Wild Card (Tony Valentine Series)

by James Swain

  A menacing laugh filled the air. “I’m right behind you.”

  He slowly spun around, his breath fogging the air. There was no one in the yard.

  “Over here.”

  The voice was coming at him from different directions.

  “No, here.”

  A low, mournful wail filled the air. It was the sound that had woken him from his sleep. He looked over the fence at Max, and saw him eating the hamburger. The wailing wasn’t coming from the dog. A feeling he was not used to swept over him. Cold hard fear. Standing outside in his bathrobe, no gun, his wife and son asleep inside, could he have possibly planned it any worse than this? He didn’t think so.

  He took off at a dead run for his house.

  Valentine stood inside his kitchen, shivering from the cold. He wanted to run out the front door, and see if Robinson and Schiffmiller were still parked in front of his house. He wanted to ask them to take the car down his alley, and see if they could find the person that was scaring the living daylights out of him. Only he didn’t. He didn’t want to leave his house, even if it was just for a minute.

  He was afraid.

  Then his prayers were answered, and he saw a cruiser drive down the alley behind his property. The interior light was on, Robinson and Schiffmiller sat in the front seats. They were having a look around, just like they did every night, keeping the neighborhood safe.

  The cruiser passed his house and kept on going. Valentine felt a rock drop in the pit of his stomach. There was no one hiding in the alley. He had imagined the voice. His mind was playing tricks on him.

  Sitting down at the kitchen table, he buried his head in his hands.

  Chapter 39

  Early the next morning, Vinny Acosta drove his black Cadillac Seville through Ventnor. It was the ritziest neighborhood on the island, the blocks choked with towering mansions, and as he maneuvered down the well-kept streets, he imagined himself living in one of these majestic houses one day.

  His lieutenant rode shotgun beside him. His name was Frankie “BB” Lorenzo. BB had the address of where they were going on a slip of paper, but knew not to say anything unless Vinny asked him. BB was good that way. He always knew his place.

  “So what’s the fucking address?” Vinny barked.

  “Number 224.” BB pointed a hairy finger at a mansion on the corner. “That one.”

  “Did I ask you which house? Did I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I can read fucking mailboxes, ass hole.”

  Vinny slowed the Caddy to a crawl. 224 was a white three-story Dutch Colonial with crisp orange canvas awnings with white fringe, and a garage big enough for a small airplane. He parked in the gravel driveway and killed the engine.

  “Stay here,” Vinny said.

  “What if he wakes up?” BB asked.

  Vinny glanced over his shoulder into the backseat. Dominic Valentine lay sprawled across the upholstery. His eyes were swollen, his lips puffy and red. For an old drunk, he was a tough son-of-a-bitch, and Vinny had taken the skin off his knuckles beating him up.

  “Read a nursery rhyme to him,” Vinny said.

  Vinny saw the curtains on a window rustle as he walked up the path. The front door opened, and Nucky Balducci filled the space. He was dressed in black, like he was going to a funeral. Vinny said, “We need to talk.”

  Nucky ushered him into the foyer, then hung up Vinny’s overcoat. Vinny took the opportunity to have a look around. He’d heard stories about Nucky’s house — twenty rooms, seven bathrooms, everything done up in orange, brown and camel-colored fabrics — and they were all true. It was like being on the set of a bad Hollywood movie.

  “In here,” Nucky said.

  Vinny followed him into a den. The ceiling and walls were covered in brown and orange paisley fabric which matched the heavy drapes. Nucky pointed at a pair of tufted leather barrel chairs. Vinny sat in one, his host the other.

  “So what can I do for you?” Nucky asked.

  Nucky was being humble. Vinny liked that. He started to reply, but was interrupted by a gut-stabbing sound. Upstairs, a woman was singing Elvis Presley’s Blue Suede Shoes, only she sounded like she had something wrong with her neck. A strained look spread across Nucky’s face.

  “That’s my daughter Zelda,” he explained.

  “She auditioning for something?” Vinny asked. “I can get her a job in one of the clubs on the island, no problem.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nucky said.

  “She bashful?”

  Nucky brought his finger to his head and twirled it around. “She’s off her rocker.”

  Vinny hunched forward in his chair and looked the old gangster in the eye. Nucky had said it without asking for sympathy or showing any bitterness. That was the thing Vinny liked about the old-timers. They understood life’s limitations.

  “Maybe I should get to the point,” Vinny said.

  “Maybe you should,” Nucky said.

  “There was a meeting of the five families in New York last night to discuss the operation in Atlantic City. They’ve asked me to express their concerns to you about this situation with Tony Valentine.”

  “What situation is that?”

  “Those ass holes with the Casino Control Commission have given Valentine the green light to start new security procedures at Resorts’ casino,” Vinny said. “Mickey Wright is worried as hell, and so are the families.”

  “I thought the CCC was in our back pocket.”

  “Just two of them,” Vinny said. “They usually can persuade at least one other member to vote their way. Not this time.”

  Nucky scratched his chin. “Does Valentine know how the casino’s being ripped off?”

  “No, but Mickey says Valentine is sniffing around.”

  “That’s what cops do. They sniff around. No different than dogs.”

  Nucky had run the Atlantic City operation for forty years until Vinny had moved down from New York and taken over. Nucky had done a good job, so much so that Vinny tried to show him some respect. In a measured voice, he said, “Valentine is doing background checks on every high roller staying in the hotel. We can’t come and go as we please anymore. The family knows you’re tight with this guy. They want you to talk to him.”

  “And say what?”

  “Tell him to back off.”

  “From what? A scam he doesn’t know about?”

  Vinny didn’t like being answered with a question, and rose from his chair. Had they been somewhere else — like a bar — he would have done something to impress upon Nucky the gravity of the situation, like smash a bottle over his head. Upstairs, his crazy daughter launched into A Little Less Conversation while wildly stomping her foot on the floor.

  “A little less conversation,

  a little more action, please.

  Come on baby, I’m tired of talking,

  Grab your bag, and let’s start walking!

  Satisfy me! Satisfy me!

  Vinny found himself laughing, and saw the pain it caused Nucky. When the song was over, he said, “Everything with the AC operation is running like clockwork, except Tony Valentine. He’s a wild card. The families don’t like that.”

  “What don’t they like? He’s clueless.”

  “Valentine was the last person to talk to the Prince,” Vinny said, raising his voice. “Now, he’s got the commission dancing to his tune. He’s going to hurt us.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Threaten him, bribe him, kidnap his kid, whatever it takes, just shut him down.”

  “What if he balks?”

  “Kill him.”

  “Right,” Nucky said.

  Vinny didn’t like the look in Nucky’s face. Nucky had a reputation of being dependable; maybe getting old had sapped his resolve. Or maybe his nutty daughter had turned him soft in the head. Whatever the case, he wasn’t cooperating.

  “Let’s go outside,” Vinny said. “I want to show you something.”

  Nucky got Vinny�
�s coat from the closet and the two men went outside. As they approached the Cadillac parked in the driveway, Vinny pointed to the back seat. Nucky stuck his hands into his pockets and peered through the window. His old friend Dominic Valentine lay across the back, his face a bloody mess.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Nucky asked.

  “Sure is. I hear he once saved your life,” Vinny said.

  Nucky pulled away from the window. “Guy came after me with a shovel. Dom threw himself in front of me. Why did you beat him up?”

  “I was pumping him about his son. You know, does he like little girls, is he into drugs? Something I could use to get to him. The old guy got belligerent, so I kicked him around.”

  “You shouldn’t a done that,” Nucky said.

  “Says who?”

  “Me.”

  Vinny jabbed him in the chest. “Fuck you.”

  Nucky punched Vinny in the stomach. Vinny took the blow with a smile on his face, then groaned and crumpled to the ground. As he fell, Nucky kneed him in the face.

  “That’s for Dominic,” Nucky said.

  Vinny lay motionless on the gravel driveway. His lieutenant climbed out of the front seat of the Cadillac, and came around the car.

  “What’s your name?” Nucky asked.

  The lieutenant stared at the tarnished brass knuckles on Nucky’s hand.

  “BB,” the lieutenant said.

  “As in BB gun?”

  “Big Balls,” he said.

  Nucky pointed at Vinny. “You need help with him?”

  “I think I can manage,” BB said.

  “I’ll take the old guy, if you don’t mind.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Nucky pulled Dominic out of the back, and they did a three-legged walk to the house. He hated to see Dominic all bashed up. His life had been tough enough.

  “Where am I,” Dominic whispered.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Nucky said.

  “That you, Nuck?”

  “Yeah, Dom. You’re at my place. You’re going to be okay.”

  “I’m always okay with you, Nuck.”

  Reaching the front stoop, Nucky looked up, and saw Zelda standing at her bedroom window on the second floor. She was dressed like a teeny bopper, her long hair in pig tails. Normally, he tried to protect her from seeing things like this, but sometimes it wasn’t possible. Opening the bedroom window, she stuck her head out.

  “Way to go, daddy-o!” she hollered.

  Chapter 40

  Bernard’s grandfather had chosen to die at home. He lay on a hospital bed in the apartment’s living room with a TV propped on a stand in front of him. The living room was tiny, and the bed and TV stand took up most of the floor space. A bag of morphine hung behind the bed, and dripped the precious fluid into his arm. He appeared comfortable, and his voice was sharp.

  “How are you feeling?” Valentine asked.

  “I’m managing,” Sampson said.

  Valentine sat on a folding chair. Bernard’s mother had left within moments of his arrival, and seemed uncomfortable around him. Worse, she was dressed like a prostitute. “She working the street?” Valentine asked the old man.

  “Is that what they call it these days?”

  “Tell me she’s not bringing them back here.”

  “Only when they can’t afford a motel room. How about some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Valentine went to the kitchen, and fixed a fresh pot. The pantry wall was scuffed where Sampson had kicked it before he’d become paralyzed. He called it his kicking wall. Valentine gave the wall a good kick himself. Then he poured two steaming mugs and took them back to the living room.

  “She has the decency to put a towel against the door sill, if that helps soften the image,” Sampson said, sipping from the mug Valentine held to his lips.

  “Is she on drugs?”

  Sampson frowned. “I thought this was a social visit, Tony.”

  “I didn’t stop being a policeman when I stepped through your front door. If I think Bernard’s health is in jeopardy — either by his mother or because of something his mother is doing — I’ll take him out of here.”

  Sampson acted wounded by his comments. “But you care for the boy,” he said.

  “Of course I care for him.”

  “Then how can you suggest putting him in an orphanage, or some rotten foster care situation? His mother loves him. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  Valentine realized his hand was trembling. Fearful of spilling the hot drink, he took the mug away, and placed it on the floor. Sitting on the folding chair, he put his hands on the metal arm of the bed, and looked Sampson square in the eye. “If your daughter keeps whoring and doing drugs, Bernard will end up a criminal, maybe worse.”

  “What’s worse than being a criminal?”

  “Plenty of things.”

  “Name one.”

  “A drug addict, or a sociopath.”

  “And you’re saying people like that come from environments like this?”

  “They sure do.”

  Sampson looked out the window, his jaw tightening. “The boy needs love. Take his mother away from him, and he loses that.”

  “Can’t she straighten up?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Valentine shook his head in resignation. Bernard’s mother loved her son when she wasn’t doing drugs. But when she was doing drugs, she didn’t love Bernard at all.

  “You’re not giving me any other choice,” Valentine said.

  “Can’t you just leave things the way they are?”

  He shook his head. “Not when a kid’s involved.”

  “I see. I could use some more of that coffee.”

  Valentine picked the mug up and brought it to the old man’s lips. Sampson drank until the cup was empty, and Valentine went into the kitchen and placed both cups into the sink, then stared out the window at the fire escape where he’d shot the Prince. His life had changed so much since that night, and for a few moments he found himself wishing there was some way to set the clock back, and return to his old life.

  When he returned to the living room, Sampson had closed his eyes and was feigning sleep. He made sure the apartment door was locked as he went out.

  “So what seems to be the problem,” the psychologist said.

  “I have a friend who’s having mental problems,” Valentine replied.

  He was sitting in the office of Dr. Stacy Crinklaw. She looked about thirty-five, with short blond hair, a square chin, and eyes that held your face, and didn’t let go. Her desk was filled with photographs of panting canines, which was usually a good sign. He had found her name in the phonebook. She was new to the island, which was why he’d chosen her. That, and the fact that she’d been willing to see him right away.

  “Why didn’t your friend come here himself?” Crinklaw asked.

  Valentine sat in a stiff chair that faced her desk, his hands folded in his lap. Her office faced due east, and was very sunny. It also smelled heavily of lavender.

  “My friend is in law enforcement. He’s afraid of the stigma.”

  “You mean he’s a policeman.”

  “A detective.”

  “Can you describe your friend’s problems?” She had picked up a pencil and was chewing on the eraser. Sensing that it bothered him, she put the pencil on her desk.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s a bad habit. Please go on.”

  “My friend is involved in a multiple homicide case,” Valentine said. “He’s seeing connections in the case that his superiors don’t see.”

  “What kind of connections?”

  “To his childhood.”

  “Is there one?”

  “Not that he’s been able to find,” Valentine said.

  Crinklaw began taking notes on a legal pad. “Please go on.”

  “He’s also hearing voices.”

  She looked up, her expression one of deep con
cern. “When did this start?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “How many times has he heard these voices?”

  “Twice.”