A Gambling Man David Baldacci (reading eggs books .TXT) 📖

women, watery wine, or golden boulevards. He just desired a steady paycheck, something interesting to do with his time, and the small slice of self-respect that came with both.

The rye whiskey went down slow and burned deliciously along the way. Thus fortified, he took out the letter typed on sandpaper stationery with the name “Willie Dash, Very Private Investigations” imprinted at the top and giving an address and a five-digit phone number in Bay Town, California. Included with the letter was the man’s business card, stiff and serious looking with the same address and telephone information as the letter. A tiny magnifying glass rode right under the business name. Archer liked the effect. He hoped he liked the man behind it. More to the point, he hoped Willie Dash liked him.

The missive was in response to one Archer had written to Dash at the advice of Irving Shaw, a state police detective Archer had met while in a place called Poca City, where Archer had served his parole. Shaw and Dash were old friends, and Shaw believed Archer had the makings of a gumshoe; he’d thought Dash might be a good mentor for him. Archer had mentioned Shaw in the letter because he hoped it would move Dash to at least write back.

Not only had Dash written back but he’d suggested that Archer come to Bay Town and see what might be possible. He had promised Archer no job, just the opportunity to seek one, depending on how Dash viewed things. Archer didn’t need false promises or mealymouthed platitudes. He just needed a fair shot.

He put the letter and business card back in his jacket pocket, gazed out the window again, and noted that it was nearing the dinner hour. He had passed clusters of eateries along the way here, and one had stood out to him because it had also been the establishment naughty Ginger had told him about.

He grabbed his hat, pocketed his hefty room key, which could double as a blunt instrument if need be, and set out to fill his time and his belly.

It was a short walk to the Dancing Birds Café. The place was tucked away down a side street off Reno’s main drag. The broad windows were canopied by red-and-green-striped awnings, the door was solid oak with a brass knocker barnacled to the wood, and a flickering gas lantern hung on the wall to the right of the door. Archer took a moment to light up a Lucky off the open flame. Breathing in the methane reminded him of the war, where if you weren’t sucking foul odors like cordite into your lungs, you’d think you were either dead or someone had upped and taken the war elsewhere.

He opened the door and surveyed the place. Seven in the evening on the dot, and it was packed as tight as a passenger ship’s steerage class, only these people were better dressed and drinking niftier booze. Waiters in black bow ties and short white jackets seemed to hop, skip, and jump in frenetic furtherance of their duties. Archer looked for the “dancing birds” but saw no evidence of winged creatures performing the jitterbug. Either the place was misnamed, or he was in for a real surprise at some point.

At the far end of the room was a raised stage with a curtain, like one would see at a theater. As Archer stood there, hat in hand, the curtains parted and out stepped four long-limbed platinum blondes dressed so skimpily they looked ready to hop into bed for something other than sleep. Each of them held a very large and very fake bird feather in front of them.

A short, tubby man in a penguin suit waddled onstage and over to a microphone the size of two meaty fists resting on a stand. With deliberate dramatics he announced that the four ladies were the eponymous Dancing Birds and would be performing for the entertainment of the patrons now either eating or, in the case of half the tables that Archer could see, drinking their dinners.

About the time the ladies started to sing and hoof it across the wooden stage while twirling their feathers and twitching their hips, a bow-tied gent came up and told Archer there was room for him if he didn’t mind sharing a table.

“Works for me,” Archer said amiably.

He was led to a table that was nestled right next to the stage, where a man in his fifties sat. He was short and well-fed, and his calm, regal expression and sharply focused eyes told Archer that he was a man used to giving orders and seeing them obeyed, which was a decent gig if you could get it and then hold on to it. The tux handed Archer a stiff menu with the food items written in free-flowing calligraphy, took his order for three fingers of whiskey and one of water, and departed. Archer hung his fedora on the seat back and nodded to the other man.

“Thanks for the accommodation, mister,” he said.

He nodded back but didn’t look at Archer; he kept his gaze on the Birds.

When Archer’s drink came the man turned and eyed the whiskey. “Good choice. It’s one of the best they serve.”

“You have knowledge of the bar here?”

“In a way. I own the place. Max Shyner.” He raised a flute of champagne and clinked it against the whiskey glass.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Shyner. My name’s Archer. And thanks a second time for the table spot, then. Wondered why you had such a good seat for the show.”

“You like the Dancing Birds?” he said, returning his gaze to the stage.

Archer gave a long look at the Bird on the end, who responded with a hike of her eyebrows, the lift of a long fishnet-stockinged leg in a dance kick, and a come-hither smile before she tap-tapped to the other end of the stage with the rest of the feathered flock.

“Let me just say how could a breathing man not?”

“You just