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

bad we don’t have more Roosevelts waiting in the wings.”

The maid returned and without a word escorted them back to the rear terrace and left them there.

Alfred Drake was tall and skinny with a sunken chest. He had few hairs left on his head and had perhaps compensated for that by growing one of the biggest mustaches that Archer had ever seen outside of a carnival. He was dressed in a white terrycloth robe, and his pale, thin, bare legs protruded from underneath. Though the evening was cool, his droopy mustache and wet footprints on the pool surround showed the man had already taken a dip. He had sandals on his feet that revealed neatly trimmed toenails. He was holding a martini complete with a trio of olives on a toothpick and sitting at a table with an open white umbrella poking through a center hole. He was staring out toward the ocean and gave no indication he even knew they were there.

“Mr. Drake?” prompted Dash.

Without looking at them, Drake pointed to two empty seats at the table.

As they drew near Archer could see that the bottom of the pool had inlaid aquamarine tile in the shape of a large stallion in full gallop. The rear grounds were as immaculate as the front. In the distance Archer could see a muscular, bare-chested young man shoveling a hole with a large bush standing next to it, presumably waiting to be planted.

Whether Drake was really staring at the ocean or the young man, Archer couldn’t tell for sure. He thought the odds were fifty-fifty.

After they sat and put their hats on the table, Drake said, “Well?” He still had not turned to look at them and didn’t seem inclined to offer them a drink.

Archer took out his notepad and readied his pen.

“This is Archer, my new associate,” said Dash.

“Am I supposed to applaud or do you want to get to the point?”

“Hope there’s no hard feelings after that case I worked involving you.”

“You were professional and honest, Willie” was Drake’s surprising reply, at least to Archer, who was still sizing up the man’s hostile attitude.

Drake continued, “It was your client who was neither of those things. I appreciated how you got him to back off when you realized the truth.”

“Well, thanks for being understanding. Now, we wanted to talk to you about the upcoming election.”

Drake turned his chair around to face them. “Why is it any of your concern?”

Before Dash could answer, a Persian cat ambled out from somewhere and jumped onto Drake’s lap. He absently stroked the animal while he waited for an answer.

“Two people have been recently murdered.”

“What does that have to do with me?” said Drake bluntly.

“Did you know them?”

“Why don’t you tell me who they are and maybe I can answer the question.”

“You don’t know?” said Dash skeptically.

“Enlighten me.”

“Ruby Fraser. She was a singer at Midnight Moods.”

“I’ve never been there. It’s not really my thing, if you get my meaning.”

“So you don’t know her?”

“I thought I just said that.”

“The other victim was Wilson Sheen.”

Drake flinched just a bit, causing the Persian to hiss. “I knew him. We weren’t friends or anything, but I knew him through the usual social circles. And also from the election. He’s running, or he was running, Kemper’s campaign.”

“Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill him?” asked Dash.

“I just told you I didn’t really know the man. I guess he had enemies, what man doesn’t?”

“So how’s the campaign going?” asked Dash.

“You’ve seen the ads in the paper, and heard the radio spots, I’m sure. And the billboards where Kemper looks off broodingly into the distance, or the future, or maybe he’s gazing at some woman’s ass, who knows? Anyway, they’re everywhere. And he owns a hotel and a country club, and a winery and has a beautiful home and a beautiful wife. And look at me and look at Kemper. Physical appearance shouldn’t matter, but it sure as hell does. Just ask any woman. He’s got that vote wrapped up.”

“Women might just vote on the issues, not someone’s jawline,” noted Archer.

“I used to think that,” said Drake in a tight voice. “But not anymore.”

“So why are you running for mayor?” asked Archer.

Drake ran his gaze over Archer, and Archer didn’t like the expression on the man’s face. He involuntarily glanced over at the bare-chested man as he hefted the bush into the freshly dug hole.

“Oh, so you want to hear my stump speech?”

“Sure, why not?” answered Dash.

Drake took a long—almost luxurious—sip of his martini before setting the glass down and munching on one of the olives he plucked from the drink.

“Bay Town is a place of the haves and have-nots. I’m one of the haves. Sure, I worked hard, but my parents gave me an excellent education and I inherited wealth from them. So when I moved here from the East Coast, I had a lot of advantages. However, with that said, opportunities should be equal and we don’t have that here. Take Sawyer Armstrong as an example.” Drake glanced at Dash, perhaps to see how this provocative statement was playing with him.

“Okay, how so?” asked Dash.

“His initial wealth came from old family money. Now, no one can say that the man is not ambitious and all that. But he had quite the boost because the Armstrongs have owned this town for nearly a century. They own the lion’s share of the wealth and leave the crumbs for just about everyone else. I stand for better working conditions for the poor. More money for education and health care. We have kids dropping out of school and working adult jobs, and no one gives a damn. We treat the Mexicans coming across the border to pick our vegetables and fruit as less than human. That’s wrong. That needs to change.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at his pool. “But in the long run, people like the Armstrongs should thank me for the positions I take.”

“Why is that?” asked Archer.

“Because the