A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(76)

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. She didn’t show up for it, so my friend did the singing instead.”

“What time was she supposed to be on again?”

“Ten. The thing is, Mabel Dawson said they went to look for Ruby but she wasn’t in her room. This was probably around nine thirty or so.”

“Okay. So she was somewhere else getting murdered.”

“Seems like it.”

“Who’s your friend again?”

“Liberty Callahan. She drove with me from Reno. She’s a singer and a dancer. Wants to be an actress in Hollywood.”

“Her and every other dame. Think she’s got a shot?”

“If anyone does, yeah.”

When they reached Midnight Moods, two prowlers and a Chrysler as big as a tank were parked together next to the front entrance.

“That green Chrysler Town and Country belongs to Pickett,” said Dash as they passed by it. “Small dick, big car. I’ve found that to be far more accurate than the weather forecast.”

“Does he usually go out to all the murders?”

“Damn, Archer, how many homicides do you think we have around here?”

“I don’t know. I was in a little town in the middle of nowhere and we had three in a matter of a few days.”

“You weren’t responsible for any of them, were you?”

“Only one, but it was self-defense.”

Dash stopped and eyed him. “Well, well, am I going to have to reconsider my opinion of you, Archer?”

“Depends on whether that opinion will get better or worse if you do.”

“You keep surprising me, Archer, you surely do.”

“Is that good?”

“I’ll let you know.”

They ducked inside to see a lawman.





LORDY, LORDY, LOOK WHAT JUST ROLLED IN off the trash pile. I thought you was dead and buried, Willie boy.”

The speaker was big, a slab of sloppy meat with thick legs and a square head stuck on either end. A cap of sweaty iron-gray hair hung limply on a scalp mottled with sunspots that spilled down to his forehead like tiny, irregular copper pennies. His brown suit had walked out of the 1930s in decent shape, but the decade tacked on to that journey had rendered it as limp and irrelevant as a politician’s promise.

“Well, hello, Carl,” said Dash, removing his hat. “Funny seeing you here.”

Carl Pickett tugged a toothpick out of the gap between his front teeth and scrunched his nose back like a dog does before he takes a bite out of your leg.

“That’s Chief Pickett to you.”

“Okay, Chief Pickett, how goes it?”

Pickett glanced over at two men dressed more slickly than he was, but their youthful countenances together didn’t relay a significant thought between them. They stood there, their hats tipped back on low foreheads and their elbows on the front desk, behind which Mabel Dawson stood. The woman looked like if a gun were handy they would all be heading to see the coroner for a final checkup.

Pickett said, “Boys, this is the mighty Willie Dash. You might ’a seen his billboards all over town. His hair wasn’t that dark ten years ago. He must ’a stumbled on the fountain ’a youth, right, Willie?”

Pickett stuck the toothpick back in the slot and waited.

Willie looked at Dawson. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mabel. What a tragedy.”

She sniffled and looked down at some papers lying in front of her. “Thank you.”

Dash turned to Pickett. “So we came to get up to speed on the Fraser murder, poke around, ask our questions. I’m sure you have no problem with that.”

Pickett rolled the toothpick out of the gap to the right side of his mouth and then to the left and all the time he was staring at Dash like the man could not have said what he just had.

“What you can do is turn around and march your fat ass right outta here, Dash. And take your little boy with you. This ain’t amateur hour.”

“Do I take that as a no to my request?”

“You can take it anyways you want, so long as you shove it sideways up where the sun don’t shine.”

The twin gumshoes thought this was mightily funny and yodeled over it long enough to where Pickett finally had to shoot them a glance to silence the forced merriment.

Dash took his time edging up to Pickett, like a snake drawing mesmerizingly close to its prey. “A very important man in town has engaged me and my associate to look into this matter, Chief Pickett. But not to worry if you got a problem with that. Hey, Mabel, let me borrow your phone, hon, I got a call to make.”

The toothpick froze right under Pickett’s left incisor as he took a moment to process this new development.

“Bullshit,” he said.

“Right, Mabel, just pass it to me, thanks.”

She handed the phone across and Dash picked up the receiver and dialed a string of numbers from memory with Pickett watching. Finally, on the fifth number dialed, the police chief stuck his finger in a digit hole to prevent the dial from rotating back to where it had started, effectively stopping the call.

Dash looked up at him and smiled. “So you know Sawyer Armstrong’s number by heart, too. How fascinating.”

“What do you want?”

“I have already relayed my request.”