Gift sense tv-1

by James Swain

  While they waited, Wily talked about Nick's sex life like it was a matter of public record. To hear him tell it, the thing that had gotten Nick into trouble his whole life was the same thing that made him great. It was the way he treated women. He loved every single one he could get his grubby little hands on. If they were legal and willing, he'd show them the best time they'd ever had, lavishing gifts and attention and limos and the best seats at the best shows and fresh-cut roses every day, and just about everything else their little hearts could desire or ever hope for.

  And it was this wonderful display of affection that got Nick into so much trouble. He was too nice to the women he slept with. After a few weeks of being treated like a princess, the poor ladies were not ready for him to take off the magic slippers and tell them the ball was over. It was a big letdown, and their reactions usually ranged between hysteria and suicide.

  Sometimes, Nick would cave in and marry one of them, and he'd end up forfeiting another chunk of his fortune to extricate himself. Wily had seen it coming every time, the last wife leaving him on the exact day Wily said she would.

  Nick came out of the bathroom in a red satin robe, his curly hair dripping wet. He snatched an O'Doul's out of Wily's hand. Sitting in a leopard-skin recliner, he took a guzzle.

  "So how bad did we get hit?" he asked.

  "Hit?" Wily said. "Who said anything about getting hit?"

  "It's a pattern," Nick said. "Whenever the casino gets hit, you show up on my doorstep."

  "I didn't know I was so predictable," Wily said uncomfortably.

  "Well, you are," Nick said, the bottle never leaving his lips.

  "Tony made Fontaine," the pit boss said.

  Nick leaned forward, his robe parting and exposing his swollen genitals. "You interrupted the best lay I've had in six months to tell me that?"

  Wily bit his tongue. "That's right."

  "What's so goddamned funny?"

  "I can see your balls."

  Reddening, Nick covered himself. Wily put his serious face back on. Valentine sipped his water, trying not to laugh.

  "Tell him," Wily said.

  "It was Sonny Fontana," Valentine said.

  "Stop blowing me," Nick said, killing the fake beer. "Fontana's dead. He got his head stuck in a door in Lake Tahoe."

  "That's the story we all heard," Valentine said. "Trust me, Nick. It's definitely him."

  "You're sure?"

  "I am."

  "One hundred percent positive sure?"

  "That, too."

  Nick did not want to believe it. Eyeing Wily, he said, "Are you and Sammy in agreement on this?"

  "Yeah. That's why we came over."

  Nick stood up and began pacing the room. Valentine heard Sherry Solomon brush past, then the bedroom door open and close. If Nick heard her leave, he gave no sign of it.

  "Sonny Fontana," Nick said, punching his fist into an imaginary target. "My life is turning into a disaster movie. Why the hell would Sonny Fontana rob me?" Spinning on his heels, he pointed an accusing finger at his pit boss. "Any ideas?"

  "I still think Nola's involved." Wily hesitated, then added, "Tony does, too," knowing Nick was more interested in Valentine's opinion than his own.

  "That true?" Nick asked him.

  Valentine nodded. "Get the police to haul Nola in and make her take another polygraph."

  "You think we'll learn something?" Nick asked.

  Valentine nodded. One of Fontana's trademarks was that he always worked with inside talent. "Nola said she'd never met Fontaine. Maybe not, but I'll bet my paycheck she knows Fontana."

  "Jesus H. Christ," Nick said, his anger spilling over. The empty brown bottle left his hand and flipped lazily through the air, shattering against the head of the porcelain replica of the Venus de Milo standing inconspicuously in the corner of the suite.

  "How come I can't remember this broad?"

  Nick looked at Wily, as if expecting him to know the answer. The pit boss shrugged his shoulders.

  "She sure remembers you" was all he could think to say.

  13

  Sunday morning found Nola circling the covered parking garage at McCarran International Airport. The lot was full, and she parked a half-mile away in Long Term, then hiked to the terminal, her shoes nearly sticking to the baking macadam.

  A pregnant-looking jet roared overhead, arcing gracefully so as to give the passengers a last look before ascending into the cottony clouds. Growing up on Long Island's south shore near Queens, Nola had spent many afternoons at Kennedy Airport, smoking joints and lying in a hidden spot off the runway, watching the jets take off. How could her youth, which she'd hated, now seem so warm and fuzzy?

  The terminal's freezing cold air snapped her awake. Someone who liked to walk had designed McCarran's terminals, and soon she was wishing she'd brought more sensible shoes. She'd dressed up nice, and her pumps were killing her feet.

  By the time she reached security, she'd removed her shoes and was walking barefoot. She passed through a metal detector and an alarm sounded. A sleep-walking guard ran an electronic baton up and down her legs. Her keys.

  The new terminal, D, required a tram ride and two long walks to reach its last gate, and she stopped along the way, bought a pretzel, and tossed four quarters in a Quartermania slot machine. Her horoscope had called this her lucky day, and she pulled the arm, thinking it was certainly about time.

  Five minutes later and twenty dollars richer, Nola reached gate 84. The booth was deserted; the next flight not until noon. Slipping her pumps back on, she removed a pair of binoculars from her purse and gazed out the window. A quarter mile away, a bus with barred windows was parked on the tarmac, the words U.S. Immigration stenciled on its side. Standing in the bus's shade, twelve chained Mexicans awaited deportation. She studied each man's face. Raul was not among them.

  Her breath grew short. Raul was a Houdini when it came to getting out of tight jams; maybe he'd talked his way out of this one and at this very moment was sitting on her living-room couch in his Jockeys, anxiously awaiting her return.

  Then she saw him, and her happy ending shattered into a thousand pieces. The police had shaved his head and put him in drab prison garb. Her eyes burned with tears. It didn't take much to get her blubbering, and when she did, she usually got livid. This time, her anger was directed at the government. We're a nation founded by immigrants, she thought. What gives us the right to deport someone for trying to feed his family?

  A cargo plane appeared on the tarmac and taxied toward the bus. Nola glanced at her watch: 7:15, just like the message on her e-mail said. Thank you, Frank Fontaine, whoever you are.

  Nola saw Raul say something to the Immigration officer in charge. The officer laughed, his broad chest heaving up and down. A cigarette was produced, put in Raul's mouth, and lit. Nola wiped at her eyes. What a charmer.

  Movable stairs were rolled up against the cargo plane, and the prisoners went up them. At the top of the stairs, Raul stopped and let the cigarette fall from his lips. He crushed it out with his shoe, then went inside.

  "Good-bye, sweet boy," Nola whispered.

  The cargo plane took off toward the south, the sun's blinding rays balanced on each wing like a dagger. She watched the plane until it was no bigger than a pinprick, the man who had restored her faith in love swallowed up in deep blue sky.

  "I love you so much," she whispered, her lipstick smudging the warm glass. "We'll be back together soon. I promise, baby. You just take care of yourself. And don't forget me. Please don't do that."

  She was blubbering again. Stuffing the binoculars into her purse, she searched for a tissue.

  "Here," a man's voice said.

  Nola jumped a few inches off the ground, then did a full one-eighty. She had an audience.

  It was Lieutenant Longo and four uniformed officers, plus Sammy Mann and Wily and an older Italian guy with salt-and-pepper hair and an interesting face. A gawking crowd had assembled behind them. Nola took the Kleenex from L
ongo's outstretched hand and blew her nose, her eyes never leaving the lieutenant's face.

  "Planning to take a little trip?" Longo inquired.

  "You see any luggage?" Nola asked. She opened her purse for everyone to see. "Or a ticket?"

  "I'm taking you in," Longo informed her. "Let's go."

  "Taking me in? For what?"

  "The charge is fleeing prosecution," he said, unsnapping a pair of nickel-plated cuffs from his belt. "Put out your hands."

  Nola stepped back, her shoulders pressing the glass. "I can't come to the goddamned airport and see my boyfriend be deported? What kind of inhumane assholes are you?"

  "Give me your hands," the lieutenant demanded.

  "I wasn't going anywhere," she protested, playing to the growing crowd. "You're throwing my boyfriend out of the country and now you're persecuting me. Leave me alone."

  Longo wagged a finger inches from her face. "Now, you listen to me. You can walk out of here like a little lady or you can be dragged out like a raving bitch."

  "You mean I have a choice?"

  "You sure do."

  "I'll take raving bitch," Nola said.

  From her purse, Nola produced a can of pepper spray. She doused Longo, then dug her knee into his groin and bent the detective in half. Someone screamed, and the crowd showed its colors by heading for the exit.

  Thirty seconds and three downed officers later, Nola found herself kissing the carpet, the older Italian guy having used a clever judo move to wrestle the pepper spray from her grasp, then kicked her legs out from under her and taken her down. Her pal Wily, whom she'd nailed right between the eyes, was being restrained by one of Longo's men as he attempted to kick her in the head.

  Nola stuck her tongue out at him.

  Felix Underman was jumping up and down, his movements as animated as a puppet on a string. His voice was loud, his protests extreme. He flew about the courtroom in a rage and shook his fists. The judge listened to his diatribe with a pained expression on his face. His name was Harold Burke, and normally he did not put up with nonsense in his courtroom. Only this was Felix Underman, his friend, so he did not tell the bailiff to toss him.

  Judge Burke was pushing seventy and had known Underman most of his adult life. In their youth, they'd played handball together and gone to basketball games. They also shared a passion for the sweet science, often sitting together at prizefights. They respected each other, or so Burke thought.

  "Your honor, never in my forty-five years as an attorney have I had a client's rights violated as Nola Briggs's rights were violated this morning at McCarran Airport," Underman proclaimed, waving his arms indignantly.

  "She was violating the conditions of her bail," Longo interjected, standing motionless before the bench, his bloodshot eyes still smarting from being sprayed.

  "My client was seeing her boyfriend deported," Underman insisted. "She had no luggage, no ticket, not even a credit card. All she had was sixty dollars and a lipstick on her person. Yet the police acted like gestapos when they arrested her."

  Burke's face grew taut. Gestapos? This was not like Felix at all. To Longo he said, "There was an altercation?"

  "The suspect pepper-sprayed me and my men," Longo explained. "We had to restrain her in self-defense."

  "They broke her wrist and blackened her eye," Underman bellowed for all he was worth. "It was eight against one."

  Burke thumbed through the arrest report. To Longo he said, "Does the suspect have a violent history?"

  "No, your honor," Longo said.

  "How many times has she been arrested?"

  "This was the second time, your honor."

  Underman howled like a terrier. "Your honor, my client's first arrest was two days ago. She has no proven criminal record of any kind."

  Burke removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Underman was getting on his nerves, the way good attorneys usually did.

  "Is this so?" he asked the lieutenant.

  "Yes, your honor."

  Burke fitted his glasses back on. Ninety-nine percent of the people who stood before him had lengthy arrest records. The fact that Nola Briggs had been a model citizen up until a few days ago was certainly worth considering. He paused to stare at the motley crew of hookers and crack dealers that filled his courtroom. Many of the faces were familiar, as were their attorneys. Someone in back was talking trash, and he banged his gavel forcefully, killing the noise.

  "Detective Longo," Burke said, "unless you can show me good reason not to, I'm going to let the suspect walk."

  "I can, your honor."

  Longo approached the bench. Sensing disaster, Underman edged up beside him, his eyes glued to the lieutenant's face. Lowering his voice, Longo said, "Nola Briggs has been identified as an accomplice of a known hustler."

  Burke scratched his chin. "And who might that be?"

  "Sonny Fontana."

  Burke looked at Underman. His friend appeared to be at a complete loss for words. Burke savored the moment, along with a sip of coffee, then proceeded.

  "Wasn't Sonny Fontana banned from ever stepping foot in Las Vegas?" he asked.

  "That's correct, your honor," Longo replied. "He got a face-lift and now goes by the name Frank Fontaine."

  "And how did you come by this information?"

  "He was identified by a consultant hired by the casino."

  "This consultant is reliable?" the judge asked.

  Longo turned and motioned to the gallery. Rising from his aisle seat, Valentine approached the bench. His heroics at the airport had not come without a price. On reaching the courthouse, he'd discovered his wallet missing from his back pocket. It had put him in the darkest of moods. The plastic, he could replace; the money, he didn't care about; but the honeymoon snapshot of him and Lois at the Steel Pier, it broke his heart to realize that another piece of her was gone.

  "Your honor," Longo said, "allow me to introduce retired detective Tony Valentine from Atlantic City. Detective Valentine is an acknowledged expert in the field of casino cheating. He made the match."

  Burke motioned Valentine closer. "You're certain Frank Fontaine is actually Sonny Fontana?"

  "Yes, your honor. I'd stake my reputation on it."

  Burke rubbed his chin reflectively. "I see. That does put a different spin on things. Felix, what's your take on this?"

  If Underman had known how to tap-dance, he would have started doing so. His take on the situation was that Sonny Fontana was dead. He knew this for a fact. A client of his, a three-hundred-pound sociopath named Al "Little Hands" Scarpi, had crushed Fontana's head in a door at the Cal-Neva Lodge in Tahoe, and half the casino owners in Vegas had thrown him a party. Everyone in Vegas had heard about it, only no one had talked publicly for fear of becoming an accessory to murder.

  "I find this allegation hard to believe," Underman mumbled.

  Burke waited for him to continue.

  "That's it?" Burke said after a lengthy pause.

  Underman hesitated. He was in dangerous territory. He'd heard of Valentine and knew he wouldn't have made such a claim without some kind of proof. Stranger things had happened in a court of law than a dead man rising from the grave. He recalled Nola Briggs pushing the bag of money across his desk and realized how easily he had been seduced.

  "My client passed a polygraph test," Underman said, playing his last card. "I used a recognized expert in the field."

  "We'd like to give Ms. Briggs a test of our own," Longo said, facing the bench. "Mr. Underman can be present, if he'd like."

  "Sounds fair to me," the judge said. "Felix, does that sound fair to you?"

  Burke was making this as painless as possible. Underman appreciated the gesture. "Yes, your honor."

  "Good. Give the defendant another polygraph test, and I'll review the results. Are we in agreement?"

  The lieutenant and the defense attorney nodded simultaneously. Burke brought his gavel down with resounding force and all heads snapped in the courtroom.

  "
Next!" the bailiff sang out.

  Valentine stood on the courthouse steps, awaiting his ride. Wily had promised to have a car waiting at curbside. After ten minutes, he realized a car wasn't coming. It didn't really surprise him. He'd been offered several jobs in Vegas over the years, mostly working surveillance and training security. The money was right on, but he'd always passed. It was the people that had ultimately turned him off. It was a rough-and-tumble town, with everyone out for him- or herself. Telling lies was a way of life here.

  A familiar white Volvo pulled up to the curb. The driver's window rolled down and he saw Bill Higgins gripping the wheel. He was dressed in khakis and a faded Lacoste shirt and had not shaved. Valentine got in.

  Higgins stared intently at the road as he drove. In profile, he looked one hundred percent American Indian, his proud features chiseled into his deeply tanned face. Valentine had always wanted to ask him about his ancestry but didn't know how to go about it without sounding racist or insensitive. He supposed being politically correct meant never having to say you're sorry.

  "Heard you were a hero down at the airport," Higgins said when they were on Maryland Parkway heading south. "You never told me you were into the martial arts. Ever compete?"

  "I was New Jersey state judo champ five years running."

  "Wow. You still practice?"

  "There's a dojo within walking distance of my house. Sometimes when I'm in a bad mood I go down and throw the kids around."

  "That must make you feel good."

  They drove for a while in silence. Valentine touched the empty pocket where his wallet had once resided. He'd looked at that picture every day since the funeral. Maybe it was time for him to get on with his life, whatever that meant.

  "What are you doing at the courthouse on a Sunday morning, anyway?" Valentine asked.

  "Looking for you," Higgins replied.

  Valentine eyed his friend. Longo had not bothered to notify Bill when he'd decided to collar Nola. It was a childish thing to do, as Bill would quickly find out. But that didn't explain how Bill had known his whereabouts.

  "Who told you where I was?" Valentine asked.

  "A little bird," Higgins said, hitting the signal arm as the exit appeared. "Don't act so pissed off."