by James Swain
“Very funny. I mean in casino cheating.”
“It's a mechanical device that cheaters stick up the coin tray of a slot machine,” he explained. “It has a light on the end which activates the slot machine into paying out even when the reels aren't lined up correctly.”
“The book said casinos lose millions to monkey's paws.”
“At least,” he said.
“Speaking of paws,” Mabel said. “I went to the pound and saw a wonderful dog, very affectionate, only it has a black tongue. I don't know why, but it gave me the willies. The lady in charge said the dog was half Chow, half who-knows-what. You know anything about the breed?”
As far as Valentine was concerned, dogs were dogs. Until they started walking on their hind legs and talking, he didn't care who their parents were. “No.”
“I looked it up on the Internet. Bred to protect the royal family in Japan. I've got two days to make a decision. Either he comes home with me, or off to doggie heaven.”
He sensed that Mabel had made up her mind and just wanted some reassurance. And since it had been his idea, he figured he ought to be giving it to her. But part of him wanted to see the dog first, feel its vibes. They were animals, capable of equal amounts of good and evil, and he didn't want one in Mabel's house until he felt sure it wouldn't turn on her.
“Why don't you wait until I get home,” he said.
“Is your job done?”
“No, but I'm leaving tomorrow anyway.”
For a moment he thought he'd been disconnected.
“You're leaving in the middle of a job?” she asked.
He took the bottle of Advil off the night table and unscrewed it. Once Joe fingered the European, he planned on turning the information over to Detective Davis and getting out of Atlantic City. Seeing Sparky Rhodes die had convinced him that it was time to pull up stakes.
“That's right,” he said.
There was another pause. He popped four Advil into his mouth and swallowed them dry.
“Do you know what that Greek slimeball Nick Nicocropolis said about you?” his neighbor asked.
“No.”
“He said you were the world's champion grifter catcher.”
“I'm touched,” Valentine said.
“Tony.”
“Yes, Mabel.”
“World champions don't quit.”
He found himself too stunned to reply.
“There's the other line,” his neighbor said. “Ta ta.”
20
The Mollo Brothers
Valentine decided he was hungry.
Going outside, he spied Davis's Thunderbird parked in front of the motel. Then he saw Davis in the motel office. He was talking to the manager and looked pissed off. Valentine got into the Mercedes and turned the engine on. On the Big Band station Jerry Vale, the poor man's Sinatra, was singing “Why Do Fools Fall in Love?” That was easy, Valentine thought. Because they were fools.
Davis came out, saw him, and pointed an accusing finger. He was dressed in jeans and a black gunslinger's jacket and looked cool. Valentine envied anyone who could look cool on thirty-eight grand a year. Moments later, the detective was sitting beside him.
“There's a warrant out for your arrest,” Davis said.
Valentine swallowed hard. Sparky's .38 was in his pocket. If Davis arrested him, he'd do a search, and Valentine would do jail time. He could not imagine any worse nightmare.
“I regularly look through each day's arrest warrants,” the detective said. “Lady named Kat Berman says you knocked her down last night. Says she has witnesses. This ringing any bells?”
Valentine nodded.
“I'd suggest you go talk to her and get things straightened out. Okay?”
Valentine felt the air trapped in his lungs escape. The detective was letting him go. He didn't think he had a better friend in Atlantic City.
“I'll get right on it,” he said.
He drove to the Body Slam School of Professional Wrestling and parked by the front door. There were no groupies tonight, and he stood before the storefront window and watched a pair of well-proportioned men working on their choreography. What a sorry way to make a buck, he thought.
In the back, Kat was chatting with another lady wrestler. She'd brushed her hair out, and he was surprised by the effect it had on him. He put his hand on the door handle, then stopped. What, exactly, was he going to tell her? Sorry about last night, would you mind dropping charges? Or maybe he should be a little less direct. How's the schnoz? Hope I didn't break it!
He backed away from the door. Apologies had never been his strong suit. He was going to have to write something down and memorize it. Otherwise, she'd see right through him.
He drove up Atlantic Avenue and parked in front of his favorite pizzeria. When it came to being creative, he'd always worked better on a full stomach. Mario was closing as he went in, but was not above sticking two slices with anchovies and mushrooms in the oven and pouring him a Mister PiBB.
“I remember you,” the pizza maker said. “You retired, went down to Florida.”
“That's right. Paying the bills without me?”
“I can't complain.”
“You had two boys, right? How they doing?”
“Both in college,” he said proudly.
Valentine flipped through Mario's family album while the pizza maker took the slices from the oven and sprinkled both with oregano. Mario had borrowed from a loan shark to open his business, then paid off the debt at 50 percent interest, which said a lot about his pies.
“Your wife used to call in the orders,” Mario said. “Louise, right?”
“Lois.”
“How she doing?”
He bit into a slice. “My wife died a year and a half ago.”
“I'm sorry for you,” Mario said.
“Thanks,” Valentine said. It was strange: After Lois had died, he'd dropped twenty pounds. Now he was talking about it with a mouth full of food.
“How's the pizza?”
“You still make the best sauce. You have a piece of paper and a pen I can borrow? I need to compose something.”
Mario handed him a napkin and a pen. “You writing to a lady?”
“Yeah. An apology.”
“You say something nasty to her?”
“I bloodied her nose. Now she's pressing charges. What do you think I should say?”
Mario scratched the iron stubble on his chin. “That's a tough one. Wait. I got it. You like this. ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm-a so sad, I smacked you.' ”
He went back to closing his store, Valentine to his apology. He had a few lines written down when he felt an icy chill on his neck. Another customer had come in, and he glanced at the back counter mirror. A figure was standing behind him, glaring. Valentine slowly turned around.
It was his teacher.
“You something else, Tony boy.”
Valentine sat in the bucket seat of Yun's ancient Toyota Corolla, trying to figure out what he'd done to make Yun so mad. His teacher spun the wheel and he was thrown against his door.
“One of my students calls, says you beat Kat up,” Yun said. “That doesn't sound like you. I think maybe something else going on. So I park down the street from the Body Slam School. Then I see you pull up. You got a date with her, huh?”
“I wanted to talk to her.”
“You saw her tits, huh? Pretty nice, huh?”
“This has nothing to do with her tits.”
“Watch out. Next, you making babies.”
“Oh, for the love of Christ,” Valentine swore.
Yun drove around for a while. Once, after a tournament in which he'd lost to an inferior opponent, Yun had driven around until the monotony had nearly sent him over the edge.
“You want my opinion?” his teacher said.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You really horny. Stay away from her, if you know what's good for you.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
<
br /> There were only so many roads in Atlantic City, and soon they were driving past motel row. The Drake, Valentine's first motel, came into view. A black 531 BMW was parked in front. It looked like Gerry's car. A guy that was not his son was standing with his foot on the rear bumper. A big guy, his weight making the car sag.
“Pull over,” Valentine said.
Yun turned down a side street and parked. At the street's end was the beach; beyond it, the churning ocean. Valentine started to get out.
“You going to explain?” Yun said.
“That's my son's car. The guy standing on the bumper is hood Big Tony Mollo. My son owes him fifty thousand bucks. Big Tony has come to collect.”
“This is some son you got.”
“He's the only son I've got,” Valentine said.
“Maybe we should talk to this hood together,” Yun suggested.
“You up to it?”
“I manage.”
Hands in pockets, Valentine strolled up motel row. He wondered why Big Tony had come to the Drake, then remembered that he hadn't told Gerry he'd switched motels. He stopped a few feet from his son's car. Big Tony stared right through him. Grow old, Valentine thought, and you grow invisible.
Big Tony pushed himself off the bumper. About six-four and three hundred pounds, a body nurtured on garlic meatballs and lasagna and lots of grappa.
“You Gerry's old man?”
“No,” Valentine said, “we just look alike.”
“Very funny.”
Big Tony slapped the roof of the BMW. Two guys hopped out. They appeared to be your typical Italian miscreants. One tall and very skinny, the other smaller and slightly retarded, his hair in a fifties pompadour. The family resemblance was scary.
“These are my brothers,” Big Tony said. “Joey, and Little Tony. This is Gerry's old man. Guys, show Mr. Valentine what his son's been doing for the past few hours.”
Joey produced a key ring and popped the trunk. Lying in back were his son and a woman Valentine assumed was Yolanda. Their mouths were covered with duct tape. Joey slammed the trunk hard.
“You're lucky I didn't kill them,” Big Tony said.
“Over a marker?” Valentine said.
“I got arrested because of you,” Big Tony said.
“You never been arrested before?”
“You know what happened to me in that fucking jail?”
Valentine gave it some thought. “You got buggered.”
“What?”
“Raped, sodomized, made to give up your manhood. Am I getting warm?”
“I'm going to mutilate you,” Big Tony said.
Yun had appeared by Valentine's side. His teacher had removed his overcoat and wore a baggy sweater and loose-fitting trousers. His forehead was glistening, and Valentine realized he'd been doing his warm-up. Yun walked up to Big Tony. It wasn't going to be fair, but who ever said life was?
“See if you can hit me,” his teacher said.
Big Tony eyed him. “Say what?”
Yun jabbed him in the stomach. Big Tony winced.
“Come on, fat boy. Hit me.”
Big Tony obliged him and threw a haymaker that started by his knee. Blocking the punch, Yun grabbed Big Tony's arm and flipped him onto the icy ground. He twisted Big Tony's arm until the big man yelped Uncle.
Valentine had been watching Joey, who appeared to be the more dangerous of the two brothers. Seeing Joey slip his hand into his leather jacket, Valentine stepped forward and popped him on the nose. As Joey crumpled, a strange-looking weapon clattered to the ground. Valentine picked it up. It was an old-fashioned zip gun, the barrel taped to a wood handle. He pointed the weapon at Little Tony.
“Uncle, uncle,” Little Tony chorused.
Valentine walked over to where Big Tony lay on the ground.
“Promise you'll leave my son alone?”
“Okay.”
“Say it.”
“I promise to leave Gerry alone.”
Yun let him go. Big Tony sat up and rubbed his arm. Valentine went over to where Joey lay and removed the BMW's keys from his pocket.
And though it was a cold, miserable night and Valentine's head was throbbing, seeing Gerry climb out of the trunk safe and sound made it all worthwhile. Yolanda was okay, too, a happy ending if there ever was one.
Eating dinner in a restaurant a short while later, Gerry thanked his father as only he knew how.
“For the love of Christ,” his son said belligerently. “What took you so long?”
21
The Devil's Playthings
Valentine woke up the next morning feeling better than he had in weeks. Saving his son's neck had something to do with it, but also the realization that Mabel was right. He couldn't start quitting jobs because he got cold feet.
He did his morning exercises, then called Joe Cortez at a few minutes before eight. People who were good at what they did usually got to work early, and he found Joe at his desk.
“I think I found your blackjack cheaters,” Joe said.
Valentine grinned. He loved days that started out like this.
“I was sifting through the names when I had an idea,” the INS agent said. “If these cheaters were staying in New York, they'd be playing blackjack at Foxwoods or the Mohegan Sun in Connecticut. So I concentrated on foreigners with teaching visas just in Jersey. Then I looked for three males and one female traveling together, and bingo, there they were.”
“How can you be sure it's them?”
“The girl,” Cortez said. “I pulled up her passport photo on my computer. You nailed her perfectly: She looks like Audrey Hepburn. Name's Anna Ravic. Born in Belgrade, thirty-five years young.”
“What's their background?”
“Bunch of Croatian eggheads with Ph.D.s in numbers. They came over in late October from Zagreb, wherever that is. They're guests of the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton University.”
Cortez named the other members of the gang. Juraj Havelka, Alex Havelka, who was Juraj's brother, and Rolf Pujin. Cortez had called Interpol, just to see if they were wanted or had criminal records. He'd come up empty.
“I really appreciate this,” Valentine said when Joe told him he had to run.
“What are friends for,” Cortez said.
Valentine had rented the room adjacent to his for Gerry and Yolanda. He tapped lightly on the door.
It was Yolanda who greeted him, wearing one of his son's long-sleeve white shirts and nothing else. She was one of those remarkable women that looked great without any makeup and her hair a screaming mess.
“You sleep any?”
She stifled a yawn. “A little.”
“Hungry?”
She rubbed her eyes and grunted in the affirmative. He took out his wallet and extracted a hundred-dollar bill.
“I'm going to Princeton for a few hours,” he said. “Try to stay around the motel, okay? Just in case the Mollo brothers change their minds.”
She stared at the money he'd given her. Valentine didn't know much about her, except she was studying to be a doctor and was head-over-heels in love with his son. Somehow, those two facts didn't mesh, and he found himself regarding her as a dumb broad for getting mixed up with his son. She sensed this, and shot him a scornful look.
“I'm not some floozy, or whatever it is you think I am.”
“Did I say that?”
“It's written all over your face.”
“What?”
“Your thoughts.”
“Gerry didn't tell me you were psychic. You do parties?”
“You're a jerk,” she said.
“And?”
“Get lost.”
She slammed the door in his face and threw the dead bolt. Valentine laughed all the way to the car. Was she insinuating that she didn't want him to come back? That was typical of her generation; they opened their mouths without thinking about the consequences.
He checked beneath the hood for explosives, then climbed in and fired up the eng
ine. If he didn't come back, who the hell did she think was going to pay for the room?
Yolanda opened the door and stuck her head out. “He's gone. You can come out.”
Gerry appeared beside her. He'd asked Yolanda to answer the door, hoping his old man would take a liking to her. Only the opposite seemed to have happened. Yolanda was livid and gave him a mean stare.
“Your old man's a prick.”
“He can be nice,” he said defensively.
“So what do we do now?”
That was a good question. Gerry knew what he wanted to do. Have a roll in the sheets, take a hot shower, get some chow. Only Yolanda's question was more big picture. So he scratched his belly and pretended to think.
“Where's the hundred my old man gave you?”
She pulled it from her shirt pocket. Gerry tried to take it, and she steadfastly held on to a corner.
“What's the plan, Stan?” she said.
“Do you feel lucky?” he asked.
“What have you got in mind?”
“Let's go gamble,” he said.
Princeton was a two-hour drive made shorter by Valentine's heavy foot. The turnpike was clear, and the Mercedes' twelve-cylinder engine took a deep breath at ninety miles per hour. He was a law-abiding citizen except when it came to being on an empty highway. There he drove like a lunatic and suffered the consequences if a cop happened to be around. His late wife had scolded him for it endlessly, and he'd never listened.
He found jazz on the local public station, Dave Brubeck, Concord on a Summer Night. When it came to the airwaves, New Jersey had the Sunshine State beat by a country mile. Back home, he could never find jazz or big band or Sinatra, the stations held hostage by shock jocks and every bad Led Zeppelin tune ever recorded. Except for ball games, he rarely tuned in.
On the hour the news came on. The lead story was from Florida. The Micanopy Indian reservation was under siege.
“Earlier today,” the announcer said, “Florida's governor ordered fifty shotgun-toting agents from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement onto the Micanopy Indian Reservation in Broward County. ‘Video poker must go,' the governor told a group of reporters from his mansion in Tallahassee. But the Indians are fighting back. The tribe's leader, Chief Running Bear, released dozens of alligators into the casino. According to reports, the FDLE agents have fled.