A Gambling Man

Chapter 22

Dash led Archer out the door, past Morrison’s empty desk, and over to another door on the other side of the reception area that Archer had missed seeing before.

Dash opened the door and turned on the light. A long naked tube hissed and popped overhead before gaining purchase and staying on, feebly illuminating the small space so it looked like a partially exposed photograph. Archer looked around and took in the room that held a desk, a chair, another chair, a three-drawer metal file cabinet, and one window about as wide as his head.

Dash swept a hand across the space. “Your new office, Archer.”

“So I have the job then?”

“Not if you continue to be that slow on the uptake. Now, it’s a little dusty, but I can get Connie to spruce it up a bit. Maybe get a fresh flower for that vase over there.”

“No, that’s okay. I can clean it up.”

“You sure?”

Archer surveyed his office. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

“PIs don’t spend a lot of time on their duff in their office, Archer,” Dash said warningly.

“Give me a sec to breathe it all in, Mr. Dash. Then I’ll be raring to go.”

Dash smiled. “Well, first thing, not even my old man was Mr. Dash. I’m Willie, capiche?”

“Got it, Willie. So, do we wait on the list from Kemper?”

“I don’t like depending on clients for answers. If they can do it themselves, I might as well put myself in a coffin and pay the digging fee up front.”

“But if we find the blackmailer, what can we really do?”

“Dirt, Archer. It sticks both ways, like you said. And I’ve never met anyone who didn’t have something they’d prefer other people didn’t know.”

“So is Kemper the favorite in the race?”

“By a wide margin yes. He’s young, handsome, wealthy, smart, smooth as silk. Pure class, as I’m sure you saw for yourself. For a minute there I thought I was talking to Errol Flynn. Alfred Drake looks like a day-old cadaver by comparison.”

“And so Kemper married into a wealthy family. Talk about good fortune raining down.”

“Well, Kemper looks like he was always rich. In fact, his father came from money. Then he blew it all and Kemper went from being a rich kid to a poor adult. But he worked hard. Yeah, he married well, but the guy isn’t afraid of work, I’ll give him that.”

“And Sawyer Armstrong?”

“Armstrong is a son of a bitch. But he’s a cunning son of a bitch.”

“And his daughter?”

“She’s cut from the same wood. But she’s more nuanced than her old man, and Armstrong can be subtle when the need arises.”

“Do you believe Kemper about there being nothing between him and Fraser?”

“Yeah, and I believe that Dewey beat Truman. Assume the worst of your clients, Archer, and you’ll never be disappointed. They don’t come to us because they’re good little boys. They come because they screwed up and they want us to clean the mess.” He pointed to the desk. “In one of them drawers is a little notepad and a pen. Take ’em with you and write stuff down. Memory makes mistakes; what you write down is a lot better.”

Archer got the pad and pen, and he and Dash went back to the reception area. Dash plucked his fedora off the hook and said, “Hey, you got a car?”

“It’s outside.”

“Good, mine’s in the shop.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing that paying the money owed won’t fix.”

“What model is it?”

“A 1942 Lincoln Continental Cabriolet, the prettiest blue with a canvas top and fat whitewalls. Did you know 1942 was the last year Detroit made cars before the war intervened?”

“Nope.”

“After that the big boys turned to the war effort, building trucks, tanks, planes. My ride was one of the last off the assembly line before Detroit turned to being the engine of the ‘arsenal of democracy,’ as Roosevelt termed it.”

“Car’s nearly eight years old then. You looking for a new ride?”

Dash frowned. “You don’t let a filly go when she’s just starting to hit her stride.”

“Miss Morrison seems efficient.”

Dash gave him a nuanced look. “And I’m sure Earl told you we were married and are now divorced.”

“He did mention that. Surprised you two can still work together.”

“We always worked together just fine. It was marriage together that didn’t work.”

“Okay.”

“You got a heater?” Dash said abruptly.

“Not on me, no.”

Archer followed Dash back to his office. Out of a desk drawer Dash drew a Colt .38 in a leather belt holster. “Irv said you were in the Army and know your way around a piece.”

“I’m sure you do, too.”

“I do. But at this point in my life, I’d rather think than shoot. So clip it on and don’t pull it unless you’re going to use it.”

“By the way, what’s my salary and how often do I get paid?”

“Don’t go too fast, Archer. Let’s take it nice and slow. I need to see you in action first.”

They rode the elevator down. Earl gazed up at Dash, the grin stretching to both cheeks and maybe beyond.

“You going to work, Mr. Dash? Going to get yourself some cri-mi-nal?”

“That’s the plan, Earl.”

“Saw Miss Morrison run outta here with a check in hand. She going to the bank, I ’spect?”

“You’d make a good shamus.”

“Can’t lose you, Mr. Dash. You the only one takes the elevator, ’cept this young man here. I be out of a job.”

“Uh-huh. Well, we don’t want that to happen.”

Outside, Archer said, “Is he always like that with you?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, gushing.”

“Hell, Archer, the man hates my guts.”

“How do you know that?”

“No man ever went to prison who comes out liking the man who put him behind bars.”

“So did you get him the job here because you keep your enemies close?”

“I felt for the guy. But he’d stick a knife in my back in a New York minute.”

When Dash saw the Delahaye he stopped and stared suspiciously at Archer. “This your car?”

“Yep.”

He read off the name. “Delahaye?”

“It’s French.”

“The hell you say.” As he started to get in, he stopped. “Steering wheel’s on the wrong side.”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting the hang of it. By the way, where are we going, Willie?”

“Straight to the source, Archer. To talk to Ruby Fraser.”

“You think she’ll cop to blackmailing Kemper?”

“She’s not blackmailing anybody. She’s what you call a pawn. I don’t expect her to be honest, don’t get me wrong. Midnight Moods doesn’t care about honest people. They just want gals with long legs and big tits. Miss Ruby isn’t quarterbacking this one.”

“So, Kemper’s enemies?”

“Or his friends.”

“Friends who are enemies, then?”

“Do you know of any other kind, son? Because I sure as hell don’t.”