by James Swain
Wild Card
James Swain
Copyright © 2010 by James Swain
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Edition: September 2010
For Nancy J. Barbara and Israel Hirsch, whose memories fill this book
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
Author Note
I can never guess
What tomorrow brings
I don’t hear the song
That the mermaid sings —
I don’t care. For I find
It’s enough for me
Just once in a while
To believe I see
Past the dealer’s guard…
That
Next
Card.
Nick the Greek
November, 1979
November, 1979
Chapter 1
“Wake up.”
Detective Tony Valentine of the Atlantic City Police Department blinked awake. Doyle Flanagan, his partner and best friend, was pointing at the binoculars lying in his lap. Embarrassed, Valentine handed them over.
“You spot him?” Valentine asked, smothering a yawn.
“I’m not sure.” Doyle lifted the binoculars to his eyes.
It was six A.M., and they were sitting in a pushcart chained to the Boardwalk’s metal railing. During the summer, pushcart men dragged tourists up and down the Boardwalk, two bucks a ride. It was a custom that dated back to the turn of the century, when Atlantic City had been the country’s most famous resort town.
Fifty yards from where they sat was a neon-lit monstrosity called Resorts Atlantic City. Resorts was New Jersey’s first foray into legalized gambling, and already generating more money than all the other businesses on the island combined.
“Got him,” Doyle said. “He’s coming out the front doors.”
Valentine followed the direction of Doyle’s finger, and spied the bouncing dread-locks of a notorious pimp named Prince D. Smith. Recently, the Prince had spread his wings, and his girls were now working Resorts hotel. The Prince was also a wanted felon, and they had planned to arrest him inside the hotel lobby, only to have their superior squash the idea.
“The governor doesn’t want any bad publicity inside Resorts,” Captain Banko had told them. “Arrest the Prince when he’s outside. That’s an order.”
So they’d taken to hiding in a pushcart. Climbing out, they shook the life into their legs, and jogged to the casino. They were dressed identically: faded blue jeans, baggy sweatshirts, and New York Yankees baseball caps. That was where the similarities ended. Doyle was five-nine, thin and wiry, his face dusted with freckles, with a mane of red hair that made him look as Irish as Pattie’s pig. Valentine was four inches taller, broad-shouldered and weighed two hundred pounds, with jet-black hair and coloring that betrayed his Sicilian heritage.
The crowd leaving the casino was moving to its own rhythm. Resorts was a spruced-up pile of bricks in a crumbling city — “A shit house with carpet,” proclaimed a dirty-mouthed comic the opening night — yet no one seemed to care. People came here to gamble, and every night since Resorts had opened, thousands had packed its floors.
Doyle attempted to push his way through the crowd. Stymied, he flashed his badge. “Police,” he announced loudly.
Pimps had better hearing that most dogs. The Prince’s head snapped. Seeing them, he started to run. Valentine drew a snub-nosed.38 from his pocket holster.
“Out of the way!” he exclaimed.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and the two detectives ran past the fountain in front of the casino. The Prince had gotten a good jump on them, and was already a block away. He had a long, relaxed gait, and did not seem concerned that he was being pursued.
“I’m right behind you,” Doyle said.
Valentine hadn’t lost a foot race in years. He picked up the pace, and saw the Prince jump into a pink Cadillac with a Rolls Royce grill. The Caddy pulled away from the curb just as Valentine caught up.
“I’m going to get you!” he declared.
The driver’s window came down, and the Prince flipped him the bird. It made his blood boil and he continued to run, not seeing the monster pothole in the middle of the street.
Valentine didn’t know which hurt more; not catching the Prince, or falling down and tearing out the knees of his jeans. They were his favorite pair, and he sat in an unmarked car with his partner, cursing his luck.
“Maybe the department will reimburse you,” Doyle said.
“Maybe the moon will fall out of the sky,” Valentine replied.
“Look on the bright side. Our shift just ended.”
“Let’s get something to eat. My treat.”
They drove to the Howard Johnson’s on the north end of the island. There were plenty of good places to eat in Atlantic City —the White House Sub Shop, Angelo’s Tavern, Tony’s Baltimore Grille — but Hojo’s coffee was always fresh. Pulling into the lot, they both stared at an Out of Business sign made to look like a funeral notice hanging in the window. Through the window Valentine saw that the restaurant’s trademark ice cream churn was gone. No more twenty-eight flavors, he thought.
“Guess they couldn’t compete with Resorts’ $1.99 buffet,” Doyle said.
“Guess not.”
Resorts had the cheapest food in town, and was driving the local restaurants out of business. The politicians had said that legalized gambling would be a boom to Atlantic City. So far, the only boom had been inside the casino.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” Valentine suggested.
Doyle drove south, and found a twenty-four hour Jack-in-the-Box in an area called Snake Alley. The food was garbage, but that was what you got at six-thirty in the morning. They drank coffee and shared a bag of greasy fren
ch fries. Valentine’s knees were aching from where he’d fallen. On top of that, he was in a lousy mood and didn’t want to take his bad attitude home to his wife and son. He said, “Heard any good jokes?”
Doyle put his coffee down. He had been cheering Valentine up since they were kids. “This traveling salesman knocks on the door of a house. The door opens, and a ten-year-old kid steps out holding a cigar and a can of beer. The salesman says, ‘Are your parents home?’ And the kid says, ‘What the hell do you think?’”
Valentine sipped his coffee and grinned. The radio on the dashboard crackled, and Marlene, the dispatcher on the graveyard shift said, “Pick up if you can hear my voice.”
“You up for it?”
“You’re the one who fell down.”
“I didn’t fall down, I tripped. There’s a difference.”
Doyle smiled. “Yeah, I’m up for it.”
Valentine answered the call. “Hey Marlene, what’s up?”
“Detectives Crowe and Brown are arresting an armed suspect at the Rainbow Arms apartment complex,” she said. “They’ve requested back-up. Can you help them?”
The Rainbow Arms was less than five minutes away. It had been a long, frustrating night; maybe assisting in a collar would make them both feel better. Doyle mouthed the word yes.
“Tell them we’ll be right there,” he said, grabbing the last french fry.
Atlantic City was the last stop on a railroad to nowhere. It was there because there happened to be the shortest distance between Philadelphia and the sea. Once, there had been swanky hotels and nightclubs and a standard of living that was hard to beat. Then Las Vegas and Miami Beach had stolen the tourists away, and the island — all thirteen miles of it — had gone straight to hell, with crime so rampant that it had led the nation when Valentine joined the force in ‘64. The Rainbow Arms apartments were one of the island’s war zones. Doyle parked near the front entrance, and they got out.
Crowe and Brown stood beside one of the block’s few trees. The detectives were wearing bulky bulletproof vests and had twenty-gauge Remington shotguns cradled in their arms. They were not the friendliest pair, and wore grim looks.
“Hey,” Valentine said.
“What are you doing here?” Crowe snapped.
“We’re responding to your call.”
“You been in a fight? You look busted up.”
“And you look like you’re hunting elephants,” Valentine replied.
Doyle laughed under his breath. Another pair of detectives materialized behind Crowe and Brown. Their names were Freed and Mink, and they also wore bulletproof vests and carried shotguns. Crowe wagged a finger in Valentine’s face. “Listen, funny man. We’re going into that apartment house, and we’re coming out with a black motherfucker who shot at us earlier. If you’re not ready for action, get out of the way.”
Mink, who was black, looked away, his jaw tightening. Valentine stared at Crowe. “When did this happen?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” Crowe said. “You with us, or not?”
“We’re with you. Just give us a minute to suit up.”
“Make it fast,” Crowe said.
Valentine and Doyle got their gear from the trunk of their car, and suited up. Under his breath, Doyle said, “How did Freed and Mink get here so fast?”
Valentine was wondering that himself. Freed and Mink worked the same shift they did, and were also off-duty. “Beats me,” he said under his breath.
They formed two lines of three, with Crowe and Brown leading the charge. The Rainbow Arm’s front path was littered with broken beer bottles and debris. As they reached the stoop, the front door swung in, and the detectives froze. A little black boy emerged clutching a Fat Albert lunch box to his chest.
“Hey kid, get lost,” Crowe said.
The little boy’s eyes turned fearful.
Mink tried. “Son, go home,” he said gently.
The boy was dressed for school, but it was too early for school. Valentine felt a hot wire ignite his blood. It was a trap.
“Get away from the door,” he said loudly.
The other detectives did not move. They were seeing the frightened little boy, and not the threat. A spot appeared in the crotch of the boy’s pants.
“Move,” Valentine barked at them.
A black man with dread locks appeared in the doorway behind the little boy. He was holding a UZI submachine gun and had a crazed look in his eyes. Using the boy as a shield, he aimed at the detectives’ legs and started firing. It was the Prince.
Chapter 2
Valentine’s shotgun flew into the air, and melted into a hedge. His hand screamed with pain, and he brought it up to his face. A bullet had gone through his palm as clean as a paper punch. Falling to his knees, he saw black pools appear before his eyes.
“Help me,” Doyle gasped.
Valentine twisted his head. Doyle lay a few feet away, his thigh shredded by a bullet. The other detectives were scattered around him. No one was moving. The Prince shoved the little boy into the building, then stepped outside, and began executing them.
He capped Crowe between the eyes, stepped over his body, and did the same to Brown, his movements calm and efficient, like he had ice cubes in his veins. Then, it was Mink’s turn. Mink had taken a bullet in the leg, and lay sprawled on his side. The Prince put the Uzi’s smoking barrel against his cheek. “I don’t like to kill brothers,” the pimp said, “but with you, I’m gonna make an exception.”
“Please, don’t,” Mink whispered.
Valentine always carried two guns. The snub-nosed .38 was beneath the vest, and out of reach. He drew the derringer strapped to his ankle, and pumped two bullets into the pimp’s stomach. The Prince staggered backward into the apartment and disappeared. Valentine rose on wobbly legs, and saw Freed do the same. Freed’s thigh was bleeding, and he found his shotgun on the ground, pumped it, and entered the apartment dragging his wounded leg.
“Wait for back-up,” Valentine said.
Freed ignored him, and went in.
Valentine knelt beside his partner. Taking a snot rag out of his pocket, he ripped it in half. With one piece he plugged Doyle’s wound, with the other, his own.
“My stomach,” Doyle moaned.
“You get shot in the stomach?”
“Fucking french fries.”
Valentine expected to hear sirens at any moment, then remembered where they were. He started to go to the car to call for an ambulance when Doyle grabbed his leg. His partner had a stricken look on his face, and Valentine knelt down beside him.
“Crowe lied to us,” Doyle said.
“What do you mean?”
“We were chasing the Prince twenty minutes ago. He couldn’t have taken a shot at them.”
Doyle was right. Freed’s story was bullshit. Cops lied all the time, but not to each other. They had stepped into something.
The Uzi rang out inside the apartment. Valentine ripped away his vest so he could get at his .38., then stood up.
“Hang tough.”
“Be careful,” Doyle said.
The apartment’s doorway was wide open, and Valentine stuck his head through, and saw Freed lying motionless at the bottom of the stairwell with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Valentine guessed the Prince had been hiding at the top of the first floor stairwell when Freed had come in. Daylight was streaming into the building, and he could see that no one was hiding up there now.
He climbed the stairs with Doyle’s words ringing in his ears. The building had four floors, and at the top floor he paused to catch his breath. His left hand had gone numb, and he wondered how bad the damage was. The sound of someone inside an apartment throwing a deadbolt made him jump.
“Stay inside,” he called out.
“Yassah,” a woman’s voice said.
The Prince had left a trail of blood, and he followed the drops down a hallway to a corner apartment. Light flickered behind the peep hole. The Prince got off a round, but not before Val
entine emptied his .38 into the door. He heard pounding footsteps and kicked the door down, then stepped into a dingy apartment with a radio playing in one of its rooms. It had a shotgun layout similar to the apartment he’d grown up in, and he went down a hallway to the kitchen. An open window led to a fire escape. He could hear the Prince on the roof.