by James Swain
Roxanne squeezed his hand. "Cat got your tongue?"
"Ten it is," he said.
"You sure you can stay awake that long?" she teased him.
"Only if I nap this afternoon."
She got up and kissed him on the cheek.
"Sweet dreams," she said.
There was nothing like a pretty woman's smile to start the day. Braving the heat, he walked to the Desert Inn and paid the valet twenty bucks for Nick's loaner. Las Vegas was not a morning town, and he cruised the Strip in a minimum of traffic.
Brother's Lounge was located on a desolate side street named Audrie. As bars went, it was a rathole, its neighbors a pawnshop and a tanning salon, and his shoes crunched broken glass as he entered the dimly lit establishment.
The bartender had a hockey player's blunt, proudly damaged face. His name was Mike, and he wore a ruffled tuxedo shirt with stained armpits and a yellow collar. "Can or tap?" he inquired when Valentine ordered a Diet Coke.
"Can's fine," Valentine said, casing the room. In the back, a guy sat nursing a draft beer; otherwise, the place was empty. He drew a C-note from his wallet and let it float to the laminated counter. "Can you change that?"
"Sorry," Mike said. "It's too early."
"Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?"
"Depends," Mike said.
Valentine nudged the C-note toward him. "There was a guy who used to come in here named Frank Fontaine."
Mike crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You a cop?"
Valentine nearly said no, then stopped himself. He would always be a cop, and this joker knew it. "Retired," he confessed.
"Private dick?"
"Consultant."
"That's a new one."
"Welcome to the nineties."
In the mirror behind the bar Valentine saw the guy in back kill his beer. He was built like one of those behemoths that carried refrigerators on their backs on ESPN. As he strolled out the front door, Mike pocketed the C-note.
"You know that dude?" Mike asked.
"No-should I?"
"He's looking for Fontaine, too."
Valentine spun around in his chair, wishing he'd gotten a better look at the guy. "Did he say why?"
"Said Fontaine owes him money."
"I wouldn't want to owe money to a guy that big."
Mike popped a can of Diet Coke and poured it into a plastic mug. He put a big head on it, which Valentine found insulting. He was sure Mike was capable of pouring a soda without making it look like a root beer float.
"Look, I'll tell you exactly what I told the cops," Mike said. "Fontaine came in a few times, mostly to use the phone. Never drank anything hard. Always left a fat tip."
Valentine waited. "That's it?"
"He liked to play video poker."
"He win much?"
"Hell, he never lost."
"Which machine?"
"Get out of here," Mike said with a laugh. The cordless phone beside the register warbled. Mike took the call in the kitchen.
After five minutes, Valentine realized Mike wasn't coming back. He finished his soda while reflecting on how little a hundred bucks bought these days. Instinct told him that Mike knew more than he was telling; the problem would be getting him to flip. Maybe a subpoena would do the trick, or Longo's doing a number on him. He threw a few pennies on the bar, just to piss Mike off.
On his way to the john, Valentine found the video poker machines. Video poker was a tough game to beat consistently, and he patted both machines down. A dime-size hole had been drilled into each, and he guessed Fontaine had found a way to rig the machines' silicon chips to pull up specific cards. It was one more headache for Bill Higgins to deal with.
The johns were crudely marked POINTERS and SITTERS. Valentine went through the appropriate door and the smell nearly knocked him over. Taking a deep breath, he soldiered up to a urinal.
As he'd aged, taking a piss had started to feel about as good as having sex, and he was lost in the moment when he heard someone barrel into the room. Jerking his head around, he saw the big guy hovering menacingly behind him, his eyes glazed over like he'd just inhaled a popper.
"Yeah?" Valentine said.
He put his hand on Valentine's face and pressed it into the wall. Valentine kissed the condom dispenser above the urinal, his nose pressing the button for a ribbed Black Mambo.
"Let me see your hands," he said.
"I'm pissing, for Christ's sake."
"You heard what I said."
"What are you trying to do," Valentine said belligerently, "make me wet my pants?"
Valentine's head banged the condom dispenser. Hugging the urinal, he said, "Look, pal, I'm sixty-two years old and wearing a pacemaker. Unless you came in here to kill me, how about cutting out the rough stuff?"
"I heard you asking the bartender about Fontaine," the big guy said. "Tell me what you know."
"Sure," Valentine said. "But first let me breathe."
"Stick your hands out."
Valentine obeyed and the big guy frisked him like he knew what he was doing. Then he reached around and grabbed Valentine's dick, shook it, and shoved it into his trousers and yanked up the zipper. Valentine had never had a guy handle his balls before, and once he got over the initial revulsion, he decided it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Close, but definitely not the worst.
Valentine felt the guy relax. Dropping his arms, Valentine grabbed his assailant's fingers and pushed the guy's thumb back at an unnatural angle. His attacker corkscrewed to the floor, the pain ripping through him. Valentine stepped away from the urinal.
"What's your name?"
"Al," his attacker gasped, gnashing his teeth.
"Why are you looking for Frank Fontaine, Al?"
"Because…"
"You want to kill him?"
"Let go of my thumb!"
Valentine did the opposite. The bigger they were, the harder they screamed. Al was no exception.
"You the guy who squeezed his head in a door in Tahoe?"
Al nodded that he was.
"Who're you working for, Al?"
"I can't tell you that."
Valentine bent his thumb back a little more. As thumbs went, it was awfully small, and he noticed how freakishly small Al's other fingers were as well, the tiny appendages attached to an even smaller hand. The rest of him looked normal, at least what was visible.
Al screamed some more. The bathroom door swung open and Mike stuck his head in. The bartender blinked, then blinked again. Valentine shot him a murderous glance.
"Where've you been hiding?"
"I was on the phone. Jesus, I thought he was killing you."
"Thanks for the concern," Valentine said.
"You want me to call the police?"
Valentine looked at Al. "How about it? You want to have a chat with the boys in blue?"
Al shook his head. He was clutching his wrist with his other hand, trying to stop the pain from spreading to other parts of his body. Judging by the agonized look on his face, it wasn't working.
"I'll take that as a no." To Mike he said, "I'll try to keep the screaming down to a minimum."
"Sure," Mike said.
He left, and Valentine said, "Who're you working for?"
"I can't tell you," Al said. "They'll kill me."
"Like this is better?"
When Al didn't respond, he gave the thumb a little more juice. Al's face turned crimson and his eyes popped out like a comic-book character.
"How about their initials?" Valentine said. "Tell me their initials, and I'll figure it out."
"F. U.," Al whispered.
"What's that?"
"F. U.! F. U.!"
"You saying 'fuck you' to me? Why, you stupid punk…"
Valentine's anger rose to the surface like the lava in a volcano. Why someone cursing him bothered him more than having his balls squeezed, he didn't know. He brought his knee up into Al's jaw and sent him into dreamland.
> Valentine laid him out in a stall, then rifled his pockets. A few hundred bucks and an empty inhaler. Typical.
Back in the bar, he found Mike standing stiffly at his post. Al's screaming had put the fear of God into him, and his upper lip was sweating BBs. Valentine slipped onto his former stool, pleased to see a fresh Diet Coke awaiting him, sans a frothy head. He raised the plastic mug to his lips and took a healthy swallow.
"Where's Muscles?" Mike asked.
"Napping," Valentine said.
He finished the soda and reached for his wallet.
"On the house," Mike said.
"I knew there was a reason I liked you," Valentine said.
22
So when are they going to let you out of here?" Valentine asked, pulling a chair up to Sammy Mann's hospital bed.
"Not anytime soon," the patient said gloomily.
Visiting hours did not start for several hours, and Valentine had taken the service elevator up to the third floor and stolen down a hallway to Sammy's room, the nurses at the station too busy watching monitors to see him slip past. The hospital ran a tight ship, and he felt bad about breaking the rules, but he needed to talk to Sammy in private and this was the best way to do it.
Valentine noticed an uneaten breakfast on a tray sitting beside Sammy's bed, the scrambled eggs cold and runny. He felt a lump form in his throat. "You sick?"
"You got that right."
"What's wrong?"
"Big guy's getting the range."
"Cancer?"
"Prostate."
"What stage?"
"Stage two," Sammy said. "Doctor said it was lucky I got my knee whacked; a few more weeks, and it might have started spreading."
"When can you start chemo?"
"Two weeks," Sammy said, using the remote to kill the picture on the silent TV. "They've got to put a pin in my leg first, let it heal, then start in with the rough stuff. Tell you the truth, I'm scared. I'm not in the best of shape, you know."
Valentine didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. He looked around the room and didn't see the faintest evidence that Sammy had received any visitors other than himself. Sammy wasn't much older than him, which made it easy to put himself in the sick man's shoes. One day you feel fine; the next, a doctor is giving you a death sentence. Life was like that; the shame was suffering through it alone.
"Can I make a suggestion?" Valentine said. When Sammy nodded, he continued. "My wife had breast cancer, pretty advanced. She had this great doctor at Sloan-Kettering. He convinced her that her mental outlook in dealing with her disease was critical to her getting well. So Lois started planning things to do once the chemo treatment was over. Like going to school and taking a trip."
"You're saying I should start planning a new life?"
"Why not?"
"Doing what? Flipping burgers? I've seen those retired people working at McD's. No thanks."
"I can get you a job working on gambling ships in Florida," Valentine offered. "You go out at noon, come back at night; they feed you a buffet and everything. Two hundred a day to watch some drunk tourists squander their money."
"Sounds sweet. Why don't you do it?"
"I get seasick."
"I'll think about it. Thanks."
"I need to ask you a couple of questions." Pulling his chair close to the metal bed, Valentine dropped his voice. "There's a guy on the prowl for Fontaine. Real nutcase. He's got the tiniest hands I've ever seen."
"That's Little Hands Scarpi," Sammy said. "Whatever you do, don't get in the same room with him. Rumor has it the casino bosses threw him a party after he murdered Fontana."
"You think they might have rehired him once word got out that Sonny wasn't dead?"
"It's possible."
"Is Nick one of those bosses?"
"No," Sammy said. "The worst Nick's ever done is have somebody's legs broken. Nick respects human life."
Valentine said, "Here's my next question. How trustworthy is Wily?"
Sammy gave him a hard look. "Wily? Why?"
"Fontaine has someone inside the Acropolis helping him. If I'm going to catch Fontaine, I'll need someone on the inside helping me."
"And you don't want that someone to be the same person who's working with Fontaine."
"Precisely."
"Well," Sammy said, "you can trust Wily. He may be as dumb as a bucket of nails, but he's square. Just don't tell him too much. You'll only confuse him."
Valentine rose to leave. "Thanks. I've got to run."
"You said they served a buffet. What kind of food?"
"Mostly seafood. Lobster, shrimp, stone crab when it's in season. You ever have stone crab? It's the greatest; they tear only one claw off the crab, then throw it back in. They also have a carving board with roast beef. And a dessert table. Eclairs, ice cream, chocolate cake."
"They have a bar?"
"The ship is a bar," Valentine replied.
"They let you smoke cigars?"
"All night long. Cigars are the in thing. Everybody on the ship smokes them-even the ladies."
"That's too bad," Sammy said sadly. "You didn't happen to remember to bring one along, did you?"
Valentine wanted to slap himself in the head. He'd been too distracted to remember half the promises he'd made in the past two days. He apologized profusely to Sammy.
"Bring one next time," Sammy told him.
Valentine stopped in the doorway. "You want me to make a call? I know the guy who owns the ship."
"I'd better deal with my cancer first."
"It's never too late to plan for the future."
Sammy smiled, his teeth stained by years of smoking and neglect, his eyes dancing with the possibility of what might be.
"Let me think about it," he said.
Down in the lobby, Valentine dropped a quarter in the pay phone and dialed the main number of the Acropolis.
"Ten cents, please. Please deposit an additional ten cents."
He searched his pockets for more coinage. Since when did local calls cost thirty-five cents? How much did they really cost, with fibers optics and all the satellites circling the earth? Probably a nickel, the same as when he was a kid. The rest went for advertising. He reluctantly fed another dime into the slot.
The hotel operator connected him to his room and he dialed into his voice mail. Although he was not officially registered in the hotel, he'd asked Roxanne to alert the operators to take any calls from Mabel, knowing she'd probably try to reach him again. Three messages awaited him, so he punched in the code to retrieve them.
"Hi, Tony," Mabel said. "Well, I guess you didn't get my first message, because I'm still here in the pokey with a hooker with AIDS and some Mexican girl that stabbed her boyfriend to death."
Valentine bowed his head, his forehead touching the cold hospital wall. The captain of the Clearwater police had promised him he'd move Mabel into a decent cell. Wasn't a man's word worth anything anymore?
"The good news is, the judge looks like he's going to make a full recovery," she said. "Not that I wish the man harm, but he had no right to treat me the way he did. Anyway, he's not paralyzed or drooling, so I suppose my prayers were answered."
Mabel had prayed for the judge. Valentine found himself smiling in spite of everything.
"Well, I figure I can take another couple of days of this, and then I'm going to break out of here, ha-ha. Seriously, I'm starting to feel pretty bad. Food is just lousy and I can't sleep. I guess that's why they call it jail. Well, hope all is well with you. Good-bye, Tony, wherever you are."
A dial tone filled his ear. He glanced at his watch. Gerry would be in Florida soon and Mabel would be saved. He played the next message.
"Pop… it's me… Gerry. Listen-I've got trouble."
Valentine cupped his free hand over his ear. He could hardly hear his son, a jukebox in the background spitting out the Stones' "Honky Tonk Woman."
"The operator said you checked out, but when I called back and talked to Roxanne
, she said you were still there. Anyway, I hope you get this, because there are two Mafia guys looking for me."
"Sweet Jesus," Valentine said into the phone.
"I went to the saloon to get some cash, and they were waiting for me," his son went on. "I asked them what they wanted, and they said this had to do with you. I threw a table at them and then hightailed it out the back, and I've been running ever since. These guys are acting like they want to kill me, Pop."
Valentine gripped the phone, his heart racing out of control.
"Anyway, I missed my flight. I'm sorry about Mabel, but I've got to watch out for my own rear end. I'm sure you understand. I'm going down to Atlantic City to hide out. I'll call you from there."
Valentine played the message again, this time listening to his son's voice. Gerry was scared. Valentine closed his eyes and said a prayer for his son's safety, then played the final message.
"Hey, Tony!" Nick shouted over the wail of sirens. "Get your butt over to my place. Somebody tried to burn my house down!"
The fire trucks were long gone by the time Valentine arrived at the smoldering palace that Nick called home. Muddy tire tracks crisscrossed the front lawn, the shrubbery trampled beyond recognition. He parked behind Nick's Caddy, got out of his car, and surveyed the damage. Whatever ugly charm the grounds had once was now gone.
A shroud of soot covered the portico and he wiped his feet on the mat before entering. Inside the foyer, he found Nick engaged in a heated discussion with a claims adjustor who was lamely trying to explain why State Farm wouldn't issue a check until the fire marshal had issued a report and ruled out arson.
"Of course it was arson," Nick bellowed at him. "She tried to burn the place down. Hoss and Tiny saw her. Didn't she, boys?"
The two gridiron stars sat at the phallic bar in the living room. Hoss sported a wounded hand, Tiny a line of scratches across his cheek. Both nodded, then stared shamefully at the floor.
"What more proof do you want?" Nick asked.
The claims adjuster glanced rudely at his watch. In an impatient voice, he said, "I meant deliberate arson, Mr. Nicocropolis. If the fire marshal concludes that it was Ms. Solomon who set the fire, your claim will fall under vandalism, which you're covered for. Until then, I can't do anything except put you up in a hotel."