Gift sense tv-1

by James Swain

  You did this to yourself. You hung around men because you thought they were the answer, that the love of a decent guy was all you needed to be free of the loneliness you grew up with. You opened the door each time they came calling. Nick was the worst, but did you leave Vegas after splitting up with him? No, you had to hang around and prove that you could make it on your own. And how did you do that? By taking a job in his casino and becoming his slave. "Sit on my big ten-inch" is right.

  Twenty minutes later, her kidnapper's car left the parkway. Nola worked the bag off her head and stared at the road through the tiny air holes he had mercifully drilled. They drove for miles without passing another vehicle, and she guessed that they were out in the desert, in a place where no one would ever find her.

  The car pulled off the road and went down a long gravel drive. Braking, her kidnapper beeped the horn three times. Nola heard a roll-up metal door being lifted. He drove into a building and the door came down behind them.

  Moments later, the trunk popped open and Nola was momentarily blinded by a surge of fluorescent light.

  "Rise and shine," her kidnapper said. Nola climbed out rubbing her eyes, the cavernous interior gradually coming into focus.

  "It's not much, but we call it home," her kidnapper said.

  It was a warehouse with bare walls, the air as cold as a meat locker. In the room's center sat a replica of the Acropolis's outdated blackjack pit, the tables arranged in a tight hub. Behind one table stood Frank Fontaine in a red silk shirt, effortlessly riffle-shuffling a deck of cards.

  Nola's eyes shifted to a large easel beside the pit. It contained a map of the floor of the Acropolis, the yellow and blue thumbtacks arranged like a battle plan.

  When she looked back at Fontaine, he was staring at her.

  "Hey," he said.

  "Hey, yourself," she whispered.

  "Big surprise, huh?"

  "You're telling me."

  "You okay?"

  "I've been better," she admitted.

  "I didn't hurt her none, Frank," her kidnapper said, standing beside her. He'd exchanged the ski mask for a ten-gallon hat. He was tall and rangy with straw-colored hair and a leathery complexion. A real cowboy, Nola thought. Turning, she slapped the cowboy's face hard.

  "You redneck bastard!"

  The cowboy smiled like she'd paid him a compliment. Fontaine came out of the pit. To the cowboy, he said, "Good work."

  "Thanks," the cowboy said.

  Tipping his hat to Nola, the cowboy crossed the warehouse floor, opened a door, and disappeared into the bright sunlight.

  Nola stiffened as Fontaine got close, then began to cry.

  "Miss me?" he asked.

  "Fuck you, Frank-or Sonny or whatever the hell you're calling yourself," Nola sobbed. She raised her arms and tried to beat her hands against his chest, only to have Fontaine grab her wrists. "Fuck you and your crazy fucking schemes!"

  Fontaine let her cry herself out, then released her wrists.

  "I missed you, too," he said.

  16

  Valentine stood in the blazing sun and tended to Sammy Mann while they waited for an ambulance to arrive. Nola's kidnapper was as sharp as they come. First he'd gone next door and tied Longo's dim-witted undercover men to a chair. Then he'd crossed the street and pulled a.380 Magnum on Wily and Sammy. Handcuffing Wily to the steering wheel, he'd made Sammy get out; then he'd done a Tonya Harding on Sammy's good leg with the gun's barrel.

  "You get a look at the guy?" Valentine asked.

  "Wearing a ski mask," Sammy groaned, lying on the grass.

  "Think he was a pro?"

  "Uh-huh. All business."

  "Why'd he pick you and not Wily?"

  Sammy grimaced, the pain shooting through his eyes. "Dunno."

  "Think Wily was in on it?"

  "No way."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "He peed his pants."

  Only after Sammy was strapped to a gurney and getting pumped with morphine did Valentine venture back inside. Longo had dragged everyone into the living room and was pacing the ugly shag carpet, yelling at the top of his lungs.

  "This is fucked! We get dragged out here to see some fucking letters that don't fucking exist and get ambushed by some fucking guy no one gets a good look at. It doesn't take a fucking genius to figure out that we were set up. The question is, by who?"

  Longo's eyes narrowed as he searched the men's faces.

  "It was Nola," Wily blurted out. He had removed his soiled pants and wore a man's bathrobe he'd borrowed from Nola's closet.

  "Nola?" Longo said incredulously. "The only thing Nola Briggs is guilty of is hating Nick. Judging by the size of that ring, I think the little lady has a real gripe with you, mister."

  Standing in the corner, Nick hung his head in shame.

  "Story of my life," the casino owner mumbled.

  "So that means one of you is guilty," Longo said, his eyes doing another sweep. "One of you orchestrated this."

  The detective looked at Underman. So did everyone else. The defense attorney sat on a stool they'd dragged in from the kitchen, the knees of his silk trousers bloodied by his fall. He returned their sullen looks, seemingly as perplexed as everyone else.

  "I had nothing to do with this," he stated flatly.

  Longo bellowed like a mad bull. "You think I'm going to take the fall for this? Get real, asshole. My reputation isn't going down the drain because I got snookered by some smart-mouth attorney. This is your problem. You're under arrest."

  Underman shook his head. "You're crazy."

  "Am I? Look at the facts. You were the only one who knew where this was headed. Nola was your baby."

  "I was just along for the ride," Underman said lamely.

  An evil laugh came out of Longo's mouth. "You think I can't talk some jailhouse snitch into saying he saw you and Frank Fontaine together?"

  "It will never stick."

  "You'll do four years minimum. And not in a country club, either. The federal pen. With a three-hundred-pound cellmate named Bunny."

  "Stop it!" Underman roared at him. "I won't stand for this."

  "Want to call your attorney?"

  Underman began to reply, then hesitated. "No," he mumbled.

  "Oh," Longo said, turning playful. "Now we're getting somewhere. Like to cut a deal instead?"

  "What kind of deal?"

  "One that keeps you out of prison."

  Underman's lower lip began to tremble. "I'm listening," the defense attorney said.

  "Find Nola for us," Longo said.

  Underman's face twisted in confusion. "How am I going to do that?"

  "I'll give you a hint. She's with Fontaine."

  "But he's invisible."

  "Only to us," Longo said.

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "Fontaine is a criminal. You deal with criminals. Talk to them, ask them to sniff around. Someone will know where he's hiding."

  "All right," Underman said. "I suppose I can do that."

  "You'll find him?"

  "I'll try."

  "That's not good enough."

  "All right. I'll find him."

  "We have a deal?"

  The defense attorney nodded stiffly. TV reporters were knocking at the front door, their garish van parked in the driveway. The cruisers Longo had radioed for were nowhere to be seen.

  While Longo went to deal with the reporters, Valentine caught Higgins's attention and the two men slipped into the kitchen. Touching his friend's shoulder, Valentine said, "This is some of the worst police work I've ever seen."

  "Longo was never the sharpest knife in the drawer," Higgins admitted. "You think Underman's involved?"

  "Of course not," Valentine said.

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "What does he stand to gain? He's got to be as rich as Croesus. Nola set him up."

  "You think she orchestrated her own kidnapping?"

  "No, Sonny did. But Nola's still involved. She h
as to be."

  Higgins and Valentine stood in the doorway, watching Longo and Underman. The chubby lieutenant had his hand out. The defense attorney reluctantly shook it, sealing their deal.

  "What a prick," Valentine said.

  "You never extorted a suspect?" Higgins asked.

  No, he hadn't. Nor had he ever stood up in court and lied under oath or taken a bribe to look the other way or robbed the dead. By today's standards he was a square, and he wasn't afraid to admit it.

  "Never," Valentine said.

  "You're a better man than I am," Higgins said.

  "I didn't mean that, Bill."

  "I know you didn't. You want a ride back to town?"

  "I'll hitch one off Nick. Thanks anyway."

  Valentine rode shotgun in Nick's Caddy, the vent blowing hot air on his face. His heart was pounding, so he took his pulse while staring at the clock on Nick's dashboard. Ninety-four beats a minute. There was a reason cops retired young: The work ruined your health. Nick was equally flummoxed and mumbled to himself as he drove. Wily sat in back, still wearing the borrowed bathrobe.

  Valentine watched the monotonous scenery, wishing he were home. The rules were different out here and always would be. The casinos were built by gangsters and bootleggers, and although the mob's influence was gone, their way of doing business remained. Ruthless men still ran the town; they just happened to be small-time thugs like Nick or renegade cops like Pete Longo.

  Nick stopped at Wily's house so Wily could change. The pit boss bolted from the car and hopscotched across the lawn, the in-ground sprinklers shooting his robe open. At the front door, he was met by his wife, a big blonde in spandex. She pointed at his robe and demanded an explanation. Just then, his two stepdaughters walked out of the garage wearing postage-stamp-size bikinis. They pointed and laughed at their stepfather like he was a freak. Valentine did a double take: He had never seen two young girls dressed so provocatively.

  Nick shook his head sadly. "Somebody once said that marriage was the single biggest enemy of love."

  "I think it was Sinatra," Valentine said.

  "Old Blue Eyes said that? Sinatra sure knew dames."

  "Wasn't he married a bunch of times?"

  "Four or five," Nick said. "Why?"

  Valentine shrugged. Nick was not the person with whom he wanted to have a conversation about the virtues of monogamy. No one ever said marriage was easy, or that raising kids was particularly fun, but it was what you did because it worked better than anything else. He gave Wily credit for toughing it out.

  Finally, Wily managed to get into his house and the commotion died down. Turning, Nick said, "Mind my asking you a personal question?"

  Valentine eyed him. "Go ahead."

  "I noticed you don't drink. You a rummy?"

  "My old man," Valentine said. "I swore it off before I had my first drink."

  "You've never touched the sauce?"

  "No."

  "I admire people who don't drink," Nick confessed. "It screwed up my life in a big way. Your father a jerk?"

  "Pretty much."

  "You ever patch things up?"

  Valentine fell silent, wishing his employer would drop the subject. He had tried to patch things up and had chased his old man around Atlantic City for years, bailing him out of jail and cleaning him up dozens of times, only to watch his father drink himself into oblivion and, eventually, to death. Clearing his throat, he said, "No."

  It was Nick's turn to start clearing his own throat. Valentine stared at his watch, then the dashboard, then out the window.

  "How'd you like to make a quick five grand?" Nick asked.

  "On top of what you already owe me?"

  "How much is that?"

  "Two grand."

  Nick pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and peeled off twenty hundred-dollar bills. Handing them to Valentine, he said, "On top of that."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  Nick hesitated. "This is going to sound stupid."

  "Try me."

  "I want you to find Nola."

  "I thought you'd be glad to be rid of her."

  "I've had a change of heart."

  "Nick, she hates your guts."

  Nick stared through the windshield, swallowing hard. "I know."

  "She's also guilty as sin."

  He swallowed hard again. "Probably."

  "She really did a number on you back there, didn't she?" Valentine said.

  "Hey," Nick said. "I did it to myself."

  "How's that?"

  "I had an epiphany," he explained.

  Nick had been having epiphanies a lot longer than Valentine had. His first epiphany occurred, oddly enough, during a religious festival that bore the same name. He had been all of sixteen.

  Every January sixth, the tiny Greek fishing village in Florida where Nick grew up celebrated the Epiphany. This day had been chosen to commemorate the baptism of Christ in the River Jordan, when the Holy Spirit descended on the young Jesus in the form of a dove. In the view of the Orthodox Church, this event above all others revealed Christ's divine nature and mission.

  "Bigger than Christmas," Nick explained.

  The day was always the same. The town would shut down and everyone would pack into the Orthodox Church of St. Nicholas. After a brief service, clergy and congregation would form a procession and walk to Spring Bayou, the priests dressed in embroidered robes and bearing jeweled crosses and croziers and magnificent silk banners. They were followed by a young girl dressed in white, her hands cradling a pure white dove.

  "She was always the prettiest girl in the town," Nick explained, the memory making his face light up. "One year, they chose a girl I was in love with, Zelda Callas."

  After an invocation by the archbishop, the dove is released to fly over Spring Bayou. The archbishop then casts a white cross into the water, and fifty boys leap out of a semicircle of small boats in a mad scramble to retrieve it.

  "The kid who gets the cross, he brings it back to the archbishop, and he gets a blessing and is guaranteed a year of good fortune, courtesy of Jesus Christ."

  "Not a bad deal," Valentine remarked.

  "You said it," Nick said, shaking his head. "I needed some good fortune back then. I'd lost my father and my grandfather and had to quit school to support my mom and sisters. Let me tell you, I was determined to get that white cross and get blessed and impress Zelda Callas. I mean, I was ready."

  Nick kept shaking his head. Valentine said, "And then?"

  "Didn't happen."

  "You didn't find the cross?"

  "They didn't let me jump. The priest asked my mother to keep me on shore, out of respect for my father and grandfather. To tell you the truth, I don't think they wanted me in the water, scared I might drown. You know how it is."

  "Sure," Valentine said.

  "Then the damnedest thing happened," Nick went on. "I was standing on the shore, watching all my pals jumping into the water, and I had my first epiphany. Right there, my father appeared to me, and he shook his finger in my face. 'Never give in,' he said. Then he was gone. Poof, just like that."

  "You really saw him?"

  "Sure did," Nick replied. "And he was mad. Never give in. It was like he was scolding me. And you want to know something, Tony? I haven't given in to anybody ever since. That's been my mantra, and it's gotten me where I am. It's who I am, you know?"

  "I understand," Valentine said.

  "And then I'm standing in Nola's house and I have another epiphany. It was in that house that I learned that my father was wrong. Sometimes, you have to give in. God, what a mistake I made."

  "You loved her?"

  Nick filled his lungs with air. "Yeah. And she loved me. She even signed a prenup. What more could I ask for? I got down on my knees for her, Tony. Got down on that ugly carpet and slipped that giant rock on her finger and asked her to marry me. And she says yes, and what do I say? Stupid fucking me. I say, 'But you've got to get your tits done.' And then the excrement h
it the air-conditioning."

  "So you got drunk and wiped it from your memory," Valentine said.

  "That and a lot of other stupid things," Nick admitted. He stared at him. "So, will you do it?"

  "You mean find Nola?"

  "Yeah. I need to see her one more time."

  "You really feel bad about this, huh?"

  Nick grunted in the affirmative.

  Valentine gave it some thought. He hadn't tracked anyone down in years. Still, five grand was a lot of dough, and there was a fringe benefit. Along the way, he just might stumble across Frank Fontaine and get to extract a little payback. What was that old expression? Revenge is a dish best served cold. Suddenly, a few more days sweating through his clothes did not seem like such a bad idea.

  "Why not," Valentine said.

  His suite was still being cleaned when Valentine returned later that afternoon. Ushering the Mexican chambermaid out of the bathroom, he locked himself in, stripped off his smelly clothes, and took a long, ice-cold shower. He emerged shivering and revitalized.

  The suite was clean, the air reeking of Windex and fresh flowers. He found the remote on the dining-room table and flicked on the Yankees-Devil Rays game. Top of the seventh, Devil Rays ahead by two. He'd have to track Gerry down, rub it in. It was a crummy thing to do, but it would make him feel good, so it couldn't be all that bad.

  He searched his bedroom closet for something lightweight to wear. All he'd packed were long-sleeved shirts, all solid colors; three pairs of slacks, all black; and a couple of navy blazers. He was still dressing like a cop, and he supposed it would be his uniform until the day he died.

  All the booze had been removed from the bar and replaced with Evian and Diet Cokes. What service. He popped a soda and lay down on the couch. Seventh-inning stretch, the announcers hawking dog food and motor oil. You didn't last on TV these days if you didn't know how to sell. A Bud Light commercial came on, its stars two smart-ass ball players, one with a lengthy criminal record. At home, he listened to baseball on the radio, the way it was meant to be experienced, and limited his TV watching as much as possible.