by James Swain
“How long were you on the force?” Davis asked.
“Thirty years.”
“Was Doyle your partner the whole time?”
“Just about.”
“Like being married, huh?”
“Worse,” Valentine told him.
“How was it worse?”
“No sex.”
The detective spit coffee through his nose.
“You're brutal,” he said.
Valentine wasn't going to argue with him there. The bomb squad van drove away. Davis leaned against his door, staring at him in the semidarkness. “You realize I'm going to have to investigate this.”
“Of course.”
“Anything you want to tell me?”
Valentine shrugged. “I was in the bar, I came out, found a bomb under my car. What else is there to tell?”
“How about that bump on your head?”
“I slipped on the stoop.”
“Alice Torkalowski told me you were New Jersey state judo champ five years running.”
“That's right.”
“Then you didn't fall down coming out of some bar.”
Valentine sipped his coffee. “Sorry.”
“So here's the deal, my friend. Don't leave town. In fact, don't leave your motel. I'll call tomorrow, and you'll come down to headquarters and talk to a bunch of detectives and try to get this straightened out. Dig?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because if not, I'll haul you in and toss your ass in jail. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
Valentine drove around town looking for the European's white van because that was what his instincts told him to do. Looked in every alley and obscure side street and came up with air.
Slowly the night turned into day. He stopped and bought Advil and a bottled water from a crazy-looking soul sitting behind bullet-proof glass. Taking four, he drove back to the Blue Dolphin and soon was fast asleep.
His dreams were tortured, the events of the last three days mixed up in the bouillabaisse of his subconscious. Mercifully, the chambermaid knocked on his door at 10:30 A.M., and he dragged himself out of bed.
He took the usual shit, shower, shave, then lay on the bed and waited for his head to clear. He was beginning to wonder what the hell he was doing. He'd nearly bought the farm twice in the past two days, and still was no closer to avenging Doyle's death. Maybe there was something to be said for staying put in Florida and growing old with his neighbors.
His cell phone rang. He waited a minute, then dialed into voice mail. It was Mabel. He called her back.
“I was worrying about you,” his neighbor said.
“I'm okay,” he said.
“You don't sound okay.”
“Nothing that a fifth of bourbon won't cure.”
“But you don't drink.”
“There you go. Any luck on Yahoo?”
“Come to mention it, I've had a very productive morning. You wouldn't believe how much information there is on the Internet about bomb making. Pipe bombs, Molotov cocktails, fertilizer bombs. You name it, it's out there. There wasn't a lot about RDX, or should I say, what is out there is classified information. So I called the Pentagon.”
The ceiling had started to spin. Valentine closed his eyes and said, “You didn't.”
“I'm a taxpayer. Anyway, this nice young lady did a search on her computer. She said that RDX is used by the army and not available on the open market. It has many of the same components as nitroglycerin, only it's ten times more powerful. She said that only really experienced bomb makers use it, because of the danger.”
“Where is it manufactured?”
“In the good old U.S. of A. Oh, hold on. There's a call on the other line.”
Valentine put a pillow over his head. Then he tried to make sense of what Mabel had just said. The European was using an explosive that wasn't available on the open market. So how had he gotten his hands on it?
“It's that slimeball Nick Nicocropolis,” his neighbor said, coming back on.
“Who's ripping him off now?”
“Some guy at blackjack. Nick taped him scratching his arm, and says you can see him sticking his hand up his sleeve. Nick thinks he's switching cards. He had the player detained, but he wasn't wearing a holdout, whatever that is.”
A holdout was a generic term for any device that allowed a crossroader to keep a playing card hidden on his body. Some holdouts were intricate pieces of equipment that cost thousands of dollars, like the Kepplinger body harness, while others were simple devices, such as a bulldog clip attached to a piece of elastic.
“So the guy was clean,” Valentine said.
“Nick said all he found was some trash around the player's chair.”
“What kind of trash?”
“I'll ask him.” She put him on hold, then returned. “Gum wrappers, a broken rubber band, some cigarette butts, and an eight-by-ten index card.”
“There's his evidence.”
“Where?”
The pillow wasn't doing any good, and he tossed it on the floor. “The rubber band and the index card. The crossroader wears the rubber band around his biceps with the index card tucked beneath the elastic. That's what holds the cards. When he smells trouble, he sticks his hand up his sleeve and breaks the rubber band. The evidence falls to the floor.”
“Can Nick prosecute with that?”
Valentine smiled into the receiver. Mabel was starting to sound like a cop. She really wanted this gig to work, and he found himself wanting it to work as well.
“No, but the crossroader is still screwed.”
“How so?”
“Nick has his face on film. He'll make his security team memorize it. He'll also send a picture to the Griffin Detective Agency, and they'll put it in a book that they sell to the other casinos. The crossroader won't be able to get a game of jacks.”
She giggled. “That's wonderful. One more question.”
“Shoot.”
“When are you coming home?”
He heard a knock on his door. Sliding off the bed, he stuck his eye to the peephole in the door. It was Detective Davis, and the look on his face was not friendly.
“Soon,” he told his neighbor.
16
Betrayal
The windowless interrogation room in the basement of the Atlantic City police department reeked of butts and body odor. Valentine had grilled many suspects here but had never realized how revolting the air truly smelled.
Davis turned on the tape recorder sitting on the desk. “Let's start from the beginning.”
It was not easy playing stupid, but Valentine did his best, and ended up saying nothing the detective didn't already know. Disgusted, Davis shut off the tape recorder.
A ham-faced guy in an off-the-rack suit entered the room. Late forties, fat, with stringy blond hair and a chipped front tooth. Davis introduced him as Detective Coleman. Coleman's beat was working security at The Bombay.
“How'd you like to get fucked?” Coleman said, popping a piece of bubble gum in his mouth.
Valentine thought he already was fucked. A bead of sweat ran down his spine. He'd made a lot of suspects sweat over the years and always found it comical. Now it didn't seem funny at all.
“Not really.”
Coleman eyed him, chewing away. “My partner and I have been investigating The Bombay. It's bad enough they got swindled and didn't tell the law; it's worse they went and hired you. It's called obstructing justice. You with me so far?”
Valentine nodded.
“We don't know what Archie Tanner's trying to pull, but he's about to get himself royally screwed. Still with me?”
“Yes.”
“My partner and I had a chat with Frank Porter this morning,” Coleman said, his fingers tapping the silent tape recorder. “I told him about the bomb in your car, asked him who might want you dead. Frank told us what happened between you and a European blackjack cheat in The Bombay yesterday.”
&nbs
p; “Oh,” Valentine said.
Coleman leaned forward, getting in his face. “Frank said that you're carrying an illegal Glock. That true?”
The words hit Valentine like a kick in the stomach. He didn't know what bothered him more, the detectives knowing about the gun, or Porter's betrayal.
“Yes,” he said.
“Still have it?”
“No.”
“Mind telling me where it is?”
“The European took it away from me.”
Coleman's eyes went wide. Davis muttered under his breath. A third man entered the room, a detective's badge pinned to the lapel of his jacket. Valentine swallowed hard. It was the guy with the widow's peak he'd seen standing outside the Body Slam School of Wrestling. Kat's abusive boyfriend.
“This is Detective Marconi, my partner,” Coleman said.
Marconi got up close to Valentine's chair. He was tall and skinny, with piercing eyes that didn't blink. Leaning forward, he said, “Feel my face.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Feel my face.”
Valentine gently touched Marconi's chin.
“Feels soft, doesn't it? I got mauled by a Doberman as a kid. The plastic surgeon grafted skin from my ass onto my face. Pretty good job, don't you think?”
Valentine took his hand away. “Could have fooled me.”
“It fooled everybody. Only my brother told everyone in town. Kids called me Ass Face. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I've had a shitty attitude ever since.”
“I bet.”
“You're a hair away from going to jail, mister.”
“I know.”
“Want to prevent that?”
“Yes.”
“Stay out of this investigation, or the next time we catch you meddling where you don't belong, it's a bust.”
“I will,” Valentine promised. Then added, “Scout's honor.”
He hadn't meant the remark to sound flippant, but it came out that way. Marconi made a fist and reared back as if to hit him. Coleman intervened and grabbed his partner's arm.
“He's not worth getting suspended over, Vic.”
The two detectives marched out of the interrogation room. Davis shook his head wearily.
“Get out of here,” he said.
Valentine got into the Mercedes and stared at the dashboard. He was too old for this kind of nonsense. And the idea of going to jail, even for just a few days, worried him more than getting hurt.
He started the engine. He was ready to fold his tents, but before he did, he needed to have a talk with Frank. They'd known each other a long time, so long that he considered him more than just a friend. Which was why he had to find out why Frank had betrayed him.
The Bombay's valet stand was quiet when he pulled in fifteen minutes later. Throwing the kid on duty the keys, he walked inside the casino. And waited.
The Bombay had over a thousand pan/tilt/zoom cameras, commonly called PTZs. And a dozen were aimed at the front doors. The people in the surveillance control room constantly watched the doors to make sure no known crossroaders came in. Next to the cage, where the money was kept, it was the most heavily watched area in the casino.
Soon a security guard appeared, and led him over to a house phone. Valentine picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.
“God, Tony, I'm sorry,” Porter said.
“You sold me down the river.”
Valentine heard a crunching sound. Porter was at his desk, eating something. He started to hang up the phone.
“Tony, wait . . .”
Valentine put the phone back to his ear.
“Those pricks Coleman and Marconi leaned on me,” Porter said. “I had to give them something.”
“You gave them me.”
“I'd just gotten off my shift; I was tired and wasn't thinking. When they asked me if you were carrying, I slipped and told them about the hot gun.”
Valentine gripped the receiver, feeling the cold plastic seep into his palm. He'd shown Frank the gun in Sinbad's. But he was positive he hadn't told him it was hot.
“I've got a great joke,” Porter said. “Want to hear it?”
“No.”
“I saw this enormous woman with a sweatshirt with GUESS on it. So I said, ‘Thyroid problem?' ”
“You're not funny,” Valentine said.
Then he walked out of The Bombay.
17
Sparky
Valentine parked the Mercedes in the narrow alley beside Sparky Rhodes's house, then stood on his porch and rapped three times on Sparky's front door. Moments later he was standing inside the darkened foyer, looking down at the paralyzed cop in his wheelchair.
“I lost the Glock,” he explained.
Sparky scratched the day-old stubble on his chin. He wore a flannel bathrobe and had bread crumbs on his chest. Tucked into the belt of his robe was his trusty .38. Valentine could not remember ever seeing him without it.
“You want another gun?”
“Yes.”
“This one's gonna cost you,” Sparky informed him.
“I brought cash.”
“Good.” Sparky turned the wheelchair around and headed toward the kitchen. “Because I don't take credit cards anymore.”
His hoarse laughter filled the dreary house. He wheeled himself down the hall, zigzagging to avoid a pile of trash in his way. His wife had split after he'd been shot, and Valentine didn't think he'd had the place cleaned since.
They went into the kitchen. On the table sat the remains of lunch: a half-eaten baloney sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a long-necked bottle of Budweiser. Stopping at the table, Sparky took the sandwich and shoved it into his mouth, chewed a few times, then washed it down with beer.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking of a .38,” Valentine said. “Something dependable. Like the gun you carry.”
Sparky drew the .38 from his robe and kissed the barrel. “Smith and Wesson makes a lot of guns, but none finer than this baby.” He then proceeded to tell Valentine about the time he'd shot a fourteen-year-old black kid breaking into his house. The district attorney had wanted to prosecute but eventually dropped charges. Because it was a black kid that had shot him, Sparky had seen the act as vindication.
“You understand what I'm saying?” Sparky said.
Valentine didn't. But he didn't say so.
“Can I see it?”
Sparky handed him the .38. Valentine examined it, then put the gun on the counter, out of Sparky's reach.
Sparky stared at him. “What the fuck you doing?”
“I have a question to ask you.”
The paralyzed ex-cop pursed his lips.
“Why'd you tell Frank Porter that you gave me a hot gun.”
“I didn't tell Porter nothing.”
“That's a lie,” Valentine said.
“Fuck it is.”
“Frank got grilled by two detectives this morning, and he coughed up that I was carrying an illegal piece. I didn't tell Frank, so it must have been you.”
Sparky started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut. Valentine leaned against the counter and waited him out. Behind Sparky's cow-brown eyes he could see the gears shifting. Sparky picked up his beer and polished it off.
“Well,” the paralyzed cop said, “it's like this.”
And then he threw the bottle at Valentine's head.
Valentine had just enough time to duck, the bottle hitting the cabinet behind him and shattering. Sparky spun around in his wheelchair and bolted for the hall. Stopping at the door leading to the basement, he jerked the door open and shot down the ramp. Valentine grabbed the .38 and ran after him.
He heard a cat scream, followed by Sparky letting out a scream of his own. Then a loud crash. Reaching the stairwell, he flipped on the basement light.
Sparky lay on his back, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. His wheelchair lay beside him, both wheels spinning. Clin
ging to his bathrobe was a terrified black cat.
Valentine ran down the stairs. The cat cowered in a corner, hissing.
“Sparky? You okay?”
He put his ear next to Sparky's mouth. The paralyzed cop's breathing was shallow. “I . . .”
“What?”
“I'm . . . sorry.”
“About what?”
“You know . . .”
“Tell me.”
“Doyle . . .”
Sparky's breathing grew faint and his eyes closed, and then he wasn't breathing at all.
“Oh, Jesus,” Valentine whispered.
Valentine tried to think.
The smart move was to run. That was what crooks did in tight situations. Run. That was his best option. Only he'd left his fingerprints all over the house.
Going back upstairs, he laid his overcoat and scarf on the kitchen table, got a dishrag from the sink, and went around the house rubbing down anything he might have touched. Then he did the same in the basement. Climbing up the ramp, he turned out the light and left the door ajar.
Finding the cat's bowl, he filled it with dry cat food, then filled another bowl with water and put it on the floor. Tomorrow, he would make an anonymous phone call to the police and ask them to let the cat out.
He started to open the front door as mail came through the slot. He went to the living room window and saw the mailman walk down the path. A woman in curlers was standing on the sidewalk. They started to chat. He took a seat by the door.
Then he played back what had happened.
And got nowhere.
It didn't make sense. He'd known Sparky a long time. All he'd wanted was a straight answer.
He kicked Sparky's mail with his foot. It scattered across the floor. Bills, flyers, and something from the IRS. He picked up the IRS letter by its corners and peered through the plastic window. The words Final Notice popped out.
The letter struck him as odd. Sparky was broke. So why was the IRS breathing down his neck?
He boiled water on the kitchen stove and steamed the envelope open, then used a fork to remove the letter. His eyes ran down the page. Sparky had made two ten-thousand-dollar deposits into his account, which his bank had reported to the IRS, as it was required by law to do. The IRS was now holding the money, and demanding an explanation of its origin.