by James Swain
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.”
“I'm curious—that's all.”
“I have a snitch on my payroll.”
“You want me to figure it out?”
“Go ahead.”
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much says I can't figure out who your snitch is?”
“Ten bucks,” Higgins said.
“Make it fifty.”
“Fifty? That's pretty steep.”
“We're talking about my reputation here, Bill.”
“How many guesses?”
“Just one.”
“Fifty it is.”
“Roxanne,” Valentine said.
At the light, Higgins threw the Volvo into park and dug out his wallet. He extracted one of the new fifties that looked like Monopoly money and handed it over. Valentine stuffed the bill into his pocket, no longer broke.
“Remind me never to gamble with you.”
They drove through a borderline slum on the northern tip of the Strip. Valentine did not think he'd been in a more depressing place on a Sunday morning in a long time. The streets were run-down and littered with trash, the people on them dragging their asses as if strung out, pulses barely registering.
“Why Roxanne?” Valentine wanted to know.
“She's smart and dependable. Her dad was a cop.”
“So she told me.”
“She called me last night after you got the fax from your son. At first I couldn't believe it was Sonny Fontana. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I was always suspicious about his dying in Tahoe. No autopsy. So I decided to do a little snooping. I had my records department pull up Sonny's Social Security number; then I went online to the Social Security Web site. They keep a death index of all deceased Americans, and Sonny wasn't on it. That means his Social Security number is still being used. I contacted the IRS, and guess what? They had a record. Last known address was three months ago. He's been living in Vegas.”
“Scoping out the Acropolis,” Valentine said.
“That would be my guess.”
“Why would he use his old Social Security number?”
“It's his way of having fun.”
They turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard. The Acropolis stuck out like a dwarf standing among giants. Maybe that was it; just like any other bully, Sonny had chosen to rob the littlest kid on the block.
“I heard some disturbing news,” Higgins said as they waited at a light. “Someone in town put a contract out on your life.”
Valentine turned sideways in his seat.
“No one wanted to take it. Whacking tourists is a no-no. I put the word out on the street that you were an ex-cop, and if anyone even tried, I'd make them pay.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“So here's my question,” Higgins said. “Is there someone in town who hates you that much, or is this Sonny's doing?”
“It's Sonny,” Valentine said.
“You guys got something personal going on?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind filling me in?”
“Back in '84, a mob Sonny was running ripped off Resorts International in Atlantic City. There was a detective on duty who got wise and chased them outside. Sonny and his boys beat the detective to death. I got there too late.”
“This detective a friend of yours?” Higgins asked.
“My brother-in-law,” Valentine replied.
The light changed and Higgins drove a hundred yards to the next red light. Throwing the car into park, he said, “So this is personal.”
“You bet.”
“Mind telling me what you plan to do if you catch Fontana?”
“That all depends.”
“On what?”
“Where and when I catch him.”
“You're saying you'll kill him.”
“It could happen.”
The light turned green, but Higgins wasn't going anywhere. Eyeing Valentine, he said, “Do that, and I'll arrest you, Tony.”
“I'm sure you will, Bill,” Valentine said.
Nola Briggs's injuries were not as serious as first believed. Her wrist was only sprained and her ribs were badly bruised; she was back in the city jail cooling her heels when Underman finally got to her.
A plate of two-inch Plexiglas separated Underman from his shell-shocked client. It was obvious she'd been through a war, and he found it hard to imagine someone so small and helpless taking down four of Las Vegas's finest. He'd completely underestimated her, which he supposed had been his first mistake.
“I'm afraid I've got some bad news,” Underman said, knowing no other way to put it. “The police would like to give you their own polygraph test.”
“Can they do that?”
“No. But if you don't, Judge Burke won't release you.”
“What do they want to ask me that I haven't already told them?” she said, massaging her bandaged arm. “How many times can I say I didn't do anything?”
“Nola, listen to me—”
“No, you listen,” she said, her eyes burning a hole through the protective glass. “I didn't do anything, and they know it.”
Underman paused as a burly female guard escorted a prisoner into the adjacent booth. When the guard was gone, he brought his face to the plastic and placed his mouth against the oval wire mesh that allowed them to talk.
“Nola, I had a very unpleasant thing happen to me in the courtroom this morning,” he whispered. “I stepped on a land mine. I discovered I wasn't really representing an innocent blackjack dealer. I was representing an accomplice of Sonny Fontana, probably the single most hated individual in the state of Nevada. No attorney in his right mind would do that, at least not one who had his practice based here. You set me up, you little bitch.”
Nola began to speak, then stopped, her mouth moving silently up and down. “Sonny Fontana? Why are you bringing him up?”
So she knew him. Underman forged ahead. “The money you used to pay me. Was it yours?”
“No,” she mumbled.
“Damn you,” he swore angrily. “That's the Acropolis's money, isn't it? I know how the casinos work. The numbers on those bills are in consecutive order so the GCB can trace whose bank account it ends up in. It's tainted, and you knew it.”
“No,” Nola sputtered, beginning to tear up. “I swear—”
“I'm going to the judge and tell him I want off this case unless you come clean with me,” Underman said, his eyes spitting venom. “You understand what I'm saying? I'm going to tell the judge that you paid me with the casino's money, stolen money, and that will be that.”
“You can't do that,” she cried. “You're my attorney.”
“Not for much longer.”
“Mr. Underman—”
“Come clean, or I'm going to walk. The choice is yours.”
Nola drew closer, the tip of her freckled nose touching the plastic, desperately try
ing to win him back. “I didn't do anything. Everything I said to you before was true.”
“That's a clever play on words,” he said. “‘Didn't do anything.' That's what the examiner asked when you were polygraphed. ‘Did you do anything, Nola?' Well, maybe you didn't do anything, but that still doesn't mean that you didn't participate. Here's a question. Have you ever known a man named Sonny Fontana?”
“What if I have?”
Underman pushed his chair out of the booth and motioned for the guard.
“Please,” Nola hissed through the wire mesh. “Don't leave me high and dry, Mr. Underman.”
Her attorney glared at her. “The truth, Nola. What does it take for me to hear the truth? Do you know him or not?”
“I did know him. He's dead.”
“No, he's not. He got a face-lift, and now goes by the name Frank Fontaine.”
“What?!”
Nola's hand went to her mouth, the shock on her face all too real. The female guard waddled over. She weighed two hundred pounds and was shaped like a bowling pin. Underman said, “Please. I need another minute with my client.”
The guard scowled. “Don't use me as leverage, mister.”
“No, ma'am,” Underman replied.
The guard waddled back to her high chair and sat down.
“That bastard,” Nola swore under her breath. “He used me.”
Underman dragged his chair back into the booth.
“You're saying Fontana set you up,” he whispered.
Nola nodded her head savagely.
“And you never saw it coming.”
“Not until you just told me.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Too long.”
“How long is that?”
“Since we were kids.”
“Were you involved?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, were you in love with him?”
Nola let out a bitter laugh, the sound shaped by a lifetime of hurt and betrayal. She dug a nasty-looking hankie from her pocket and honked her nose into it.
“Was I ‘involved'?” she said, mocking him. “Hell, Mr. Underman, I was married to the son of a bitch.”
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