by James Swain
“Here,” the pit boss said, tossing each kid a dollar. “Do everybody a favor and get lost.”
Pocketing the money, the boys sauntered down the street, stopping at the corner to resume watching.
Longo appeared in the doorway. “House is clean.”
Nola marched inside with her attorney and Bill Higgins on her heels. Nick and Valentine followed. As Sammy Mann and Wily tried to follow them, Longo filled the doorway.
“Six is a crowd,” the lieutenant said. “You boys wait out here.”
“Why?” Wily asked petulantly. “We're part of this, too.”
“I know,” Longo said. “You fingered her. That's why you're staying.”
Then the lieutenant slammed the door in their faces.
Back in Nick's Caddy, Wily said, “What do we do now?”
Sammy turned on the engine and flipped on the AC. More hot air blew in their faces. Nick's Caddies never worked right, yet he was more loyal to them than he was to his women.
“Hut eeduck be thesuck ou shoufut,” Sammy said.
“What the hell you saying?”
“It's Arabic,” Sammy explained. “It was my father's favorite expression.”
“I didn't know you were A-rab,” Wily said.
“Well, now you know.”
“So what does it mean?”
“It means ‘Put your finger up your butt and whistle.'”
“Same to you,” Wily said.
At first, Valentine thought Nick was having a stroke.
On stepping foot inside Nola's tiny house, the little Greek had started to babble, the drab interior dredging up long-forgotten memories. Clutching Valentine's arm, he said, “Jesus Christ, I remember this place.”
“You do?”
Nick nodded, pointing at the floor. “Same cheap orange shag carpet. Has to be the ugliest carpet ever, next to the stuff in my casino.” He laughed timidly, eyes sweeping the barren living room.
“Maybe she couldn't afford to replace it,” Valentine suggested.
“The house is the same, Tony. She hasn't changed a thing in ten years. Not since that night.”
Valentine got Nick a glass of water from the kitchen. “What night was that?”
“We were fighting,” Nick said, standing by the sliding glass door and staring at the rock garden in the backyard. “God, I can see it like it was yesterday. Me standing here, Nola where you are, screeching at the top of her lungs.”
“Why was she yelling?”
Nick put his hand to his forehead. “I don't know. I must have said something. You know how women get. A few wrong words and pow!—you're dealing with a demon.” He stared into space, struggling to remember. “She threw a flowerpot at me—nearly took my head off. Then she says, ‘I'll castrate you, you fucking son of a bitch.'”
Nick stopped, looking confused.
“What's wrong,” Valentine said.
“Did Nola really say that,” he questioned himself aloud, “or was it another crazy babe?” Scratching his belly, he said, “I've had so much pussy over the years I sometimes forget where one relationship ended and a new one began, the sex and booze and crazy things I did to impress them all flowing together. Know what I mean?”
Valentine didn't know what Nick meant at all—because he was one of those strange birds who'd slept with the same woman his entire adult life.
“Any regrets?” Valentine asked.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “I should have written it all down.”
Nola's pitiful cries carried from the back of the house. Valentine went down a hallway with Nick on his heels. He found the others standing in Nola's bedroom. The space was small and dark, the blinds tightly drawn. No longer handcuffed, Nola knelt on the floor, a slender cardboard box she'd pulled from beneath the bed lying open before her.
“Sonny's e-mail letters were here,” she insisted tearfully. “I kept them in an envelope with the marriage certificate.” She looked up into their faces. “I swear to God I'm telling the truth.”
“Anyplace else you might have put them?” Higgins said, giving her the benefit of the doubt. “Think hard.”
“No!” she said, rummaging through the box one more time. “They were here. He must have come and taken them.”
“Who?” Higgins said.
Nola dropped her chin on her chest and began to weep.
“Sonny set me up,” she sobbed, her chest heaving with each word. “I let him into my life, and look what the fucker did to me.”
She was racked by sobs, unwilling to accept this latest setback. Even Valentine felt his heartstrings take a little tug. Nick dug out a silk hankie, suddenly feeling bad about the whole thing.
“Don't,” Longo cautioned him.
Nick ignored the lieutenant and knelt beside her.
“Here,” he said.
“Thanks, Nick,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Tell me something,” the little Greek said. “I remember being here a long time ago. You and I had a fight.”
“It was more like World War III.”
“I really pissed you off, huh?”
“You sure did.”
Nick glanced at Underman, wondering if he should be having this conversation in his presence. He asked anyway. “What did I do?”
“You don't remember?”
Nick shook his head. “Was it a whopper?”
“Maybe this will spark your memory.”
With Longo's permission, Nola crossed the hall and entered the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, she removed a can of hair spray and tossed it to the lieutenant.
“I couldn't afford a safe,” she explained.
Longo turned the can upside down. It wasn't a can of hair spray at all but a fake with a removable bottom. A ring box fell into the lieutenant's hand. He opened it and whistled. Then he handed it to Nick. “Look familiar?”
Nick stared at the diamond engagement ring that had been hidden in Nola's bathroom for ten years. Judging by its clarity, he guessed it had come from Mordechai's, the finest jeweler in town.
“I bought this for you?” he asked in astonishment.
“You got down on your knees in that living room and asked me to marry you,” Nola blurted out, her face flushed, the years of pent-up rage spilling over. “Asked me to be your bride, your honey, your sweetheart. Only there was a stipulation.”
Nick closed the box, finally remembering. The ring had cost him twenty grand. He'd paid cash. Nola was the best lay he'd ever had. At the time, it seemed like a bargain.
“You wanted me to get my tits done before the wedding,” she went on. “I said no, I'd do it after. You said no, before—you wanted me to come down the aisle with big tits, and I said, ‘What are you marrying, me or my tits?' and you said, ‘I want the whole package.' And I said, ‘Aren't I good enough for you the way I am?' And you just shook your head and said, ‘That's not the point. I want big tits.' And we fought, and finally I threw you out.”
Nick tried to give the ring back. When Nola refused to take it, his face grew pink with embarrassment. It was Higgins who spoke next.
“Wait a minute,” the GCB chief said. “Back at the station, you said Nick never asked you to have your breasts done.”
“That's right,” Nola said.
Higgins burned her with a glare.
“I lied,” Nola explained.
Her defense attorney groaned. Longo and Higgins stared at him, then at each other. Valentine looked at everyone in the room. Only Nick wasn't getting it. Nola had set them up.
Which was why it didn't come as a complete surprise when Valentine heard the bedroom window shatter. The blinds came down, and something round and heavy rolled across the floor and came to rest at Longo's feet. It was a police-issue smoke bomb, normally used to quell riots. Within seconds, a black mushroom cloud enveloped the bedroom.
Valentine reached the door first. Leave it to Longo not to have any backup. In the hall, he encountered a wall of smoke and saw ribbons of gray pouring out of the air-conditionin
g vent. He tried to remember the layout of the house as he stumbled through it. Back in the bedroom, Nola was screaming for help.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
Valentine hesitated. Emotion was hard to fake, and Nola's cries sounded real. What the hell was going on? Or had Sonny set her up as well?
Underman burst through a wall of smoke and ran into him. Together they staggered out the front door. Nick appeared behind them, puffing furiously. Upon reaching the lawn, he viciously kicked Underman's legs out from under him and sent the defense attorney sprawling to the grass.
Valentine's heart was pounding furiously, his breath gone. The world was spinning, and he heard the neighborhood kids having a laugh at his expense. He sat down on the grass and waited for his head to clear.
Moments later, Higgins and Longo burst through the front door and onto the lawn. Odorless smoke poured through the front door. Later, they would learn that it had been created by a dry-ice machine and was harmless.
“Where's Nola?” Valentine asked them.
No one knew.
“Let me go, let me go,” Nola screamed at a man wearing a black ski mask who'd come through her window.
Instead, the man knocked her down. Nola felt a cloth bag being fitted over her head, then felt the man toss her over his shoulder and climb out the shattered window. His body was solid muscle. Nola pounded his back until her hands ached. Laughing, her kidnapper slapped Nola's fanny.
“Stop it!” she screamed through the hood.
The ground became macadam. Her kidnapper stopped running and Nola felt him dig a key ring out of his pants pocket, then heard the trunk of a car pop open. He stuffed her into the trunk, forcing her body into the cavity where a spare tire had been.
“Don't worry, honey,” he said, his drawl pure Texan. “I drilled plenty of air holes. You won't croak.”
Then he slammed the trunk closed. Moments later, the car's tires were squealing. Her kidnapper hit his horn; the unmistakable shouts of the neighborhood kids rang out. Please, God, Nola prayed in the darkness, don't let him hit one of them.
The car went up a steep incline, and Nola guessed they were on the parkway entrance right outside her development. She waited for the wail of police sirens, her last chance. But soon they were speeding down the highway, and she felt the fight leave her body.
Her kidnapper played let's-get-laid music as he drove. Guns 'n' Roses, Van Halen, Aerosmith. Women were horny bitches, and men, beer-guzzling predators. Nola pressed her hands against her ears as Aerosmith's Steve Tyler implored her to “Sit on my big ten-inch.” She wanted to cry, but her conscience would not let her.
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.