Grift Sense

by James Swain

  Barely seventeen, Nola Briggs was married on a rainy Saturday morning in a Catholic church on the south side of the Bronx. The priest, Father Murphy, had at first said no—he did not marry children—then changed his mind when Sonny slipped him a C note, and he forever bonded them in holy matrimony.

  “I wish I didn't have to leave,” Sonny said as they stood on the church steps. “You know that, don't you?”

  “Yes,” Nola replied. “I know that.”

  “I'm sorry it has to be like this,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  “I'll come back for you. I promise. I will come back.”

  “Stop saying it, then.”

  Nola twirled the gold band encircling the third finger on her left hand. Rain spit on their heads. She had wanted her wedding day to be the Sound of Music; instead, it was On the Waterfront. Sonny took his leather jacket off and covered her shoulders. She shut her eyes as he kissed her on the lips, wishing the moment would last forever.

  The shrill blast of a car's horn ruined the moment. Sonny's father, Elvis Fontana, owner of Elvis's House of Billiards, sat in a rusted-out Lincoln across the street, looking homicidal. He pointed at his wristwatch and mouthed the words Hurry up.

  “I'll call you every day—and write letters,” Sonny promised, holding Nola in his arms. “I swear. Every day.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “Don't make it sound like that. I wouldn't have asked you to marry me if I didn't mean it, would I?”

  “Why doesn't your father just work it out?” Nola said, her eyes brimming with tears. “Why doesn't he just say he's sorry and give the money back?”

  “You don't understand,” Sonny said. “He didn't just take their money—he cheated them.”

  “So?” Nola said. “That doesn't give them the right to kill him.”

  “To these men, it does,” Sonny told her.

  Elvis Fontana did a U-turn and pulled the Lincoln up to the curb. He hit the horn again. Nola got the feeling that if she stalled long enough, he might have a heart attack and die right there.

  “Good-bye,” Sonny said. “I'll call you in a few days.”

  They kissed a final time, his mouth warm and sweet. Then Sonny ran down the church steps and jumped into the car, his father peeling out before the passenger door was shut.

  “I love you,” his voice trailed down the empty street.

  Nola hugged herself, trying to fight off the cold. She thought about what Father Murphy had said about love and friendship and patience and all the other things that made up a true marriage. Then she began to cry, knowing it was all lies.

  “I had a miscarriage the following week,” Nola said, crushing out her cigarette and ending her story.

  “Did you ever hear from Sonny again?”

  “No,” she said.

  The airless interrogation room in the basement of Metro LVPD headquarters fell silent. Nola shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Underman lit up a fresh cigarette and placed it between his client's trembling lips. Longo, who was doing the questioning, glanced across the room at his standing-room only crowd, which included Valentine, a freshly shaved Bill Higgins, Sammy Mann, and, on the other side of the two-way mirror, Wily and Nick Nicocropolis.

  “That's not true,” Nola suddenly said. “I got a couple of postcards. He bounced around for a while. Miami, Atlanta, Myrtle Beach. Then the postcards stopped. Not a peep for twenty years.”

  She inhaled pleasurably, then crushed the cigarette out in a tin ashtray—and kept crushing after the flame was long dead. It was something a crazy person might do, and Valentine stared at her, then her attorney. Underman had his best poker face on and had not uttered a syllable during her entire confession.

  “How did Sonny find you?” Longo said.

  “He didn't,” Nola said. “I found him.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  Suddenly, Sammy Mann broke in. “You had it in for Nick, so you went looking for Sonny Fontana.”

  Nola flipped the butt out of the ashtray and hit Sammy square in the chest with it. “Who asked you here, you stupid cretin?”

  “I did,” Longo snapped, sliding the ashtray off the table. “Do that again, and I'll cuff you to the chair. Answer the question.”

  “I never had it in for Nick,” Nola insisted. “I worked for him for ten years. I was loyal. Doesn't that count for something?”

  “He dumped you,” Sammy said. “He asked you to get your tits blown up, and you said no. He hurt you.”

  Nola stared at Sammy in bewilderment, then at Longo. “Who fed you that line of crap?”

  “Your old friend Sherry Solomon,” Sammy said.

  “Sherry's lying,” she shot back. “Nick never said that to me. It had nothing to do with my tits, you dried up pencil-dick!”

  “It's the truth,” Sammy swore.

  “No, it's not! Ask Nick.”

  “Nick doesn't remember—”

  Longo looked ready to erupt. “Shut up, Sammy!”

  Had it been Valentine's interrogation, he would have dragged Sammy into the hallway and throttled him. The ex-hustler had just ripped the heart out of the state's case. Because Nick had no recollection of his affair with Nola, whatever Nola said about the relationship had to stick.

  “Whatever Sherry Solomon told you is not to be discussed,” Longo said, his cheeks burning. “I don't want you bringing her up again, okay?”

  “Sherry Solomon is a lesbian,” Nola told the room. “We slept together once, and she's been trying to get me in the sack ever since.”

  “You slept with Sherry Solomon?” Longo asked incredulously.

  “That's right. A few weeks after I broke up with Nick.”

  “Christ Almighty,” Bill Higgins said under his breath.

  Valentine glanced at the room's two-way mirror, wondering if Nick and Wily understood what had just happened. Sherry Solomon had slept with too many of the players to be considered a credible witness. The state's case had just flown out the window. Only Nola and her attorney didn't know it.

  Longo was sweating. To Nola, he said, “You said you found Sonny. How?”

  Nola stared gloomily at the floor. “Last February, Wily gave the dealers the Griffin Book. He told us to memorize the faces of the known blackjack hustlers so we wouldn't get cheated. One day I was looking through it and saw Sonny's picture. It brought back a lot of memories. I still had our marriage papers with Sonny's Social Security number on it, so I hired one of those services to track him down. Eventually they found him in Mexico, living in this walled estate inside a country club.”

  “And you contacted him?” Longo said.

  “I sent him a postcard with my e-mail address,” she explained. “He e-mailed me a letter; I wrote him back. That went on for a while. I think he wanted to make sure it was really me and not someone else.”

  “Were people after him?”

  Nola smiled tiredly. “People have always been chasing Sonny. Anyway, he finally called and we talked for a few hours. It was great. Sonny was always so . . . I don't know . . . so easy to be around. Not much to look at, but a real charmer. I hung up feeling like Cinderella at the ball.

  “The next day, a FedEx package arrives. One first-class ticket to Mexico City and a dozen roses. I called in sick and took off. I figured, what did I have to lose?”

  Nola took a deep breath, suddenly looking about as pissed off as a woman could look. “Looking back, I guess you could say Sonny set me up. He lived in a swanky estate with more security than the Pentagon. We ate and drank and fucked and hung around the pool and played cards all day long.”

  “How is that a setup?” Longo wanted to know.

  “We always played for money, and it was always competitive. When Sonny and I were kids, we flipped baseball cards and tossed nickels every day. It was just like old times. We must have played five or six hours a day for the whole week.”

  “And?” Longo said, not seeing the significance.

  Nola shot a weary glance at Sammy. All
the talking was wearing her out. “You explain it to him,” she said.

  “Fontana was looking for tells,” Sammy told the detective. “Little tics in Nola's personality that would tip him off to the cards she was holding. Until now, it's only been used in poker.”

  “So Fontana taught himself to read you,” Longo said.

  “Right,” Nola said. “By the end of the trip, I couldn't beat him at anything. It was amazing.”

  “Okay. What happened after you left Mexico?”

  “Nothing,” Nola said. “He put me on a plane and I didn't hear from him. A month later, I overheard Wily saying that some gorilla had beaten Sonny to death in Reno. I went home, had a good cry, and got on with my life.”

  “That's it?” Longo asked.

  “That's it,” she said.

  At two o'clock, they took a break. The basement was a warren of small rooms, and Valentine got lost looking for the john. Stacks of cardboard boxes stood outside the offices, making each doorway identical. Finally, a sympathetic secretary showed him the way.

  It was Higgins who took over the questioning when everyone reappeared in the interrogation room ten minutes later.

  “Let's jump to Wednesday night,” he began. “Frank Fontaine sits down at your blackjack table and takes you to the cleaners. You practically couldn't win a hand. He comes back the next night and does the same thing. Didn't you see a connection?”

  “No,” Nola said adamantly.

  “Come on, Nola,” Higgins said, leaning on the table, getting in her face. “You're a professional dealer. How many times has a player done this to you?”

  “Hey,” she protested, “it happens.”

  “What are you saying?” Higgins said, the edge creeping into his voice. “You thought this was luck?”

  “A blind pig gets an acorn every once in a while.”

  “Not like this,” Higgins said forcefully. “Twenty grand the first day, thirty the second. You must have suspected something.”

  “You think I knew it was him? Look at the photos of Fontaine,” she said, a fresh cigarette glowing angrily in her mouth. “Fontaine's chin's chiseled and his hair's thicker than Sonny's. Even his voice was different. I didn't realize it was Sonny until Mr. Underman told me.”

  Higgins frowned. “Why didn't you tell the police about Sonny before? It's against the law for a dealer to have a relationship with a hustler. You know that, don't you?”

  “The law does not require my client to make her relationship with Sonny Fontana known,” Underman said, speaking for the first time.

  “What are you talking about?” Higgins said.

  “Nola is still technically married to Sonny and has a certificate to prove it,” the defense attorney said. “By law, spouses are immune from having to implicate their partners.”

  “You think that applies here?”

  “Well, because they were married before Nola went to work at the Acropolis, yes, I do.”

  “Look,” Nola declared, her nostrils flaring angrily. “I loved the guy, okay? But I didn't know it was him. The only reason I got arrested is because Sammy let Sonny fly out the door.”

  Sammy Mann erupted. “That's a lie!”

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Higgins told the head of security. To Nola, he said, “You're saying the casino is using you as a scapegoat.”

  She blew a monster cloud of smoke across the room. “You're goddamned right I am.”

  “You spent a week with him,” Sammy said accusingly, ignoring Higgins's command.

  “So?” Nola shot back.

  “You were in from the start,” Sammy said. “You broke the law, and you know it.”

  Nola cast an evil eye at Sammy, then the others. When no one corrected him, she jammed her cigarette into the tin ashtray, fighting to control herself. “Which law is that? The one for being naive? Or maybe there's one for letting your heart be broken by every sweet-talking guy you meet. Yeah, I broke both of those laws. Go ahead, put me in jail and throw away the key. I deserve to be punished.”

  “So who you picking?” Wily asked, slurping a Mountain Dew while staring at Nola through the two-way mirror.

  “Holyfield,” Nick replied, eating a bag of stale pretzels.

  “They're giving two-to-one odds over at the Golden Nugget.”

  “They're morons,” Nick snapped.

  “You read the paper?” Wily asked. “Guy who writes sports for the Sun, Joe Taylor, says the Animal is in the best shape of his life. Running five miles a day, knocking out his sparring partners. Joe Taylor says—”

  Nick turned around in his seat and cuffed Wily in the head.

  “Holyfield! You hear what I'm saying? Holyfield!”

  Wily refused to give in. “But the Animal looks great.”

  Nick tossed a handful of pretzels into the air, just to get Wily's attention. “No buts, stupid. The winner is gonna be Evander Holyfield. The casinos in this town have lost more money giving odds against Holyfield than any athlete who's ever lived. Three-to-one underdog against Buster Douglas; five-to-one underdog against Riddick Bowe in the rematch; twenty-to-one against Iron Mike in the first fight, even money the second. Now you're telling me some punk who just got out of prison is gonna win. Holyfield. Let me hear you say it.”

  “Jesus,” Wily said. “Can't I have an opinion?”

  “A what?”

  “An opinion.”

  “No. Now say it.”

  “All right already. Holyfield.”

  Nick patted him on the shoulder. “You're learning, kid.”

  Through the glass, they saw Longo escorting Nola and her attorney out of the interrogation room. Something important had happened and they'd missed it. Valentine appeared in the doorway with a disgusted look on his face.

  “What's going on?” Nick asked.

  “Everyone's going out to Nola's house,” Valentine said. “Nola says she has e-mail letters from Fontaine that will prove she's innocent.”

  Nick tossed the pretzels into the wastebasket. The Holyfield fight was two days away. Tomorrow the whales would start rolling into town, deep-pocket guys who knew how to throw money around. All he needed was one to walk into his joint and his financial troubles would be gone. He was sick of Nola, ready to move on to grander things.

  “So?” Nick grumbled.

  “If the letters are real, Longo will have to let her walk.”

  “What about my fifty grand?”

  “Kiss it good-bye,” Valentine said.

  Nick jumped up, knocking his chair over.

  “Over my dead body,” he said, running out the door.

  15

  Chewing on an unlit cigar, Nick drove his Cadillac Seville through the prefab development Nola Briggs called home. A hundred yards ahead, Longo's unmarked sedan turned down a dead-end street. Nick flipped his turn indicator on, then fiddled with the AC. They'd been on the road twenty minutes and the vents were still blowing hot air.

  Valentine rode shotgun, Wily and Sammy Mann in the back. No one had spoken since leaving Metro LVPD headquarters, and it made the ride seem twice as long. Finally, Wily broke the silence. Sponging his face with a hankie, he said, “Where the hell are we, anyway?”

  No one knew. Sammy griped about not being able to find his way around the burbs anymore, the developments choking the desert like weeds. Nick slowed down for a mob of kids on roller blades.

  “You still think Nola's guilty?” Wily asked Valentine.

  Valentine fanned himself with a magazine. “I sure do.”

  “I don't know,” Wily said, drawing glares from everyone in the car. He quickly added, “I mean, she's looking at five to ten years. Why doesn't she turn state's evidence and rat on Fontaine? They'd probably let her go.”

  Wily was talking like a moron. Valentine tried to explain it to him. “Because she's in too deep. She's switched sides.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I've seen it a hundred times before.”

  “You have?”

  Val
entine turned around to look at him. “When the circumstances are right, most people will cheat. It's human nature.”

  Wily said, “Define most people.”

  “Most people means everybody who gambles,” Valentine replied. “Look, my own grandmother used to cheat. I'm talking about family games, mind you. She'd hold her cards in one hand and her rosary in the other. I used to think she was praying, but one day I noticed her lips moving, and I went out of the room, then snuck back in behind her. Guess what? She was using the rosary like an abacus. Granny was card-counting.”

  “Your own grandmother,” Wily said, astonished.

  “It was a real eye-opener,” Valentine admitted.

  Longo pulled his sedan up Nola's driveway. Nola's house was identical to every other one on the block, the sameness giving Valentine pause. How could someone live here ten years, he wondered, and not get angry?

  Nick parked across the street. The four men got out and crossed together. Handcuffed, Nola huddled on her front lawn with Longo, Higgins, and her defense attorney.

  “Let's make this fast,” Longo said as they converged. He had pinned a silver badge to his lapel to make it clear to everyone that he was in charge.

  “I want to see those letters,” Nick said.

  “They're real,” Nola told him. “You'll see.”

  A pubescent horde had gathered curbside. Nola raised her manacled wrists and called to them. “Hey, Johnny; hey, Taylor; hey, Josh. You boys staying out of trouble?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” they chorused, heads nodding in unison.

  To her attorney, Nola said, “There isn't a boy on this block that I haven't changed diapers for.”

  “It must be hard to have them see you like this,” Underman said.

  “It sure is.” Pointing her manacled hands at a potted cactus by the front door, Nola said, “The key's under there, Lieutenant.”

  Longo lifted the plant and retrieved it.

  “You have a security system?” he asked, slipping the key into the front door.

  “No,” she said, “and I don't own a dog.”

  “Thanks.” Longo opened the front door and went inside. A blast of cold air hit the front lawn, momentarily cooling everyone down. Valentine took a direct hit, the sudden drop in temperature making him shiver. He watched Wily stroll to the curb and pull out his wallet.