by James Swain
“Thurman confessed a short while later.”
Among the sea of mourners there were a few sad smiles. Returning to his place with the other pallbearers, Valentine bowed his head. Father Tom finished with the Lord's Prayer, and then the crowd dispersed.
Doyle and Liddy lived in a split-level ranch house in the suburb of Absecon. Cars lined the street, and Valentine parked his rental on the next block. He hadn't talked to Mabel all day, so he turned on his cell phone and dialed his office.
His call went straight to voice mail, which meant Mabel was talking to a customer. “Hey, kiddo, it's me. Hope everything's okay. I'm leaving my cell phone on. Call if you need anything.”
He got out of the rental and hiked it, the cold making him shiver. Finding the front door ajar, he went inside.
The living room was smoky and filled with cops, and he shook hands and slapped backs as he made his way over to a corner where Father Tom was tending to his mother, Sarah. Kneeling, Valentine kissed the elderly matriarch of the Flanagan clan on the cheek.
“It's been too long, Mrs. Flanagan,” he said.
“Mother had a stroke last summer,” Father Tom told him. “She can't speak.”
Valentine stared into the elderly woman's withered face. In her chestnut-colored eyes he saw the old sparkle, all systems on go. Rising, he pumped Father Tom's hand. Ten years Doyle's junior, he'd given up a football scholarship to Notre Dame to do the Lord's work. The priest said, “Mother and I were just looking at an old picture of you and Doyle. Weren't we, Mother?”
The old woman blinked. Valentine swallowed hard.
“I'd like to see it,” he said.
In the middle of the living room, a table had been arranged with old photographs of Doyle. Father Tom removed one and handed it to him. It was a black-and-white snapshot of Valentine and Doyle in their septic cleaner uniforms, their first real jobs.
“I was trying to remember the slogan on your uniform,” the priest said.
“We're number one in number two,” Valentine replied.
That got a smile out of him. Sarah blinked some more. Valentine put the photo back and excused himself.
In the kitchen he found Liddy tending to several guests who sat around the breakfast nook. Putting the coffeepot down, she threw her arms around him.
“Oh, God, Tony,” she cried softly. “When Lois died, I couldn't imagine how you felt. Now I know.”
No you don't, he thought, holding her tightly. You haven't woken up for a year and a half saying good morning to someone who isn't there.
“How the boys holding up?”
“So, so,” she sniffled. “We celebrated Sean's thirty-fifth birthday last week. You know what he told me? He said, ‘I can't believe it's taken me this long to appreciate my own father.' ”
Valentine thought of his own son, whom he'd been warring with forever, and wondered if those same words would ever leave Gerry's lips. He doubted it.
“Where are they?”
“Out on the patio.”
“I want to talk to you later, if that's okay.”
She smiled bravely. “I'll be right here.”
He found Sean and Guy sharing a cigarette by the brick barbecue. He hugged Guy first and felt the younger boy's heart beating wildly out of control. Guy pulled away and walked to the other side of the yard.
Hugging Sean, Valentine said, “Is he all right?”
“I think it's just sinking in,” Sean said.
Valentine edged up to the younger boy. “Hey.”
Three generations removed from the motherland, Guy looked more Irish than either of his parents. He popped a cigarette into his mouth and offered Valentine one.
“Didn't know you smoked,” Valentine said.
“Seemed like a good day to start.”
It was a good line, and Valentine gave in and took one. He'd quit the day he'd made detective and never found anything to replace the sensation of nicotine. They shared a match, and he filled his lungs with the great-tasting smoke.
“During the funeral, all I could think about was Dad's killer,” Guy said. “How he got up this morning, had breakfast, read the paper, and did all the things that my father will never do again. It made me so . . . angry.”
Guy started to cry. He was going to miss his old man for the rest of his life, and there was nothing that Valentine could tell him that was going to make it any easier to deal with. They finished their cigarettes, and then Valentine's cell phone rang.
It was Mabel. Guy and Sean went inside. Standing on the edge of the patio, Valentine said, “How's it going?”
“I've got a panicked customer on the other line,” she said.
“Who?”
“Nick Nicocropolis in Las Vegas. He called up and yelled in my ear for five minutes. Said he's getting ripped off by some slot cheats. He's rude and very crude.”
Valentine was paid monthly retainers by a dozen casinos, and in return provided advice when the casino suspected it had been ripped off. Nick, owner of the Acropolis Resort & Casino, was a hardheaded little jerk who'd refused to sell out to the big hotel chains and was struggling to stay alive.
“Did Nick describe the scam?”
“Yes. He said a cleaning lady found thousands of silver dollars in a room and thought it suspicious. A husband and wife were staying in the room, so security watched them. The couple were playing one slot machine exclusively. Security detained them but couldn't find anything. Nick's holding the couple, and they're screaming lawsuit.”
Guilty people usually did. “Call Nick up and have him describe what security found on the couple when they grabbed them. I'll wait.”
Mabel put him on hold. Slot cheats were limited in their methods of stealing coins and rigging jackpots, and he had a feeling Nick's security people were missing something obvious. His neighbor came back a minute later.
“Nick said the couple both had money, credit cards, and their ID. Oh, and both were drinking glasses of iced tea.”
“Nothing hidden up their sleeves?”
“No. And Nick said they frisked them.”
“Huh. Let me call you back.”
Shivering, he walked around the patio a few times. Eighteen months ago, he'd helped Nick nail another gang of cheaters, and the Acropolis's layout slowly came back to him. Nick's joint was ancient and still had many old-fashioned Bally's cast-iron slot machines. Cast-iron slots could be manipulated much easier than the new computer-chip models, and he realized what the couple was doing. Taking out his cell phone, he punched in Nick's number from memory.
Moments later, Nick was on the line. Nick was many things—sex fiend, loudmouth, ex-drunk—and also the squarest casino owner in Las Vegas. Valentine spelled it out to him. “The couple you arrested are a couple of old-time slot cheats. In one of their glasses of iced tea—which I hope you didn't throw out—is an extra-long spoon. When they hit a jackpot, one of them blocks the machine from your surveillance cameras, while the other sticks the spoon up the coin slot so more coins will come out. It's called spooning.”
“How the hell do I prosecute?” Nick growled.
“Check the spoon for marks, and check the inside of the slot machine for similar marks. If they match, that's all the evidence you need to convict.”
“You're sure about this,” Nick said.
“I'd bet my reputation on it.”
“You're a smart guy,” Nick said, “even if you are from New Jersey.”
“Good-bye,” Valentine said.
The crowd thinned out around five; by six, it was just Valentine and Liddy and the boys. Tying on an apron, he filled the kitchen sink with hot water and attacked the dishes, Guy drying and Sean putting away, Liddy fixing another pot of coffee. The stereo played one of Doyle's dixie jazz albums, Jack Maheu's seductive clarinet floating through the house, Doyle's easy laugh haunting every other note. When the dishes were done they sat at the kitchen nook with their cups.
“Tony,” Liddy said, “did you talk to Doyle recently?”
She stared into the depths of her cup. “Something was troubling him. We went out to dinner last week, and Doyle was grumpy and out of sorts. Finally, I asked him what was wrong, and he said, ‘If I told you, I'd have to kill you.' He was trying to make a joke, but it didn't come out that way.”
Valentine had a senior moment and dribbled coffee onto his shirt. He got a sponge from the sink and blotted it out before it turned into a stain. Then he said, “He must have said something . . .”
Liddy shook her head. “I tried. But he wouldn't open up.”
Valentine finished his coffee. When Doyle was a cop, he'd talked to Liddy about the cases he was working on—Liddy had told Lois and Lois had told him—and Valentine had never seen any harm in it, Liddy not being the type to blab. So why hadn't Doyle talked to her about this case?
The stereo played its last song and the house became silent. After a long moment, Sean spoke. “Yesterday, I met with a detective named Davis who's working on the case. I asked him if he had any leads, and he told me that nine out of ten murders are committed by people the victim personally knew, or were friends with. I said, ‘Detective, you obviously didn't know my father.' He didn't get it.”
“No one who was Doyle's friend would have killed him,” Liddy said, wiping her eyes.
“Amen,” Valentine said.
3
Sparky
It was dark enough for the street lights to have come on. Walking to his rental, Valentine saw a black mini-Mercedes pass by, a familiar face behind the wheel. It was Frank Porter, head of The Bombay's surveillance department. Porter got out of his car, and the two men shook hands.
“You look good,” Porter told him.
“So do you. Still telling jokes?”
“Yeah. Now I just need to find an audience.”
Atlantic City was filled with busted dreams. Porter's was in show business. When he wasn't catching cheats at The Bombay, he told jokes at open mike nights in comedy clubs. He was an overweight, jovial guy who looked like he should be as funny as hell. The only problem was, he wasn't.
“That was a nice thing you did at the cemetery,” Porter said. “What story are you going to tell when I kick the bucket?”
Valentine had to think. “How about Superman?”
That made Porter smile. Right after gambling had come to Atlantic City, a wacky guy in a Superman costume had appeared in several casinos. Jumping on a chair, he'd shouted, “I can fly!” and started flapping his arms until security escorted him out. One day, the guy had appeared at the casino Porter was working in. Smelling a rat, Porter had detained him. Under interrogation, the guy had broken down and admitted that while he was “flying,” his partners were switching a blackjack shoe on an unwitting dealer. The case had drawn a lot of attention and led to all blackjack shoes in Atlantic City being chained to their tables.
“Listen,” Porter said, “I shouldn't be telling you this, but Doyle was doing a job for me before he got killed.”
Valentine started to say “I know,” and bit his tongue.
“We've had this European guy ripping us off at blackjack,” Porter said. “Bleeding us for months.”
“How much?”
Porter stared at the ground. “Six million bucks.”
Valentine whistled. “You tell the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We didn't have any proof.”
“You think the European killed Doyle?”
“He sure had a motive.”
“Want me to get involved?”
“You're not going back to Florida?”
“Not right away.”
“Yeah, I'd love for you to get involved,” Porter said. “You were always the champ when it came to doping out scams.”
Valentine realized his toes were freezing. He agreed to come by The Bombay the following morning and have a look at their surveillance tapes. He shook Porter's hand and started to walk away. Then he came back and said, “Is Sparky Rhodes still in town?”
“Sure,” Porter said.
“Does he still live over on Jefferson?”
“Yeah. You thinking of paying him a visit?”
“I sure am,” Valentine said.
A knowing look spread across Porter's face. They shook hands again. Then Porter said, “Do you know why marriage changes passion?”
Valentine told him he didn't.
“Because you're suddenly in bed with a relative.”
“See you tomorrow,” Valentine said.
Valentine drove back to the beach in his rental. Atlantic City is laid out in a grid, with hardly a bend or curved road, and soon he was cruising down streets named after the first twenty-six states. New Hampshire, Vermont, Rhode Island. He wondered how many kids had learned their geography in the backseats of their parents' car, like he had.
He passed a two-story brick house on Fairmont Avenue where the local mafioso had once hung out. Being Italian, the “boys” had never hidden their faces. They'd gone about their business in the open, their ethnic pride getting in the way of good old-fashioned common sense. By the mid-seventies most of them had gone to prison or were mulch. Then the casinos had opened, and a whole new breed of criminal had descended upon his hometown.
He parked in an alley next to Sparky's house and got out. Sparky lived in a slum, the block lined with tenement houses, the fences that surrounded them all chain link. Sparky's own house hadn't changed. Peeling paint, a dead lawn, shades darkening every window. He rapped three times on the front door. Moments later, the dead bolt was thrown and the door swung in. Sparky Rhodes sat in a wheelchair in the foyer, his long silver hair tied in a ponytail, a .38 Smith and Wesson tucked into the folds of his camouflage vest.
“Hey, Sparky. How's it going?”
“Having the time of my fucking life. How's life in sunny Florida?”
“Fine. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” Sparky turned his wheelchair on a dime and started rolling down the hall. “I had a feeling you'd be coming by.”
“Why's that?” Valentine said.
Sparky wheeled himself through the poorly lit house and beckoned for him to follow. There were piles of fast-food wrappers in every corner and stacks of yellowing newspapers. On the walls, photographs of Sparky as a cop, before a juvenile delinquent's bullet had taken him down. The pictures of his wife were long gone.
“You and Doyle were partners,” Sparky said. “Partners get close. Sometimes, they promise each other things.”
“Sometimes they do.”
Twenty years ago, Doyle had taken a bullet so Valentine could shoot a murder suspect. In the hospital he'd told Doyle he'd repay him the favor one day. Groggy from pain killers, Doyle had said, “I should hope so.”
“You have anything particular in mind?” Sparky asked.
“Something with some bark,” Valentine said.
Going into the hall, Sparky threw open a yellow door. A ramp descended into the basement. The rubber wheels of his chair hit it with surprising force. Valentine followed him down, holding the railing for support.
A naked bulb hanging from the ceiling came to life. Sparky went to a padlocked door and used a small key hanging from a chain around his neck to open the lock. They went in.
The room was a perfect square and housed Sparky's vast collection of firearms. On the floor sat a footlocker. Sparky flipped open the lid. “These are all clean. No serial numbers, no history. Something for every man's taste.”
Valentine knelt down and examined Sparky's wares. There was a silver-plated Mac II, a Cobray M-11, a Tec-9, a Colt .45 with a Buck Rogers laser scope, a .25 caliber Raven, and on the bottom of the footlocker, an Uzi nine, a shorter and easier to handle version of the Uzi submachine gun, with a magazine capacity of twenty rounds.
“That's my favorite,” Sparky said.
Valentine stood up. “I was looking for something I
could keep in the pocket of my jacket. Small, but with a good punch.”
“You're talking a Glock pocket rocket,” Sparky said. “Leaves an exit wound the size of your fist.”
“That sounds about right,” Valentine said.
Backing up his wheelchair, Sparky took a Glock off the shelf and held it up to the light. It was a small gun, the barrel lovingly polished. He turned it over several times in his hands, then handed it to him.
Valentine reached for his wallet.
“It's yours,” Sparky said.
He started to say something about not coming here for charity, but Sparky cut him short.
“He was my friend, too,” the paralyzed cop said.
Valentine pocketed the Glock.
“He was everyone's friend,” Valentine reminded him.
4
Gerry
Valentine awoke the next morning at seven, the sunlight streaming into his motel room. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he went and cracked a window, then sat in a chair listening to the waves pound the shore while remembering how he and Doyle had often ended their shifts by walking the beach. Sometimes, they kicked off their shoes and stuck their feet in the water, two flatfoots cooling off. The memory was made vivid by the lingering taste of yesterday's cigarette, and he cursed himself for smoking it.
For breakfast, he ate the remains of last night's Chinese take-out. Out of nostalgia, he'd picked a cheesy motel off Pacific Avenue to stay in. The Drake. Efficiencies, rooms by the day, week, or month; HBO and Showtime; no dogs. What more could a man want?
The banging on his door was loud and frantic. Taking the Glock off the night table, he slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat hanging in the closet. Then he went to the door with the blanket hanging from his shoulders.
Through the peephole he spied his son, his hair peppered with silvery flakes of snow. Physically, they had a lot in common, but that was where the similarities ended. He went and hid in the john. The banging continued.