Grift Sense

by James Swain

  “Who's there?” a woman's voice said meekly.

  “Guess,” Nick said.

  The door opened and a sliver of yellow light leaked out from within.

  “Hey, Nick,” Nola whispered.

  They slipped into the room. The accommodations were the kind you rented by the hour, with a waterbed and a TV bolted to the floor that took coins and showed porno. Valentine checked the bathroom, then went to the window and lifted a blind with one finger. In a loud voice, he said, “Mind telling us how you got here?”

  Nola stared at him blankly. She sat on the bed with Nick, holding hands. If Valentine didn't know better, he would have sworn they'd just gotten married.

  “You didn't walk here,” Valentine said accusingly. “Did you?”

  “Leave her alone,” Nick said.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because somebody beat her up, that's why.”

  Valentine got down on one knee to have a look at her. She'd been worked over by a pro. Her eyes were blackened, her nostrils were bloodied, and her lower lip sported a little purple pig. Ugly, but nothing disfiguring: no teeth gone, the pretty little nose intact. To Nick, he said, “I hope you're not buying this little charade.”

  Nick blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Somebody did this with some oranges stuffed into a nylon stocking,” Valentine explained. “It's an old trick, causes lots of bruises.” To Nola he said, “Didn't they?”

  Nola stifled a pathetic little sob. Nick put his arm around her, shielding her from Valentine's accusation.

  “Tony, you're a real asshole,” Nick said.

  Valentine's face grew hot. He stood up and pointed a finger at Nick. “Five minutes, like we agreed.”

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “Five minutes.”

  “I'm calling the cops in five.”

  “Five minutes,” Nick repeated. “Now just get the hell out, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Valentine went to the door. He'd done what he'd been hired to do. Now it was time to extricate himself from Nick's crazy world and go back to his own. His son needed him, and so did Mabel. And he desperately needed them. He opened the door and stepped outside.

  The loudmouthed announcer had said that Holyfield had taken more punishment tonight than most boxers endure in a lifetime, but none of the blows that had bounced off the champ's skull were as unexpected as the one that awaited Valentine in the parking lot. It snapped his head straight back and he took a few wobbly steps backward. Then he collapsed in the open doorway of room 66-A.

  His eyes snapped open to the sound of Nola's screams, followed by the unmistakable bark of Nick's toy .38. A punch followed, bone hitting bone. Nola's screams stopped and were replaced by the sound of someone choking the life out of her. Clutching the doorsill, Valentine tried to move his fingers and found them frozen in a spastic claw. Slowly he pushed himself off the floor and staggered back into the room.

  Little Hands stood over the bed, holding Nola by the throat.

  “Where's Fontaine?” he demanded.

  “I . . . don't . . . know,” she gasped.

  “Like hell you don't.”

  Nick had wrapped his arms around Little Hands's massive leg and was biting him. Little Hands swatted him away like a flea.

  “Help us,” Nick begged.

  Valentine wasn't sure he knew how. Judo was great if someone was attacking you but offered little offense of its own. And Little Hands was a pro and not likely to let Valentine get the jump on him. The best he could try for was getting Little Hands outside, in the hope that someone would pass by and come to their aid.

  Stepping forward, Valentine kicked Little Hands in the rump. It was like kicking a piece of rock. Little Hands glared murderously at him.

  “You're next,” he said to Valentine, while putting the squeeze on Nola.

  Valentine kicked him again.

  “I'm going to mutilate you, old man.”

  Valentine's instincts told him to run—only, Nola's face was turning blue, her time running out. He tried another approach.

  “Felix Underman said your mother got drunk and screwed a dwarf,” Valentine said. “Is it true?”

  Little Hands dropped Nola on the bed, the demented look on his face suggesting Valentine had pushed all the wrong buttons. He rushed forward, screaming like a banshee, and Nick pulled the rug out from under him. Little Hands fell forward, catching himself on the TV.

  The force of his body turned the TV on and porno filled the screen. A naked woman was on a bed with a black guy, who for some reason wore a sombrero. Their screwing bordered on violence, and it seemed to make Little Hands go crazy. He made another mad-bull charge at Valentine.

  Most contract killers are proficient in the martial arts, but whatever training Little Hands had went out the window. Valentine grabbed the collars of his open shirt and threw him sideways into the wall. Then he elbowed Little Hands in the face. He heard cartilage break, and Little Hands sank to the floor.

  Valentine retrieved Nick's .38 and aimed it at Little Hands. The giant man rolled over, his face sheeted with blood, and pointed at the TV just as the guy with the sombrero started to climax.

  “Turn the TV off,” he cried. “Please, turn it off!”

  Valentine had never seen a guy lose his marbles over dirty movies. Maybe in prison, the state could get a psychiatrist to drill a hole in Little Hand's head and find out what was wrong with him.

  “How did you find us?” Valentine said.

  “Turn it off!”

  Nola, who'd been lying motionless on the bed, rose and went to the TV. Finding no knobs, she said, “I can't turn it off.”

  “Kick it,” Valentine told her.

  She did and the screen slowly faded, the sombrero vanishing like a sunset. Valentine turned to Little Hands and said, “You got your wish.”

  “Mr. Underman called me,” he whimpered, a disturbed little man lurking beneath his tough-guy surface slowly emerging. “I went to Caesars and saw you leave. I took a chance you were on to Fontaine and I followed you here.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  Little Hands shook his head. “I work solo.”

  The TV came back on. Same woman, new guy, real small, almost a midget except for his organ. Little Hands covered his face, screaming like he was being stuck with a knife.

  “Jesus Christ,” Nick muttered. “What should we do?”

  Valentine backed out of the room. As long as the porno was on, he didn't think Little Hands was a threat to anyone.

  “Call 911,” Valentine said. “Let the cops deal with him.”

  The longer Valentine was retired, the more he understood why people hated the police. All of the sterotypes were unfortunately true, especially the one about a cop never being there when you needed one. Nick, sitting in the back of the Caddy with Nola, dialed 911 on his cell phone for the third time.

  “The dispatcher says every cop on duty is at Caesars,” Nick said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. “Some kind of riot.”

  “Any idea how long it's going to take?”

  Nick asked the dispatcher, then reported, “She says a half hour, maybe longer.”

  “What happened?”

  “She doesn't know.”

  Valentine turned on the radio. The loudmouthed announcer was back, talking by phone to a reporter at Caesars. Loudmouth said, “Can you tell us what happened that led to the melee between corners?”

  The other reporter said, “In round five, Holyfield got his act together and started to use his jab. He opened up a cut over the Animal's left eye. The Animal got frustrated and took a shot at Holyfield after the bell. Holyfield retaliated with a short uppercut. I was a few rows back and heard the punch land. The Animal had been warned for fouling, and I think the last one got Holyfield really angry.”

  Loudmouth said, “Did the melee start then?”

  The other reporter replied, “No, it happened when the Animal couldn't continue and the ref declared Holyfield the winne
r. Then the corners started to tango.”

  Loudmouth said, “And the fight spilled into the crowd.” To which the other man said, “Like a brush fire.”

  “Holyfield won,” Nick said gleefully. “We win!”

  Valentine groaned. He'd torn up a ticket worth three grand. That would teach him to gamble.

  Nick's cell phone rang. It was Wily. Nick listened intently, then killed the power.

  “Wily's shitting in his pants,” the little Greek said. “He's got three big hitters doing a number on us, and he thinks one is Fontaine. I gotta get back to my casino.”

  “We can't leave Little Hands,” Valentine said.

  “Then do whatever you gotta do,” Nick said.

  Valentine went back to 66-A and poked his head in the door. Little Hands was on the bed. The porno was still on and every moan of pleasure was driving him that much closer to insanity. Valentine silently shut the door. Then he had an idea.

  His eyes swept the near-empty lot and settled on a bloodred Mustang with a souped-up engine, the bumpers adorned with stickers from Gold's Gym. He smashed the driver's window with a rock, then got in behind the wheel. The ashtray was filled with inhalers. This was definitely the right car.

  Intent on disabling the engine, Valentine pulled the lever that popped the hood, then noticed a suitcase sitting on the passenger's seat. He popped the clasps and let out a whistle. It was full of the stuff dreams are made of.

  Back in the Caddy, Valentine tossed Nick his fifty grand.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  Nola didn't say much during the ride back to the Acropolis. Laying her head on Nick's lap, she cried softly most of the way, the perfect image of the damsel in distress. She was pretty in a way that none of Nick's other wives were pretty, her looks pure and clean. Valentine wanted to ask her which of the three guys beating the Acropolis was Fontaine, but he decided to wait until they got inside, where he could get her under a bright light and look into her eyes while she answered his questions.

  Valentine pulled up to the Acropolis's entrance and a valet ran out to assist them. Nick made him get a wheelchair, and they rolled Nola inside.

  The casino was jammed, the action at the tables out of control. Guys in T-shirts and rundown Nikes were betting like high rollers. Tens of thousands of dollars were flowing back and forth on every roll of the dice. It was pure madness, and every single player was involved. Holyfield beat the odds, the collective reasoning seemed to be saying, so why can't we?

  They took the service elevator to the surveillance control room, where a different brand of insanity was going on. Five men were working the master console, each talking frantically into a walkie-talkie in an effort to track the frantic play below.

  They found Wily standing in front of the wall of monitors. He'd removed his tie and was nervously gulping coffee.

  “Hey, boss,” he muttered.

  “Who's ripping me off?” Nick demanded.

  Wily pointed at a screen to his left. “Suspect number one. Australian named Martini. Was staying at the Mirage. He somehow got thirty hookers into his suite. He made them strip and do a lineup, three hundred apiece. The ones he liked, he asked to stay. Management tossed him.”

  “And you took him in,” Nick said.

  “His money's as green as anyone else's.”

  Valentine stared at the black-and-white monitor. Martini had a shaved head and rings in each ear. He also had a big nose and an overbite. He was playing blackjack and winning big.

  “How much we into him for?” Nick asked.

  “Sixty grand.” Wily pointed at a screen to his right. “Suspect number two, Joey Joseph, calls himself the pizza king of L.A. He demanded we lift the table limit and then started beating us into the ground.”

  Grimacing, Nick said, “How much?”

  “He just hit a hundred grand,” Wily said. “He's a wild man. I tried to talk to him, and he told me to get lost.”

  Valentine went and stared at Joey Joseph. The pizza king wore Coke-bottle glasses and a cheap wig. He had a cleft in his chin like Fontaine, and there was something familiar about the way he banged his fist on the table.

  “Suspect number three doesn't have a name. Says he's a Texas oilman,” Wily said, pointing at a man wearing cowboy clothes and a string tie. “He strolled in an hour ago.”

  “How much?” Nick bellowed.

  “Eighty.”

  “You're killing me,” Nick said.

  “What do you want me to do? All three of them can't be Fontaine.”

  Valentine watched the Texan play. He was the same age as the other two and played the same game, blackjack. He was betting big and winning big, just like the others. Then he noticed something else. The dealers at all three tables were women, all attractive, and all chatting up a storm with the three guys who were beating them silly.

  It was beautiful, absolutely beautiful, the kind of scam that bordered on true genius. He knelt next to Nola's wheelchair.

  “Listen to me and listen good,” Valentine said quietly. “I'm going to give you a chance to come clean. I know what's going on, and I think you do, too. Help us, and you won't go to jail.”

  Nick and Wily were listening intently. Nola looked at them, then back at Valentine. The harsh fluorescent light caught her face at a bad angle, robbing it of all beauty.

  “Okay,” she mumbled.

  “Martini, Joseph, and the Texan are a team, aren't they?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They're all reading different dealers, just like Fontaine read you. They're girls you know, and you tipped Fontaine off to the things that turn them on, like cowboy clothes and foreign accents.”

  “That's right,” she mumbled.

  “Fontaine slapped you around and put you in that motel, hoping we'd stay away from the casino. With Sammy out of the way, and us across town, he figured he'd have easy pickings.”

  “Go to the head of the class,” she said.

  “Which one's Fontaine?”

  “The Aussie.”

  Valentine was stunned. He would have put his money on the pizza king. Sensing his disbelief, she said, “The overbite is a bridge. He made his nose bigger by sticking a piece of plastic tubing up each nostril.”

  Valentine looked at Nick. “Heard enough?”

  Nick bent toward Nola, his face twisted by the grief that only lost love can cause. “You don't love me anymore, do you?”

  Nola started to cry. “I used to. I really did.”

  “But not now?”

  “Oh, Nick, don't you get it?” she said. “I'm always going to love you, no matter how much I hate you.”

  Truer words had never been spoken. Nick embraced her from a crouch, kissing the top of Nola's head as she wept into his chest. Just then, Nick's cell phone rang. He answered it, then handed Valentine the phone.

  “Someone's looking for you.”

  Valentine put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Oh, Tony,” he heard Roxanne cry, “I came up to your suite to surprise you, and the phone rang a dozen times so I answered it. It was a woman in New York, Yolanda somebody-or-other.”

  Valentine felt his stomach turn upside down. Roxanne began to cry hysterically.

  “Tony, something terrible has happened to Gerry.”

  “What?” he said.

  Roxanne could not stop crying.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he said into the phone. “I'll be right up.”

  Valentine handed Nick the cell phone. “I've got to go.”

  He started to walk across the surveillance control room, his thoughts a thousand miles away.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Nick yelled across the room.

  Valentine kept walking. Why hadn't he called the New York police after he'd gotten Gerry's first call? Why hadn't he tried to do something? Why?

  “Tony,” Nick called after him, “don't do this to me!”

  Valentine stopped at the door. He hesitated, then he put his hand firmly on the doorknob.


  “Tony—look at me!”

  Valentine jerked open the heavy steel door. Glancing back, his eyes met Nick's and he saw pure hatred.

  “You Jersey piece of shit!” Nick shouted as Valentine left the surveillance room.

  Valentine rode up to his room in an elevator crammed with drunks. In the corner, a man was having a heated discussion with his wife about their current financial situation.

  “Give me the money I told you not to give me,” the man insisted.

  “No,” the wife said emphatically.

  “Give it to me!”

  “No!”

  At the sixth floor, the last passenger got off and Valentine rode alone to his suite. His jaw had started throbbing from the punch he'd taken, and he shut his eyes, trying to ignore the pain.

  His suite was unlocked, the lights were muted, and vintage Sinatra was playing on the stereo. Two places had been set at the dining-room table. In the table's center, a pair of skinny candles burned seductively.

  He found Roxanne on the couch bawling like a baby. She wore a red silk blouse and a leather mini and looked like a supermodel. She'd teased her hair, and a lazy curl formed a question mark on her forehead. Do you dare? it seemed to ask.

  “I was going to surprise you,” she said with a sniffle as Valentine sat down.

  “What happened to my son,” he asked quietly.

  Roxanne put her hand on his knee and dug her fingernails into his skin. “You need to call Yolanda.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Call her, Tony. She's hysterical.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Yolanda said—”

  “Is he alive?” Valentine put his hand on Roxanne's chin and made her look at him. “Is he?”

  “Please . . . call her.”

  Valentine buried his head in his hands. Sinatra's melancholy “Only the Lonely” filled the suite and he began to weep. The cell phone in Roxanne's lap warbled. She answered it, then pressed the receiver against her chest. “It's Nick. He says he's giving you one more chance.”

  “Tell him to go to hell.”

  Roxanne did as she was asked, and Tony could hear Nick screaming through the phone. Valentine got up and went to the picture window and stared down onto the neon Strip. He tried to imagine his son the last time he'd seen him. It had been at the saloon, Valentine whipping him with his belt. Would that be last image he would have?