as an exhaust pipe.
The little fellow was dapperly dressed in a blue serge suit with two-tone shoes, black and gray, toe to heel, and a white felt hat with a black band and ribbon. The hair Archer could see around the temples was slick, just like the facial features. The eyes were dulled ball bearings. His waistcoat was dark gray and matched the shoe color. His tie was dark red and knotted in the double-Windsor style. He had a straight line of mustache above a thin, chapped top lip. It looked waxed. He looked waxed.
The pair of strongarms was outfitted in 46 long pinstripes that still looked squeezed by their bulk. Tweedle-dee held a .45 loosely at the side of his hammy thigh. His partner in crime cradled a far more menacing Remington side-by-side sawed-off shotgun in his hands like a newborn. They both had matching fedoras, light blue with black bands, and no ribbons thereon.
The boss took a step forward and the big boys did likewise; the menace in their features was palpable.
Archer rose from the picnic table while Callahan remained in her seat staring at the men.
“Hello, fellas, are you lost?” said Archer by way of greeting. He pointed to his right. “The Pacific’s that way, at least I think.”
The little man snickered and then apparently thought better of it and his features turned nasty. “We know exactly where we are. If anybody’s lost, it’s you two.” He aimed a finger at Archer and then Callahan for emphasis that wasn’t needed; the shotgun and .45 did that just fine.
“We know where we are and where we’re going,” said Archer.
Tweedle-dee’s twin brought the sawed-off up and leveled it at Archer’s belly.
Archer wasn’t prepared to fight a Remington with his bare hands; he couldn’t outrun buckshot, and assuming the fetal position seemed like a lousy idea, too.
“The fact is, mac, you ain’t going anywhere,” said the little man.
Archer glanced at Callahan to see her gaze still holding on the three men. She seemed concerned but not desperate. Archer didn’t quite know how to read that.
“Is there something you want?” asked Archer, his gaze now swiveling between the little man and the Remington. The night air was suddenly thick with the choking smells of the eucalyptus trees, and the chaparral seemed to close upon them like a band of hungry wolves. If Archer dared close his eyes he could be back in the European theater, on the outskirts of another village, the names of which he could never pronounce. He would be creeping along, he and two buddies, M-1s in hand, cig packs in their pockets, dog tags dangling from quivering necks, equal parts hope and dread in their hearts, just wanting to finish the mission of the moment and get back to safety, if there was any to be had in the middle of a world war.
The dapper fellow pointed to the Delahaye.
Archer followed the finger. “You want the car?”
“What a smart guy you are.” There was no joviality behind the remark, only stark insult.
Archer eyed the muscle. There was nothing behind their eyes. They were here to dispose of a problem. Two problems.
“You been following us, right?”
“Ever since you left Reno. Wasn’t that hard. Roads like this, you can only go one way, probably why you never eyed us.”
“Reno? Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“You happen to know somebody named Robert Howells?”
The man grinned. “He was the one who told us you were heading to California. This was after we roughed him up a little. Made it easy to follow you. It was one of my guys who put the ding in that car last night. And you ruined my Buick, pal. You owe me for that. I’m here to collect.”