A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(59)

Dawson put out a hand for Callahan to shake, which she did. “With the dough we’ll be paying you, this is a full-time gig. Starting Saturday you come in at four sharp every day—” she glanced at Archer—“except Mondays and Tuesdays. You’ll start with rehearsal, then eat your meal and do your acts, which will also include some freelancing and playing to the crowd, pictures and handshakes and the like. You’ll do four to five official sets a night. But you work until we say stop, which is usually two-ish. Understood?”

“Sure.”

Dawson gazed admiringly at her. “I have to admit, I thought you were going to fall flat on your face with your audition.” She looked at Archer. “She sang ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ for me. I think Patty Andrews would’ve been jealous.”

“It’s a crowd pleaser, Archer, and that’s the business I’m in,” said Callahan.

Her face was flushed with her triumph, and Archer had to admit it was a good look on the woman.

“Well, well, what’s all the fuss here? Good tidings, I hope.”

The tall man had appeared in the doorway.

Archer saw that Dawson’s smile faded and her confident look eroded. She took a step back and stared at the floor.

“Hello, Mr. Armstrong, I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

Sawyer Armstrong stood an impressive six feet five. He was lanky and loose-jointed, with long white hair and a beard of the same color that dipped slightly off his lean face. His nose ran a long, crooked line down to nearly his top lip. He wore a brown slouch leather hat, dark denim pants, a white vest with a blue collared shirt under that, and a brown corduroy jacket with green elbow patches. His skin was weathered and tanned, and the man’s features seemed carved with the most precise of instruments wielded by talented hands. The eyes were flints of blue surrounded by a sea of shimmering white. He sort of looked like Walt Whitman, thought Archer, that is, if Whitman had been a throat slitter instead of a poet.

Armstrong put out a hand to Archer. “I’m Sawyer Armstrong. I believe you’ve talked to my son-in-law, Mr. Archer.”

Archer shook hands while casting a look behind Armstrong, where two bulky figures lurked in pinstripes with bulges at their chests where large weapons presumably perched.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Armstrong, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m sure you have, Archer. You saw my daughter as well, I heard.”

“Your hearing is real good, then,” said Callahan, drawing Armstrong’s attention to her.

“And you are?”

“Liberty Callahan. I’m Archer’s best friend. We came to town together. Miss Dawson just hired me to work here.”

“Did she now?” said Armstrong.

Dawson glanced up, her face full of trepidation as Archer watched this exchange warily. He had never seen a person change so much as the woman had, and there must be good reason for it.

In a timid voice she said, “I did, Mr. Armstrong. She’s quite good. I think she’ll really bring in the crowds.”

Armstrong studied Callahan for a moment before turning to Archer. “And how is Willie Dash doing?”

“He’s fine.”

Armstrong put out a thin, long-fingered hand and gripped Archer by the arm. “Let’s have a chat, Archer. I have a private room here.”

“You want some company, Archer?” said Callahan quickly and looking uneasily at him.

Armstrong answered. “I’m sorry, Liberty. Maybe another time.” Archer said, “I’ll meet you back at the bar. We’ll toast your new career.”

Callahan gave him a half smile that sank off her face as quickly as a cement block dropped over the gunwale of a boat. “Sure, okay.” She glanced behind Armstrong as the two men stepped forward. Both were as tall as Armstrong but far bulkier, and their faces held nothing approaching human. “I’ll come looking for you if you’re not there soon,” she added.

Armstrong said, “Let’s go, Archer.”

The two sides of beef immediately stepped forward and marshaled Archer out.

Armstrong eyed the two women. “Mabel, we’ll talk later.”

“Yes sir.”

He glanced at Callahan, who stared resolutely back at him. Then, without a word, he followed the others out.





THE ROOM WAS SMALL, DARK, AND LOCATED in the bowels of the place where, Archer presumed, only the rats typically lurked. He was feeling like a trapped one right now.

The single bulb illumination overhead gave him no comfort.

One of the men, on a sign from Armstrong, searched him, found the .38, pulled it out, and placed it on a table out of Archer’s reach, before the other man pushed Archer into a chair.

Armstrong sat down in the only other chair in the room, which faced Archer. He glanced at the gun. “Going around armed already? Do you feel that necessary? Are we that dangerous in Bay Town?”

Archer glanced at the men. “And what do they have under their jackets? Lollipops?”

Armstrong lifted out paper and tobacco from a pouch taken from his jacket pocket, dexterously rolled a small cigarette, and lighted it with a match struck against the table.

“The best tobacco in Mississippi,” he said in a soothing tone as he sucked in a throat full and then let it ease out into the small space. “Have it shipped in monthly. You should try it.”