A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(31)

“Yep, along the coast. It looks to be a few hours. If we could rev the Delahaye up we’d be there in no time, but from the looks of the route, we won’t be going that fast.”

“And it’ll be pretty flat?”

“Pretty flat.”

She said, “Well, hallelujah for small miracles.”

“Are there any other kind?” he said.





COMING DOWN THE STEEP SANTA YNEZ MOUNTAINS they entered the vibrant-looking town that was perched like a gargoyle right on the coast.

WELCOME TO BAY TOWN, said the sign. WHERE A GOOD LIFE BEGINS.

“Place seems to think a lot of itself,” Callahan remarked.

They reached a wide boulevard named Sawyer Avenue and admired the row of fine homes there.

“Nice places. But they don’t look cheap,” she said. “Do you have somewhere lined up to stay?”

“Rooming house on Porter Street.”

“Think they got ‘room’ for one more?”

“We can always ask.”

“Or do you want to play the husband and wife routine again? You could carry me over the threshold. Of course we’d have to do the kissing thing,” she added, giving him a sharp, hopeful glance.

“That might be a little awkward now that I’m making this place my home.”

“You take all the fun out of everything,” Callahan replied, but she smiled to show she wasn’t serious.

Archer stopped and asked a woman walking her dog where Porter Street might be. She told him and then said, “What kinda car is that? Steering wheel’s on the wrong side.”

“French,” said Archer.

The woman looked at him funny. “French? How’d it get to America?”

“We drove it over,” said Callahan. “It turns into a boat when you press that button,” she added, pointing to a knob on the dash.

“Well, isn’t that something,” said the woman.

“You sure are,” said Callahan as Archer pulled off with a grin. He hung a left and headed up a steeply ascending road.

“When do you meet with that private eye who’s going to teach you all the dirty tricks you’ll need to be a full-fledged shamus?” asked Callahan.

“I was going to call him when I got in and arrange to meet him.”

“What was the name again?”

“Willie Dash.”

“That Willie Dash?”

She was pointing at a large faded sign pasted on the side of a brick building.

On it was the image of a short, broad-shouldered man in his late forties with a pugnacious expression dressed in an old-fashioned pinstripe suit, and sporting a fedora worn at a sharp angle on his wide head. He was pointing a sausage finger apparently at the world in general. The words written below him read: GOT A PROBLEM NEEDS SOLVING? PRIVATE EYE WILLIE DASH IS YOUR MAN.

After that was a five-digit phone number but no address. It was the same phone number as on Archer’s letter from the man.

Archer stopped the car and looked up at the sign, gaping. “Yeah, that Willie Dash. I thought he’d be older. But he came highly recommended.”

“Yeah? And who recommended the guy who recommended him?”

Archer drove on without answering her.

They pulled to a stop in front of the rooming house, a broad building with a narrow front porch, wood siding painted gray, red shutters, and a peaked metal roof the color of olive green. It looked old and seemed to be slightly leaning to one side. A sign out front said there were vacancies.

“My lucky day,” remarked Callahan as she noted this. “But we might have to spend half our time holding the sucker up.”

They took out their bags and walked up to the front porch. The screen door opened, revealing a woman standing there. She was seventy if she was a day. Her rimless specks made her small eyes enormous. One pupil hugged the inner wall of its socket. She had on a threadbare sweater over a homemade dress that dipped below her knee. She eyed, with a certain disdain, the turbaned Callahan in her tailor-made outfit.

“Can I help you?” she said sharply.

“Name’s Archer. I have a room reserved.”

“Yes. I already have you on the books.” She eyed Callahan. “And who might this be?”

“This might be Liberty Callahan. I need a room, too.”

“For how long?”

“I’ll have to let you know. My plans are what you call fluid.”

The woman glanced past them to the Delahaye and her already giant eyes became the size of a full moon.

“Is that your car?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Archer.

“It’s a Delahaye.”

Surprised, Archer said, “Yes it is. How’d you know?”

“I’m French. I came over long before the war. I don’t really sound French anymore, do I?”

“No ma’am, you don’t.”

She looked upset by this. “Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it? J’ai perdu la beauté de ma culture. Je suis américaine maintentant.”

“If you say so,” replied Archer.

“And you are?” asked Callahan.

“You may call me Madame Genevieve.”

“You’re married, then?” said Archer.