by James Swain
Roxanne awaited him at the front desk. She was a vivacious gum-chewing redhead with muted brown eyes, his favorite kind of girl. She pegged him right away and said, “I thought Jimmy Hoffa was buried in Giants Stadium.”
“That's Walt Disney,” he said.
“I thought Walt Disney was being kept in a refrigerator down in Orlando.”
“That's Adolf Hitler.”
She slid the fax across the marble counter.
“You're a real piece of work, you know that?”
Valentine grinned. “Where're you from?”
“I was raised in New Jersey. I came out here five years ago.”
“I'm a Jersey kid, too. You mind the heat here?”
“It's okay so long as you don't wear any clothes.”
Valentine's eyes grew wide and she grinned. He sensed that she was enjoying this as much as he was. How many years separated them? At least thirty. It was nice to see he could still ignite a spark, however brief.
“You in for a convention?” she asked.
“I'm doing some work for the casino.”
“You don't say.”
“Listen, I need to ask you a favor. If my son calls, could you tell him I checked out?”
Roxanne raised an eyebrow. Her pleasant tone vanished. “You don't talk to your own son?”
“No,” he said, “and neither should you.”
“And why's that? He murder someone?”
“It's nothing like that.”
“If he didn't murder someone, why can't you get over it?”
It was Jersey logic if he'd ever heard it. There would be no winning with this young lady, so he retreated from the front desk. Frowning, she went to wait on another customer, casting him an evil eye as he hurried away.
He slipped into the lobby bar for some privacy. It was called Nick's Place and was cozy dark. The bartender stood behind his empty bar polishing a highball glass. He looked about Valentine's age, rail thin and silver-haired, and did not get annoyed when Valentine ordered a glass of water with a twist of lemon.
“Sparkling or Evian?” he inquired politely.
“Tap, if you have it.”
The bartender treated it like any other drink, setting the glass on a coaster and sliding it toward him. It was the first classy thing Valentine had seen anyone in the Acropolis do, so he tipped the man two bucks.
He unfolded Mabel's fax on the bar. Why had Roxanne assumed that he should be civil to Gerry? What gave her that right? Sipping his drink, he perused Mabel's latest assault on the funny bone.
Tired of the same old grind?
Enroll today in Grandma Mabel's school for begging. Become a pro. Special classes for TV evangelists and career politicians. Learn the pitch and never work again.
Mabel Struck
President Emeritus
813/PAN-HAND
Valentine grit his teeth. What was Mabel doing? This wasn't funny at all. The ad had Gerry written all over it. In the smoky mirror behind the bar, he saw a meaty-faced palooka sauntering toward him. He was too soft-looking to be a mobster. As he slid onto the adjacent stool, Valentine said, “You must be Wily.”
“That's me,” the pit boss said, rapping his knuckles on the bar. “Roxanne said I might find you in here.”
“She's some girl.”
Wily ordered a bourbon and water. Under his breath, he said, “She's got a thing for older guys, if you hadn't noticed.”
“Now that you mention it,” Valentine said, “I was wondering what she was doing in my room.”
Wily guffawed like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard.
“I'll use that one,” the pit boss said.
His drink came. Valentine told him about being picked up by Bill Higgins at the airport and seeing Nola interrogated. Then he explained his theory of why he believed Nola was involved in the scam. Behind Wily's muddy cow eyes, he saw a flicker of something resembling intelligence.
“Sammy Mann said the same thing,” Wily said. “He thinks she's guilty as hell. To tell you the truth, I didn't spot it right away, and I know this girl very well.”
“Sammy Mann's living out here?” Valentine said, the threatening fax still in his thoughts.
“Sammy Mann is head of the casino's surveillance. He's my boss.”
Valentine nearly spit water through his nose.
“He got religion,” Wily explained. “He's one of us.”
“Did he tell you I busted him once?”
“Sure did. Said he beat the rap.”
“My ass, he beat the rap. He'd still be in prison if he hadn't paid off the judge.”
That really got Wily laughing. “Sammy bribed a judge? Oh boy, that's really good.”
Their talk drifted back to work. Wily pounded the bourbons in an attempt to keep up with Valentine's need to quench an insatiable thirst he'd had since stepping off the plane. Soon the pit boss's face resembled a big red blister.
“Sammy thinks this weasel Fontaine set Nola up,” Wily said, his tongue thickened by the booze. “Sammy thinks it was all a smoke screen. He thinks Fontaine had something else in mind.”
“Like what?”
“A big score.”
“Fifty grand is a big score.”
“Not anymore,” Wily said, eyeing something floating in his drink. He fished it out with a spoon. “Of all the joints in town, he picked ours. There has to be a reason.”
“And you want me to find out what that is.”
“And him, if you can.”
“That's a tall order.”
“If it's any help, we think he's still in town.”
“Bill Higgins tell you that?”
“Uh-huh.”
According to a billboard Valentine had seen at the airport, the population of the Las Vegas metropolitan region was hovering at just over one million. As big cities went, that wasn't very big at all. With Nola out of jail and the police watching her, Fontaine was sure to show up sooner or later, and Longo's men would nab him. It was a no-brainer.
“Double my fee if he gets caught?”
Wily was too polluted to think it through. Normally, Valentine didn't take advantage of drunks, but this one had comped him the worst fucking room in the house. Raised a Catholic, he believed in making amends, the sooner the better.
“Sounds good to me,” the pit boss declared.
7
It was Nola's best friend Sherry Solomon who bailed her out of jail later that afternoon. Sherry was a Southern California blonde with a great face and killer legs. She had migrated to Vegas the same week as Nola, her '79 Volkswagen van stuffed with her things. They'd gone to dealing school together and for a while shared a crummy one bedroom, until they'd both gotten on their feet. Sherry was a survivor and Nola had called her first, knowing that even though Sherry didn't have five grand to post bond, she probably knew someone who did.
“My ex-boyfriend's brother is a bail bondsman,” Sherry explained as she handed the parking attendant three bucks. “Saul Katz. He runs those ugly billboards you see around town. You know: ‘Don't bawl—call Saul!' I told him you were square and wouldn't run and leave him holding the bag.”
“Thanks, Sherry,” Nola said, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Hey—you going to be okay?”
Rummaging around in the glove compartment, Nola extracted a Kleenex and honked her nose savagely. “I spent the last six hours in a room handcuffed to a chair. You know what that feels like? Every guy who looks at you, it's like he owns you. I feel like a piece of meat.”
Ten minutes later, Sherry pulled the car into the Jumbo Burger and ordered their usual fare, extra-large crispy fries and diet orange sodas. Back on the highway, her mouth stuffed, Sherry said, “Raul's screwed, isn't he?”
Nola punched a straw through the plastic lid in her soda, the sound like a small gun going off. “Sure looks that way.”
“I asked Saul to post his bond . . .”
Nola laughed bitterly. “And he said, ‘For some stinking wetback? Get real
, honey.'”
“It wasn't like that. Don't get so down on everybody.”
Nola took a long swallow of her drink, then shot her friend a hard, unforgiving look. “In case you hadn't figured it out, I'm fucked, my dear. At least Raul gets to go home. Vegas is home for me. Nick is never going to hire me back, and if they somehow find me guilty, I could do time in the state pen.”
“You going to hire an attorney?”
“With whose money?” Nola asked. “My house isn't worth squat. Whatever equity I have is in profit-sharing from work, and I can't touch it.” Nola put her chin on her chest and fought back another wave of tears. “I don't know what the hell I'm going to do.”
Sherry took the exit for the Meadows and drove past the vacant guardhouse. The identical two-bedroom houses were lined up in neat rows, the sharply pitched roof lines making tepees against the burnt-orange desert. Some days it looked pretty as a picture, others ugly as sin, and she supposed it all depended on your frame of mind. She hit the brakes when she saw a school bus unloading some kids in front of them.
“There's an ugly rumor going around the casino.”
Nola perked up, a worried look on her face.
“Wily told one of the dealers that Sammy Mann has a videotape of you and Fontaine having a conversation in the casino parking lot.”
“In the parking lot?”
Sherry nodded. She drove down Nola's block, the driveways filled with identical Japanese imports. “Nick has cameras everywhere, even outside.”
Nola was sitting up very straight, her face taut and expressionless. “And when did this supposed conversation between me and Fontaine take place?”
“Three days ago. After we got off our shift.”
Nola stuck out her tongue and let out a Bronx cheer.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Sherry said, clearly perplexed.
“It means ‘So what?'” Nola said, crossing her arms defiantly. “For the love of Christ, I talk to a hundred people every day when I'm working.”
“But Sammy Mann's got it on video.”
“So what?” Nola said, starting to fume. “The Enquirer runs pictures of famous people standing next to criminals. It doesn't mean they know them.”
“Wily's saying you did it out of spite, that you hate Nick for what he did to you ten years ago.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Nola said, perfectly imitating Nick's annoying yammer.
“Do you?”
“Hate Nick? No more than anyone else who works for him.”
“Wily says you were sweet on Fontaine.”
“Fontaine was a nice guy. Aren't those the ones we're supposed to like?”
“Did you meet him in a bar or something?”
“For the love of Christ, Sherry. I don't know the guy,” Nola practically shouted. “I'd never seen him, and that's the God's honest truth.”
Sherry pulled the car up Nola's driveway and put it in park, letting the engine idle. “Sammy and Wily are putting the heat on everyone in the casino. They're asking lots of questions.”
“Tell them anything?” Nola asked sarcastically.
“I told them you're the squarest dealer in the joint.”
“Thanks for the thumbs-up.”
Sherry put her hand on her friend's knee and gave it a squeeze. Once, on a stormy Friday night when no decent man in Las Vegas would have them, they'd shared a bed, an experience that had spiritually bonded them, if only briefly.
“You'd level with me if you knew this guy,” Sherry said softly. “Wouldn't you?”
“You sound jealous,” Nola teased her.
“Come on. I'm trying to help you.”
“Of course I'd level with you,” Nola insisted. “You know I can't keep a secret. So the next time Wily bugs you, tell him the truth. I don't know Fontaine.”
Nola's lips brushed her best friend's cheek, then she opened her door. “Thanks for the save, Sherry. I really appreciate it.”
“What are best friends for?” Sherry said.
Sherry watched Nola disappear into her depressingly plain little house. Her friend was doomed and wasn't doing much to help herself. It made her sick to see Nola throwing her life away, and she put the car into reverse and backed it down the drive.
Sherry did care, almost as much about Nola as herself, and she waited until she was a few blocks away before sticking her hand beneath the seat and switching off the tape recorder.
The police had ripped Nola's place apart, then put everything back where it didn't belong. Going to her bedroom, Nola knelt on the floor, pulled a thin cardboard box from beneath the bed, and removed its flimsy lid. A cry escaped her lips.
Her diary was gone, along with stacks of letters and bank statements and other useless paper she dutifully stored for the IRS each year. Whatever the police hadn't known about her personal life before, they certainly knew now.
The clothes Raul kept in her closet were also gone, and she guessed the cops had packed a suitcase for him, having decided to deport him once they'd realized she wouldn't play ball. What Nazis they were! Without evidence, they'd resorted to breaking the same laws they were sworn to protect. But Raul would get even. Thousands of illegal Mexican immigrants were slipping into Texas every week, and it wouldn't be long before he'd be back on her doorstep, panting like a lovesick pup.
The bathroom had been turned upside down. Towels on the floor, her prescription medicine in the sink. She put the bottles back into the cabinet and tossed out those medications that had expired. Done, she ran her finger across the labels, sensing something was amiss.
“For Christ's sake,” she swore.
Her prescription Zoloft, the little blue happy pills that kept her afloat, were gone. Nola's eyes welled with tears. What were the police trying to do, make her go crazy?
In the kitchen, a blinking answering machine awaited her. Six messages. She listened to the first five seconds of each before hitting Erase.
“This is Chantel with MCI—”
“Hi, my name is Robyn with Olin Mott Studios—”
“This is a courtesy call—”
“Fred's Carpet Cleaning here. We're having a special in your—”
“This is AT&T—”
The last message was a guy breathing. After ten seconds, the line went dead. Barely able to control herself, Nola punched *69 on her phone.
“Brother's Lounge,” a man's gruff voice answered.
“Tell Frank Fontaine to leave me alone,” she screamed into the receiver. “Do you understand? Tell him to stop calling me!”
“Frank's not here,” the man said, his tone indicating he was used to such calls. “Wanna leave a message?”
“Yes. Tell that pond slime to climb back under his rock and leave me alone. And he can go fuck himself while he's at it.”
“. . . ‘fuck himself while he's at it' . . .” the man repeated, as if writing it down.
“And you can go fuck yourself, too,” Nola exploded.
“. . . ‘go fuck yourself, too' . . .” the man echoed.
Nola slammed the receiver into the cradle, then ripped the phone out of its jack. Comics. Las Vegas was filled with comics.
Off the kitchen was a closet she'd converted into a study by laying down a square of cheap carpet and sticking an Office Depot secretary in the corner. It was her private space, and Nola slipped inside the tiny room and shut the door, the sudden darkness calming her down like it always did.
She booted up her Compaq Presario, the darkness pierced by seven and a half inches of blue iridescence. Entering Windows, she hit the File button. The program had a function that let her view the last eight files that had been opened. Scrolling through them, she realized that the police had already been here. There wasn't much to see, mostly letters she'd never gotten around to finishing and her finances on a Lotus spreadsheet, but their invasion of her in cyberspace seemed the ultimate insult. She erased everything.
Exiting Windows, she logged onto the Internet through AOL and typed in her password.
“You've got mail!” an automated voice cheerfully announced.
Nola looked in her mailbox. One message had arrived dated this morning. The return e-mail address was unfamiliar. She took a deep breath. Who was looking for her now?
Nola,
Heard you got busted. Sorry (really).
You've never been through this before. Here are some things you need to know.
The police have bugged your phone. They have probably moved into an empty house nearby and are watching you right now.
It doesn't matter that you are innocent. In their eyes, you are guilty, and since they're the law, you are guilty, unless you choose to do something about it.
You need to act fast. I dropped a key in your mailbox. It opens a safe deposit box at the First American Savings & Loan near your house. Use the money to hire a good lawyer. I forged your name, so you have access.
Love,
Frank
She fell back in her chair. Love, Frank? Who did this shark think he was? And how had he gotten her e-mail address? It was a setup, plain and simple. Deleting the message, she shut down her computer.
She sat in the air-conditioned darkness and stared at the screen's muted afterglow. It faded slowly, a great metaphor for her own predicament. Fontaine was right about one thing. She was screwed. She'd been suspected of cheating, and in this town, that was enough to lose your sheriff's card. Without that little piece of laminated plastic, she couldn't work in a casino. And as sad as it sounded, dealing blackjack was the only real skill she had.
This is another fine mess you've gotten yourself into.
Yes, it was. Her inner voice was great at stating the obvious. Another sad chapter in the sorry life of Nola the Victim, an epic novel of stupidity and needless suffering. See Nola lied to, spit on, and treated like a human doormat, only to come back for more like a washed-up fighter who's grown fond of eating punches.