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

“In a few years you’ll change your mind. You just need more seasoning.”

As they walked off Archer said, “So is it Sawyer Armstrong?”

“Who else? Now, if his goons come after you again, don’t lose your temper. This meeting might turn out to be very informative for purposes of our investigation.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to handle it if they do come after me?”

“Hell, I know Tony and Hank. You’re younger and in a lot better shape than they are, Archer. Just outrun the sons of bitches.”

Chapter 44

THE DRIVE UP WOULD HAVE GIVEN LIBERTY CALLAHAN a heart attack, thought Archer, as he piloted the Delahaye around the twists and turns and switchbacks and rising elevations, all while following Dash’s directions. They were running on a road parallel to the one the Kemper estate was on, but Sawyer Armstrong had built his home on even higher ground.

When the land finally plateaued and they went around a curve, Archer glimpsed a house. “Is that it?”

“That’s Armstrong’s place, all right.”

“After seeing the home he built for his daughter, I thought his residence would look like the Taj Mahal.”

“Nope. It’s a farm. He grows olives here. Don’t know if he makes much money off it, not that he needs to, but apparently the man has a passion for it.”

The home was about half the size of his daughter’s, which made it very large indeed, and was constructed of red cedar siding and stone. The yard in front was a sculpted landscape of flower beds, large native trees and bushes, and a pea gravel path up to the front porch, which had a hundred-foot-long tin metal overhang and comfortable chairs, upholstered and wicker, spread along its length. Striped awnings hung over most of the windows on the western side of the house, and Archer could see how they might come in handy when the sun started to set. It would be quite hot and powerful at this elevation and angle.

As impressive as the casual house was in size, Archer could see about a dozen large outbuildings behind it, all constructed of red cedar with either shake shingles or tin metal roofs. Farm machinery was neatly parked across this stretch of land. There were horses in corrals and cows in other pens. He watched as men carried various tools, or else drove pieces of equipment designed to help grow or harvest things in the dirt. Stretching out behind all of this was a sea of what Archer surmised were the olive trees. The land seemed to go on and on right up to the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains. He could see lots of people with straw baskets and ladders swarming over the olive orchards.

“Are they harvesting the olives?” he asked.

“Yep,” replied Dash. “It’s tough work. You pick them by hand. Armstrong probably has about a hundred pickers here now, those folks you see out there. Mostly migrants from Mexico. He doesn’t pay them much, but it’s a lot more than they can make back home. They live in some of those bunkhouses you see around here. Feeds them, too, before he sends them on their way back across the border.”

“Olives grow well around here, I take it.”

“Yes. But it can be tricky. They need a lot of deep, infrequent watering.”

“But you can’t use salt water?”

“No. Armstrong told me one time the saline burns out the tree roots, and compounds coming from it can be toxic to the leaves.”

Archer gazed out at the sea of green, healthy olive trees. “Where does he get his fresh water, then?”

“California has a complicated relationship with water, Archer. Orange growers need a ton of it, the cities need millions of gallons of drinking water every day, and farmers need it for their crops and livestock. There are pipelines and trenches and aquifers and a series of dams and reservoirs collecting water coming off the winter snow packs in the Sierras and the Cascades, and the Rockies, too. And folks fight over it. Some divert it, others outright steal it from their neighbor or duke it out in court. With regard to Armstrong, he’s never divulged his source to me.”

They drove up to the house and got out.

“What do you think he wants to see us about?” said Archer.

“I would imagine his son-in-law and his daughter.”

“And Ruby Fraser?”

“Maybe. We’ll find out soon enough.”

A woman answered the door. She was of Mexican heritage, matronly and reserved, and casually attired in denim jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a colorful flannel shirt with a matching bandana. She told them she was Mr. Armstrong’s housekeeper. And to follow her. And they did. The floors were polished wood and the walls were plaster. It was far cooler inside than out. Archer figured the walls were thick to make that the case. The interior decorations here were far less formal than at the Kempers’ place.

They were led all the way through the house and out onto the back porch, which was just as sweeping as the front. At a round table set off to one side sat Sawyer Armstrong. He had on reflective sunglasses, though the sun was not in his eyes, and the man had just clipped off the end of a fat cigar before lighting and then puffing on it. He wore faded jeans, a white shirt, and a dark green corduroy vest. A straw hat with an olive green band sat on the table. His thick, unruly hair fell nearly to his shoulders. Scuffed boots rode on his long feet. His legs were stretched out. Three glasses and a pitcher of what looked to be sangria were set on the table.

And to Archer’s surprise, Beth Kemper was also seated at the table, next to her father.

He waved them over.

They sat and took off their hats, and the housekeeper went on her way.

Armstrong poured three glasses and handed them out. “Nothing like a little Spanish honey in the afternoon,” he said, taking off his sunglasses and slipping them