A Gambling Man by David Baldacci (ebook audio reader .txt) 📕

“A drought is what happened, Archer, like nobody’d ever seen before. And cows drink a lot of water. Now, Bay Town and Santa Barbara and other places in the region fell to the Americans when John C. Frémont came calling with a bunch of armed soldiers. A peace treaty was signed, and this was no longer Mexican dirt. It was a dangerous place back in the Gold Rush days. Every sort of criminal type headed this way before the gold petered out. Then the Armstrong Wharf was built in the early 1900s, and that made Bay Town both a commercial and tourist town. Then the railroad came along and connected us to San Fran to the north and the City of Angels to the south. Now all things are in place for the town to really take off.”

“Armstrong Wharf, huh?”

“Atticus Armstrong built it and Sawyer made a lot of improvements to it, bringing in new cranes and warehouse space. Everybody in town knows who they owe for that.”

“How’d they make their money after the cattle business died?”

“Let’s just say the Armstrong family knew how to relieve men of their dollars, whether it be by gambling, women, whiskey, or the long barrel of a gun. Then they discovered oil and gas out there in the bay. You can see the derricks pumping and you got the drilling operations down near the pier.”

“Do the Armstrongs own that, too?”

“They have their fingers in every pie, Archer.”

Archer looked out toward the water and thought back to the night before with Sawyer Armstrong in that boat. “So the point of the history lesson?”

“If you know the history of a place, you’re not doomed to repeat the mistakes of others who came before you, Archer.”

“And what mistakes are those?”

“Thinking you can hobnob with the likes of Beth Kemper and get away unscathed. You can’t. And you won’t. And I didn’t get you that damn PI license just to see you end up in the ocean where the water’s over your head.” He looked at Archer’s injuries. “It won’t be bruises next time, it’ll be something more permanent.”

Archer kept his gaze on that very same water. “What’s this I hear about some island out there the military built and now owns?”

“Who told you about that?”

“I forget. But what’s the deal?”

“It’s a chunk of rock with no more purpose in life.”

“Okay. Mrs. Kemper told me about her mother’s plane crash.”

Dash’s manner grew subdued. “Yeah, Eleanor Armstrong was a fine woman. Tragic accident.”

“Her body was never recovered?”

“The wreckage was, but no, she wasn’t. There are sharks out there, Archer. And other sea critters that just look at a body as a meal.”

“And what caused the crash?”

“Some folks said they heard the engine cut off and the plane went into a dive. She never had a chance.”

“I guess Sawyer Armstrong was real cut up about that.”

“I’m not sure that man has the emotions of a regular person, Archer. But for now, we have a case to work.”

“Well, if the list Sheen gave us is crap, what do we do?”

“We focus on Ruby Fraser. Which means we need to go have a chat with the police.”

“Your buddy, Carl Pickett?”

“I never said we were buddies, Archer, did I?”

Chapter 40

THE BAY TOWN POLICE STATION WAS LOCATED in a large one-story, cream-colored stucco building with thick, curved orange terra-cotta roof tiles to keep out the rain and enough wrought iron railing to keep the blast furnaces in Pittsburgh in business.

Archer noted the four prowlers slant-parked out front and the string of uniformed cops in their dark blue uniforms, chest straps, big, holstered revolvers, black boots, and crisp short-brimmed caps who lurked near the entrance. Two motorcycle officers were astride their Harley-Davidsons and passing the time with two young, pretty women in dark skirts, tight blouses, and high heels.

Dash led him inside to the front desk, where a burly man about six-four with shoulders as wide as a doorway and sergeant stripes down his sleeve sat in front of the large duty book in which he was carefully marking entries in pen.

“Steve Prichard,” said Dash. “Long time, no see.”

Prichard looked up, and his expression told Archer that the cop would have preferred the no see part going on indefinitely.

“What do you want, Dash?”

Dash smiled. “Is Carl in?”

“No.”

Dash’s smile broadened. “No really, or just not for me?”

“There’s been a murder, or maybe you hadn’t heard,” growled Prichard, taking a look at Archer and coming away unimpressed. “Fresh meat, Willie? This one looks underfed.”

“He’s okay. And that murder is why we’re here,” said Dash.

Prichard perked up at this. “Is that so? What’s your interest?”

“I’d rather talk to Carl about that. Professional courtesy, you understand.”

“He’s up at Midnight Moods looking into it. That’s where the dame was killed.”

“All right. Guess we’ll take a ride over there.” He hooked a thumb at Archer. “And this is my new associate, Archer.”

“Who cares?” Prichard said, turning back to the pages of the duty book.

Archer looked over the man’s shoulder and saw two photos on the wall. One was of President Harry Truman. And for the other he had to read the name on a brass plate at the bottom.

Governor Earl Warren.

As they walked out of the police station, Archer commented, “Boy, Willie, you got them wrapped around your little finger in that place.”

“Let’s go get that car of yours and take a run over to Midnight Moods.”

“Is Pickett any friendlier to you than Prichard was?”

“Oh, me and Steve Prichard are good buddies. Play cards once a week over hooch and cigars, and spin tales about women we took to bed, none of which are true.”

“Then I wouldn’t want to see how he acts around somebody he doesn’t like.”

“I’m joshing you, Archer. He’s my friend like Hitler was Roosevelt’s. Same with Pickett.”

“Okay.”

“And unlike Armstrong’s cronies, Big Steve hits where it doesn’t show. He got more confessions that way than any cop on the force. And if you were colored or Mexican, you usually didn’t live long enough to