A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(35)
“What about his gal, Connie Morrison?”
The old man cackled. “Connie? They used to be hitched.”
Archer shook out a Lucky. The old man struck a match and lit it for him before depositing the spent match in the chromium cup.
“So, they were married? But not anymore?”
“That’s right. Think Willie was married way back to some gal when he was a G-man, but guess that didn’t work out. Pretty sure he’s done walking down the aisle now. Not sure ’bout Connie. She’s forty-two, which is long in the tooth for getting hitched. But maybe some man’ll snatch her up.”
“What’s your name, by the way?”
“Earl. You?”
“Archer. So if I go to work for him, what’s your advice?”
“Go in with both eyes and ears open and pray that’s enough.”
“Think he can teach me stuff?”
“He’s forgot more about gumshoeing than you’ll ever know, young man, no offense.”
With a jolt and a hiss, they reached the fourth floor, and Earl slid open the cage door. When the outer door disappeared into the wall, Archer quickly stepped through and gratefully sucked in even the stale air at his sudden freedom.
Earl poked his head out. “Down the hall and to the left, Archer. Good luck to you.”
“At this point in my life you’d think I wouldn’t need so much damn luck,” muttered Archer as he headed on to meet ex–G-man and former copper Willie Dash.
THE DOOR WAS PEBBLED GLASS with painted letters on its surface that spelled out: WILLIE DASH: VERY PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.
The image of a lawman’s five-point star was etched below this as though to lend gravitas to the entry point, a certain officialness. Or maybe it had been thrown in for the price of the name above, mused Archer.
The doorknob was brass and looked worn down, probably by the thousands of nervous, sweaty hands that had touched it looking for some help of a “very private” nature.
The door was locked. He noted the buzzer next to the door and pressed it.
“Yes,” said the voice, from the little intercom screen.
“It’s Archer.”
Archer heard a lock click free. He turned the knob and swung the door open.
Six feet directly across from him was, presumably, Connie Morrison. He could have laid flat on the floor, his hat against one wall, and the bottom of his shoes would have touched her desk. Morrison was a honey blonde with shoulder-length hair parted in the middle with the sides winging their way down. The lady was sitting behind a carved oak desk that looked like it had come over on the Mayflower and gotten wet along the way.
Archer took in the small reception area. Four walls, one window, five dented metal file cabinets with alphabet letters on their fronts, and a square of faded carpet that was so worn it looked like the plank floor had reclaimed it. There was a fuzzy light overhead, and a table lamp with a patterned shade on the desk.
A Royal typewriter about the size of a Sherman tank sat on the desk in front of her with a black blotter underneath that. A jar of finely sharpened pencils was near her elbow, along with a stapler and a roll of tape in its holder. A Boston sharpener bolted to the wall just behind her, and standing ready to take care of all those yellow number twos, completed this dream of an office setup.
On the walls were diplomas and certificates from places Archer had never heard of, and framed photos of people he didn’t know, except for President Harry S. “The buck stops here” Truman dressed in a cream suit and a dotted bow tie, who smiled all alone from one wall.
A rubber tree that looked fake and still somehow dead leaned out of a blue-and-white ceramic planter with an elephant on it that sat next to the desk.
When Morrison rose and came around to the front of the desk, Archer could see that she wore a blue tailor-made suit dress and that she was medium height, and thin. She had fine lines all over her chiseled face, like the depth markings on a shipping channel map.
Morrison slipped on a pair of rimless cheaters that she was holding in her hand. They accentuated the woman’s eyes, which Archer decided were closer to periwinkle blue than any other blue he knew of. They were slightly washed out, as were the woman’s features. Her heels were black and matched the color of her hosiery and added about two inches of height to her frame. A slender platinum watch graced her left wrist.
A dark hat with a blue ribbon was on a wall hook. A tan raincoat hung next to it, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Next to that hung a dented crown fedora with a blood-red ribbon. He assumed that belonged to Willie Dash.
He tipped his hat in greeting as she reached him.
“Mr. Archer, nice to meet you.”
Her long fingers managed a grip that was firm and reassuring, her expression less so. The periwinkles took him in as thoroughly as his gaze had done her. She seemed to come away impressed, although that could have simply been Archer’s wishful thinking.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Morrison. I’m really hoping I can go to work for Mr. Dash.”
The periwinkles dulled a bit, and the firm jaw clenched even tighter, and the lines around her eyes and mouth deepened into ditches. “Um, yes. Give me a minute. We’ve had a, uh, development since you called.”
She turned and left him there, opening and then quickly closing the door to the interior office, where, Archer was certain, Willie Dash bided his professional time.