A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(65)

“I know.”

“Thinking of voting for him, or for the dentist he’s running against, Alfred Drake?”

“I haven’t thought much about it, quite frankly. I liked our last mayor.”

Archer perked up. “And who was that?”

“Benjamin Smalls. He was honest. He did right by the people.”

“Why isn’t he running again, then?”

“He died while in office, just a month ago. The upcoming election is a special election. The winner will finish out Smalls’s term, which is three more years.”

Archer squinted at her. “How’d he die?”

“They say he drowned in his bathtub.”

“They say? You don’t know for sure?”

“I don’t know for sure, because the police don’t know for sure.

No one apparently knows for sure. They only thing they know for sure is that Benjamin Smalls is dead.”

“People do drown in their bathtubs.”

“Yes, I suppose they do.”

“I guess maybe he was old, or drunk.”

She rose, went over to a bureau, opened the drawer, and took out a framed photo. “This is Benjamin Smalls. He was thirty-five and a teetotaler.”

Archer looked at the photo that was signed to her and studied Smalls. He was tall, with slicked-back dark hair parted on the side. He had a dimple under his chin that must have been annoying to shave. He also had nice, comely features and wore a white linen suit with a Panama hat held in one hand. This was actually the second time he had seen a picture of the man.

“That photo was taken last year, when he won reelection.”

“Maybe he died of a seizure, then, or a heart attack.”

“The police could find no evidence of that.”

Archer pulled out a Lucky and lit up, catching the ash in his hand. “You seem to think there was more to it.”

“You’re a private eye, maybe you should turn your ‘eye’ to that.”

“I think I have enough on my plate.”

She shrugged. “Why do you want to know about Armstrong and the Kempers?”

“Something to do with my investigation.”

“Then I would be careful if I were you. Very careful.”

“I’m starting to figure that out.” He didn’t think she could see the bruises on his face and neck in the dim light, but maybe she had better vision than he was giving her credit for. “I might go for a stroll. Is it safe out there at night?”

“Is anywhere safe at night, Mr. Archer?”

He tipped his hat and left her there with her toddy and her moody introspection.

Outside, he headed toward Sawyer Avenue, lighting another cigarette on the way and feeling for the gun in the belt holster. Its presence lifted his spirits considerably. And if he ran into Tony or Hank again, he planned to shoot first and ask not a single question later.

There was no one out and about that he could see. All shops were closed at this hour, even the ones that, when open, catered solely to the baser pleasures of its patrons. A sliver of moon crept out from behind the clouds and cast a delicate glow over Bay Town.

A prowler slowly pulled up to him; he tipped his hat to the officer who stared suspiciously at him from the passenger seat. Archer tried to remain calm, but his aching body was stiffening all over with anxiety, and for an obvious reason.

Could this be about Ruby Fraser? Could they be here to arrest me?

“Everything okay, bub?” asked the cop, giving Archer a once-over.

“Yes sir, officer. Just got into town and couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d walk around and get the lay of the land.”

The cop at the wheel leaned forward so as to be in Archer’s line of vision.

“That wouldn’t include casing any joints, would it?” But he smiled to show he was kidding.

“Only the best liquor joints. But that can wait until the sun comes up,” he said, grinning back, but his heart beat even harder.

They drove off and he picked up his pace.

He wondered how many cops were up at Midnight Moods right now. Maybe every one of them besides those two yokels.

Crossing Sawyer Avenue, he turned away from the fancy areas of furs and teas and Bentleys and headed to the working-class wharf. He wanted to hear the breakers better and smell the salt air with more vigor. He had no idea why, he just did. Maybe it would help him not to think of dead Ruby.

He reached the wharf after a brisk walk of fifteen minutes, during which he saw not another soul, or another car, prowler or not. Bay Town was clearly bedded down for the night.

He walked along the pier and finally settled on a bench built into the wooden wall there and which looked directly out to sea. The territory of Hawaii was out there, he knew, thousands of miles away. And beyond that, and more thousands of ocean miles, was Japan, which was still no doubt licking its war wounds after having two atom bombs dropped on it four years ago. Archer was just glad he hadn’t had to fight his way to mainland Japan. He’d had enough of war to last him forever. Any man who had seen and done what he had would feel the same way. And if they didn’t there was something wrong with them that nothing could fix except copious amounts of booze. He figured if Prohibition were still in place after the war, America would be no more. They would have rolled up the carpet and headed for Europe, where a man could get a decent shot of booze and a kind word from a woman at any time of the day or night.