A Gambling Man

Chapter 41

“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.”

“What’s your interest in this?”

“My interest is my client’s.”

“Sawyer Armstrong really is your client?”

“You know I can’t divulge that.”

“You already did, asshole.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

Pickett eyed Archer. “Who the hell are you?”

“Archer.”

“Is that your name or occupation, dipshit?”

“Both, depending on the need.”

Pickett leaned back against the counter and assumed a friendlier expression. “Yeah, go on ahead, Willie. I remember when you used to know what you were doing. Before the bottle kicked in. Worst thing you ever did was marry Connie. She cut your balls right off.”

Dash put the phone receiver back in its cradle. “We’re divorced.”

“Yeah, right. You see her every day, I’m told.”

“Well, thanks for keeping such a watchful eye on me, Chief. It’s much appreciated.”

“Uh-huh. Run along, you damn gumshoe, before I change my mind.”

“I suppose you got uniforms up there?”

“And a suit, too. Just tell ’em I said it was okay. You can still spook people, Willie, and good for you. And if it gets real queer, just throw that rug you’re wearing at ’em. They might think it’s a skunk and run for it.”

“And the body is still there? It’s been quite a few hours.”

“Mortimer was out of town. Didn’t get here till a bit ago. So hold your noses, gents. The lady don’t smell too good.”

Dash eyed Dawson, who let out a sob at this insensitive remark. He gestured for her to follow them.

The three headed down the hallway. Dawson looked distraught and was blowing her nose into a hanky. She wore a long, dark blue silk robe that fit her like a bulky potato sack with no potatoes in it.

“I still can’t believe it,” said Dawson. “I mean, she was so young.” She shot Dash a sudden look. “But you were here talking to her yesterday. Something’s up. And she was killed for it, right?” she added in an accusatory tone.

“Well, you came out of your grieving at full stride,” noted Archer.

She glared at him. “I don’t take crap from anybody, especially men.”

“Now, just calm down, Mabel,” said Dash soothingly. “And tell us what you know as we head on up there.”

“I can’t see that body. I can’t see it again. The cops made me identify her. Oh my God, I’ve never—”

“You won’t have to. So tell me about last night, okay?”

“Like I told Archer here, Ruby didn’t show up to do her act. I had his friend Liberty Callahan sing in her stead. We had looked everywhere for the girl. I mean everywhere, and then—”

“Yeah, so just slow down right there,” said Dash. “Because this is important. When did you last see Ruby yesterday?”

“Cops asked me that. It was around eight o’clock. She came to get dinner. We have a separate room for the staff to eat their meals.”

“Did you talk to her then?”

“No. I was just finishing up my meal with somebody.”

“Pretty late for dinner,” noted Archer.

“This place gets rocking later. We’re usually not even a quarter full until nine. It is called Midnight Moods, after all.”

“What time do you close?” asked Archer.

“We don’t officially, but most people are gone by three a.m.”

“Jeez, don’t people sleep around here?” said Archer.

Dash interjected, “Did she seem upset? Was she alone?”

“No and yes.”

They headed up the stairs.

“When did you know something was wrong?”

“When the cops showed up after midnight. They came tearing in here saying they got a phone call about a dead woman, Ruby Fraser.”

Dash didn’t look at Archer when she said this, and Archer kept his eyes on a spot on the ceiling.

“Then what?”

“They asked me where the body was. Hell, I didn’t know anything about a body. So I took them up to her room. That’s when they found her, and then made me take a look.” She shuddered. “I know there are evil people in this world and maybe I’ve run into more than my share of them. But what they did to that poor girl... that takes the cake.”

“Funny way to say it, but I get your meaning,” said Dash. “Then what?”

“Then all hell broke loose. People running around, cops everywhere. And then, like the chief said, the coroner showed up a bit ago to tell us what we already knew about poor Ruby.”

“I understand Sawyer Armstrong was here last night with two of his boys.”

Dawson shot a glance at Archer and his injuries. “He might’ve been, yeah.”

“He was,” said Archer.

“Okay, he was.”

“Why was he here other than to paint Archer’s face purple and yellow?” Dash asked.

“He owns the place. He can come and go when he damn well likes.”

“You ever see him with Ruby?”

“No, never,” she said quickly.

“So you saw Ruby at eight. Have any idea where she went after that?” asked Dash.

“No. She was supposed to be on at ten. She normally comes backstage about a half hour or so early to warm up. But she didn’t show, and the stage manager came and told me. I went up to her room thinking she might have overslept or something, but she wasn’t there.”

“So at twenty or quarter to ten, she was not in her room?”

“That’s right,” replied Dawson.

“Then you and the cops found her a little after midnight. So in four hours or so she went from breathing to dead. And in two hours or so she went from wherever she was killed to her room?”

“That’s right,” Dawson said again.

“You talk to anyone who might have seen her?”

She shook her head. “After I saw her... like that, I went to my room and killed half a bottle of bourbon. It felt like I was drinking water.”

“I thought you said you didn’t touch the stuff,” said Archer.

“I was talking about rum, Archer. Bourbon and gin are just fine, thank you very much.”

“And what sorts of questions did Pickett ask?” said Dash.

“Same as you.”

“Funny, he has junior detectives to do that for him. Why is he here, then?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“Thought you knew everything that went on here.”

She shot Archer and his injuries a glance. “Not everything.”

They reached the room where a young uniformed cop stood guard.

Dash took out his license. “Chief Pickett sent us up here to have a look.”

The cop looked startled but stepped back. “Okay.”

Dash turned to Dawson. “Take a load off, Mabel, you look like you could use it.”

She sat in a chair just inside the door while Archer headed into the kitchen to see a dead woman all over again.