A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(33)

“Yeah, it’s on the letter. 1533 Encino Street.”

She gave him directions and added, “It’s a four-story brick office building with a green awning out front. We’re on the top floor. Suite 401.”

“Thanks. Um, I saw one of his billboards in town.”

“I’m sure you did. But they’re pretty old.”

“I’ll see you shortly.”

He rushed back to his room and put on a fresh shirt, wound a tie around his neck, lined his pocket square just so, and angled his hat the same. He was bouncing down the stairs when she called out.

“Good luck, shamus-to-be.”

He looked back up to see Callahan standing at the top of the stairs. She had taken her dress off and was wearing a pale blue robe that hung only to midthigh and was clingy enough to get Archer’s undivided attention. In her right hand she held a lit cigarette, its burning muzzle pointed straight down.

He made a show of checking his watch. “You look like you’re going to bed,” he said.

She played with the belt on the front of the robe. “Then I’d have to take off all my clothes.”

“That surely won’t take you long.”

Her fingers undid the knot on the belt. The panels of the robe parted ever so slightly.

Archer let that sink in and said, “You trying to seduce me?”

“Not trying, no.”

“You told me good luck. How do you know where I’m going?”

She said, “I don’t need to be the world’s greatest gumshoe to figure that one out. You have the look of a guy just itching to get going.”

“Okay. Maybe you should go see Willie Dash about the job instead of me.”

“Dressed as I am, you probably think I’m just a floozy with a bottle of hooch behind my back and pegging you as a sucker I briefly need for a good time.”

“I don’t think you’re anything like a floozy unless you’re pretending to be one, and I don’t need to be the world’s greatest gumshoe to deduce that the only thing behind your back is you.”

“Well, aren’t you a true gentleman to notice.”

“You know, you should charge for all this.”

“Oh, I do, handsome. You just haven’t gotten the bill yet.”

She blew Archer a kiss, turned, and sauntered away.

After her door closed, Archer slapped his face hard to stun himself out of everything he was feeling, and it was a lot. All he wanted to do was run upstairs to her.

But instead he walked off to take care of business.

Maybe you’re finally growing up, Archer. It’s about time.





ARCHER CLIMBED INTO THE DELAHAYE, turned the key, thumbed the starter button, and put the car in gear. Heads turned to stare at the car as he followed the precise directions Morrison had given him, and he made it to Encino Street in short order. The buildings down this way seemed a lot older than others he had passed, and they became dingier still the longer he was on it. The very last building was Dash’s, and it was the dingiest of all. It looked like something erected at the end of the last century merely as an afterthought.

Mortar splotches had permanently stained its brick surface. The green awning that covered its entrance was torn, with a sleeve of it flapping in the stiffening ocean breeze. The sidewalk in front was missing a few chunks, like teeth punched out of a mouth.

He parked the car in front of the entrance and opened the single glass door, finding himself in a tiny lobby that smelled of stale tobacco, spilled gin, and a few odd odors that he couldn’t readily place but made his nose crinkle in displeasure. The space was badly lighted, and he had to blink a few times to transition his pupils from daylight to enforced dusk.

There was an occupant register on the wall. Though he knew the suite number, Archer wanted to check out who his potential neighbors might be. It didn’t take him long. There were only twelve suites in the building, three on each floor, and only four were currently occupied; the other eight had VACANT next to them.

There was a doctor on the first floor by the name of Myron O’Donnell. On the second floor was a chap named Bradley Wannamaker, attorney-at-law. Dash was on the top floor along with a business called Gemology Incorporated. There was no girl at the tiny reception desk in the lobby. A dusty telephone switchboard sat in one corner. There were no cobwebs covering it, but there easily could have been.

Archer saw the sign for the elevator and headed that way. He figured the stairs would be in the same direction. Ever since being in prison he did not like small, enclosed spaces where he could not open the door when he wanted to.

He came to the single elevator, where a black man who looked to be about a hundred, wearing an ill-fitting gray bellhop’s uniform with white piping down the legs and arms, sat on a small, ragged, pillow-topped, wooden dropdown seat just inside the car, reading a nickel copy of the Bay Town Gazette. He was short and too thin, with hands that bent upward, apparently against their owner’s will because he held the paper in an awkward grip. The unlit, short, cheap stogie in his mouth was rolling from one side to the other with delicate flicks of his tongue.

With an effort he put the paper aside, sat on it, and said, “What floor, young man?”

“It’s okay, I’ll take the stairs.”

He scratched his nose and looked interested. “Give me something to do if you let me take you. My first customer all day.”