Funny Money tv-2

by James Swain

  Rifling through the caterer's van, Valentine found a white waiter's jacket and put it on. It didn't clash with his pants, and he grabbed a serving tray and balanced it on his palm.

  Going into strange places had never bothered him. Back when he was in uniform, he'd investigated a department store robbery. The thieves had walked into the store, hoisted a twenty-foot canoe onto their shoulders, and walked out. It was all a matter of attitude.

  He opened the back door and walked into the kitchen. The room was huge, with two refrigerators, two stoves, and two of everything that most people only needed one of. It was also empty. From the back of the house, a man's angry words punctuated the air. He took a plate of pastries off the counter and balanced them on his tray, then followed the voice down a cavernous hallway.

  He passed the living room. A trio of musicians played in the corner. At the hallway's end, he found the help hovering outside a closed door. He edged closer. “What's going on?”

  “The governor's on a rampage,” a Cuban woman in a maid's uniform whispered. “He's going loco.”

  Everyone was grinning, enjoying this little perk to their day. Through the door he heard the governor say, “. . . and look where your plan's gotten me, Arch—just look! I've got a shit storm on my hands that gets bigger every time I turn on the television. The Indians haven't been this mad since we stole Manhattan from them. And you want me to do what?”

  “Wait a few days, let it blow over,” Archie said.

  “It's not going to blow over,” the governor bellowed. “Death by delay doesn't work with the media. I'm the Bad Guy of the Month, and if I don't do something fast, I'm going to become an ugly footnote to the Year in Review.”

  “You can't give in,” Archie said. “Casino gambling is your salvation. Hundreds of millions in taxes. This thing will blow over. They're just Indians. No one cared about them before, and no one's going to care about them next week.”

  “How many million?” the governor said.

  “Three hundred million a year, easy.”

  “You can generate that much in taxes?”

  “More,” Archie said emphatically.

  “That's a lot of money.”

  The governor was caving in. Next they'd be drinking a toast. Valentine grabbed the door handle and twisted it. The help scattered.

  He entered with the tray hiding his face. Five people sat at an ornate dining room table. Archie, Brandi, Florida's baby-faced governor, and two of his handlers. Dinner was over, a turkey's carcass in the table's center. It was the Indians who'd introduced the Pilgrims to turkey, not that Valentine thought any of these people would see the significance.

  “Here's dessert,” Archie said. “Pastries flown in from La Bonn in Paris. Governor, you've never tasted cream puffs like these.”

  The governor smiled beatifically. It was obvious that he really liked cream puffs. Valentine placed the tray down. Then took out his business card and dropped it on the governor's plate. The governor stared at the card, then up at him.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Name's Tony Valentine. I'm a private investigator.”

  “And?”

  “Archie is running a crooked operation. I thought you'd like to know before you make any agreements with him.”

  Archie rose from his chair. He was wearing a tuxedo and had tucked the tablecloth into his trousers. He swiped at it angrily. “He's a crazy old man. Don't listen to him.”

  “You know this person?” the governor asked.

  Archie sputtered. “He was doing a job for me. But he went nuts. Just last night—”

  “Archie,” the governor said.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, governor.”

  “Sit down.” The governor turned to Valentine. “Where's your proof?”

  Valentine pointed at Brandi. “Ask her.”

  All eyes fell on Brandi. Her wardrobe tonight was particularly stunning. A simple black dress and a choker of glistening diamonds. She looked at the governor and nodded.

  “Archie's running a skim,” she said quietly.

  “As in skimming money, and not paying taxes?”

  “That's right.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since he's owned The Bombay,” she replied.

  “How long is that?”

  “Twenty-three years.”

  One of the governor's handlers stood up. He had ex–Secret Service written all over him. Early fifties, crew cut, a face as blunt as a nail. He whispered in the governor's ear.

  “How much money are we talking about?” the governor asked.

  “Twenty million,” she said. “Maybe more.”

  The governor leaned back in his chair. The media often portrayed him as being stupid, but Valentine had never bought that label. Thickheaded, yes, but not stupid. The governor whispered to his handlers. It was the ex–Secret Service guy who answered him.

  “Sounds like real trouble.”

  “And I'm stepping right in the middle of it.”

  “With both feet,” the ex–Secret Service guy said.

  The governor balled up his napkin and tossed it onto his plate. He rose from the table. “Thanks for dinner.”

  Archie looked a heartbeat away from a stroke. “For God's sake, governor, let me explain.”

  “No,” the governor said forcefully.

  “What about our deal?”

  “No deal,” the governor said.

  The governor and his handlers left. Archie fell into his chair. The blood had drained from his face. He wiped at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Then he stared at Brandi.

  “You've ruined me.”

  Brandi stared down at the uneaten food on her plate.

  “Why?” he said.

  Brandi's Gucci purse sat on a table by the door. Valentine dumped its contents onto the table. Among her things was a pearl-handled revolver and pair of dog tags. He picked up the revolver and pointed it at her.

  “Because she hates you,” Valentine said. He pulled up a chair and sat next to her. “The part I couldn't figure out was why. But then it occurred to me that a lot of things haven't made sense over the past few days.”

  He put the barrel of the revolver under Brandi's chin, and made her look at him. “Like the raid on the Micanopy casino. Running Bear released dozens of alligators and chased the FDLE agents away. Those alligators didn't appear out of thin air. Someone alerted him.

  “Or the Indian tribes around the country staging protests. I've done work for the Indians. As far as I know, they don't have any kind of communications network. Which meant someone alerted them to what was going on with the Micanopys. And that someone was you.”

  Brandi nodded, her eyes never leaving his face.

  “What I couldn't figure out was your motive. But then I remembered our little chat in Sinbad's. You said you came from a mixed family. Stupid me. I thought that meant one of your parents was white. I was wrong. One of your parents is Indian.”

  “My mother was a Seminole,” she said quietly.

  “Not a Micanopy?”

  “That would explain a lot to you, wouldn't it?”

  “It would be a start.”

  She smiled thinly. “The Micanopys are like family to me. They were the first reservation to have casino gambling, and they let other tribes work in their casinos. My mother worked there, my father worked there, and so do my cousins.” Her eyes shifted, and she stared at Archie. “I wasn't going to let you destroy them.”

  “That explains the stealing,” Valentine said. “But it doesn't explain the killing.”

  “That was Coleman and Marconi's idea,” she said, still staring at Archie. “Once things started to unravel, they decided to get rid of anyone who could implicate them.”

  He twitched the gun's barrel and saw her wince. Her eyes shifted to his face.

  “That's not what I meant. Gigi told me you were the one who pulled the switch that killed Doyle. I want
to know why.”

  Brandi's features turned hard as stone. She no longer resembled the beautiful woman sitting in the chair a moment ago.

  “He got in the way,” she said.

  Valentine punched her in the face.

  Valentine stuck the revolver beneath his jacket and watched her slide out of her chair and onto the marble floor. Kneeling, he pulled back one of her eyelids. She was out cold.

  Archie came over and stood next to him.

  “You said she was stealing from me. How?”

  “Slots,” Valentine said.

  “Is there anyone else involved.”

  “A whole shift. Plus surveillance. And probably others.”

  The casino owner made a fist and punched his other hand.

  “What about my bodyguards? And my staff down here? Is there anyone I can trust?”

  “No,” Valentine said. He gathered Brandi up and tossed her over his shoulder. “Let's go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to Atlantic City.”

  They entered the kitchen with Archie telling the cook and kitchen staff she'd passed out from something she ate, and how dare they serve such crummy fucking food. Out in the driveway, Valentine opened the back door of the BMW.

  “I don't think that's a good idea,” the casino owner said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she's a black belt in karate.”

  Valentine popped the BMW's trunk and looked for air holes so she wouldn't suffocate. Then he lay the unconscious woman into the tight space. Throwing the waiter's uniform into the bushes, he got behind the wheel and waited for Archie to belt himself in before starting the car.

  It wasn't easy, but he managed to do the speed limit through the tony neighborhood while staring in his rearview mirror. No one from Archie's mansion followed them. Soon he reached the middle of Palm Beach's downtown. He stopped at a light. He was sweating, and he jacked up the air conditioner.

  He stared at the line of chauffeured cars parked in front of Tom and Jack's fashionable eatery. A decorative sign heralded the restaurant's stone crab special. A pound of giant claws for only seventy-five dollars.

  “You know what bugs me, Archie?”

  The casino owner was also sweating. He shook his head.

  “You turned these people against you. Your employees weren't thieves when they started to work for you. You made them into thieves.”

  Archie stared straight ahead. And said nothing.

  Valentine approached the bridge that would take them over the Intercoastal waterway and back to the real world of fast food and normal-priced cars. On the middle of the bridge a red light began to flash. The traffic stopped in both directions.

  He threw the rental into park, then watched the drawbridge go up. A yacht motored through, the ship's captain playfully tooting his horn. A loud Bang! made both men jump.

  Valentine didn't move, his eyes fixed on the dime-size hole that had appeared in the BMW's windshield. He watched the glass crack in a thousand places, then realized what had happened.

  Someone was shooting at them.

  Dropping down, he stared at the white-haired geezers in the Jaguar in front of them. They looked harmless, and he glanced in his rearview mirror at two kids necking in a Jeep.

  Where had the shot come from?

  He felt a second bullet whiz by his ear. Spinning around, he saw where two black holes had appeared in the backseat. Then understood.

  Brandi had another gun.

  He had his door open when he felt Archie's hand touch his waistband.

  “No!”

  Holding the pearl-handled revolver with both hands, Archie fired through the backseat's upholstery, not stopping until the gun's chamber was empty. Valentine slapped his hands over his ears.

  Then the bridge lowered and traffic started moving again.

  39

  The Squarest Guy

  in Atlantic City

  Long-term parking at West Palm Beach airport was deserted. Valentine parked under a halogen light, then pushed a button that popped the trunk. Then he and Archie got out and had a look.

  Brandi lay on her back, her lifeless eyes staring into space. Six bullets had penetrated the trunk and riddled her body. As they stared, flies appeared and became stuck in puddles of blood that coagulated around their legs. Valentine waved them away and started to shut the trunk. Then he noticed the tiny revolver clutched in Brandi's right hand. A two-shot Derringer.

  They walked over to a stand to wait for the shuttle that would take them to a terminal. During the ride over, a portion of the windshield had disintegrated, and he hoped it wouldn't be too long before airport security would be around to have a look.

  “It was self-defense,” Archie said.

  Valentine thought about the two-shot. Archie had probably bought it for her. Which meant he knew she was out of bullets.

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  Archie clutched his arm. “Listen to me, you stupid guinea fuck. It was self-defense. Say otherwise, and I'll make sure the district attorney presses charges against you for shooting up The Bombay.”

  Valentine pulled his arm free. Porter had said that Brandi hadn't told anyone how Archie was skimming The Bombay. It was her trump card, and it had died with her.

  A jet took off from a nearby runway. Then a tram came by, and they got on it.

  Twenty minutes later, they were sitting on a runway in Archie's private Lear jet. Archie swore the pilot could be trusted—“He's worked for me for ten years”—but that hadn't stopped Valentine from searching the cockpit for weapons.

  Soon they were airborne. Archie got up and fixed them drinks, his fingers dropping ice cubes on the floor. He handed Valentine a Diet Coke in a plastic cup, then took the seat directly across from him. Killing another human being did something even to the worst people, and his face had taken on a gallows pallor. Valentine sucked down his drink in one long swallow.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Jacksonville came into view. North of the city, paper mills spewed pillars of soot, the smoke dotting the night sky in lazy exclamation points. Valentine got up and poured himself another soda. Then he took a cell phone off the minibar and tossed it to Archie.

  “You need to call the New Jersey attorney general. Have him call a homicide detective named Davis. I've got a number where Davis is hiding out. Davis is the only policeman in Atlantic City he should call.”

  “Davis is square?” Archie asked.

  “He's square. Tell the attorney general to pass this message along. When the police raid your casino, Davis needs to watch where the employees run to. Wherever they run to, he needs to get to as quickly as he can.”

  Archie made the call. The attorney general was in bed and barked his displeasure loudly enough so Valentine could hear. Archie gave him the full story. Hanging up, he said, “He's calling Davis right now.”

  “Now you need to call the Palm Beach police and tell them about Brandi's body in the rental at the airport.”

  Archie stared at the phone, then tossed it aside.

  “Let her sit for a few hours.”

  “Call them.”

  “Forget it,” the casino owner said.

  Valentine was too tired to argue. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes. He felt his body melt into the soft cushions.

  He thought of Brandi's corpse in the trunk of the rental. It was a hot night in Palm Beach. A few hours would be ghastly. Suddenly his eyes snapped open. Then he undid his seat belt and stood up.

  Maybe it was the fact that he'd slept so little over the past few days. Or just witnessed another life senselessly wasted. Or maybe it was the sad realization that he'd never pick up the phone and hear Doyle Flanagan's voice again . . .

  Whatever it was, it put a crack in his inner resolution. Placing his hands around Archie's throat, he started to choke him, spilling Bloody Mary on the casino owner's ruffled shirt and tuxedo jacket. He tried to scream, and Valentine squeezed as hard as he could.

 
He had no idea killing someone could be so much fun.

  40

  Big Mac, Large Fries

  Bruno, Davis's German shepherd, had been in K9 for ten years. Then they'd retired him. And because the police were senseless, he was supposed to be taken to the pound and put to sleep. It was what happened to a lot of K9 dogs.

  Davis had been the one who'd taken Bruno on his final car ride. On the way, he'd gone to his house and put the dog inside the garage. Then he'd driven to the pound and explained to the man on duty how Bruno had escaped when he'd let him out to pee.

  “Happens a lot with K9 dogs,” the man had said.

  Which had made Davis feel better, knowing he wasn't the first cop who'd broken the rules to save an animal that had been more loyal than most of his partners. When he'd gotten home, Bruno had greeted him like there was no tomorrow, like he'd known the score.

  Which was why finding the dog shot dead with a piece of pant leg in his mouth had snapped a chord in Davis. He would never own another dog like Bruno. It was that simple.

  The attorney general's telephone call had come at a few minutes past eleven. Hanging up, Davis had gotten his Sig Sauer, then kissed his girlfriend good-bye. Getting in his car, he'd driven to his own house, which was only a few blocks from his girlfriend's. He'd pulled up behind Coleman and Marconi's unmarked Chevy and killed the engine.

  Coleman and Marconi had been parked beneath a streetlight in front of Davis's house since eight, waiting for him to come home. Davis flashed his brights, then got out, holding the Sig Sauer loosely by his side.

  Coleman and Marconi stepped out of the Chevy. They'd also drawn their weapons, the barrels pointed at the ground.

  “Hey,” Marconi said, like nothing was wrong.

  “Hey,” Davis replied.

  They'd had a beer together once. Marconi had told him about getting bit in the face, and all the taunting at school. Davis had felt sorry for him and paid for their drinks.

  “Which one of you shot my dog?” Davis asked.

  The detectives stared at him.

  “Say what?” Marconi said.

  “You heard me.”

  Coleman made a move. Davis shot him and Marconi before either man could get off a round. Something he'd practiced for years, but never figured he'd have to use. Or ever wanted to.