by James Swain
Valentine shrugged his shoulders.
“Why can’t you leave me out of it?” Saul said.
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Still a damn cop, aren’t you?”
“You’ve got no one but yourself to blame.”
Saul gave him a murderous look. “For what? Giving a guy some advice and passing along a few pearls I learned during my lifetime? Is that a crime?”
Valentine crossed the living room and paused to glance out the window a final time. It wasn’t much of a view, the line of blue so small that he couldn’t even make out the waves, but it was still there. Waking up to it every day, Saul Hyman, a dirt-poor kid from Coney Island, had probably felt like the king of the world.
Saul had turned awkwardly in his wheelchair and was staring at him. “Tony, please, don’t do this to me.”
“Have a nice trip,” Valentine said.
47
The bride wore a fantasy ball gown with dangling crystals on the strapless bodice, a silk-organza flair skirt, and a cathedral-length train. She was beautiful in a way that only brides can be, and as she walked down the aisle holding Valentine’s arm, the crowd of well-wishers let out a collective ahhh.
A smile lit up Valentine’s face. At first, the idea of giving Candy away had not thrilled him. What if he slipped around the other guests and said something inappropriate about her past? Only, Candy had begged him.
“You’re the perfect person,” she’d said.
“I am?” he’d said.
“Yes.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I have no secrets from you.”
How was he supposed to refuse a request like that? So he’d gone to the rehearsal and let a polite little man fit him for a tuxedo—his first since his own wedding—and gotten his hair done by a stylist so his missing ear wouldn’t be too noticeable. And now here he was, leading Candy to her new life and a new beginning.
Nigel and the minister waited at the end of the aisle. Valentine had gone to Nigel’s bachelor party and tossed away his feelings about egotistical rock-and-roll musicians. Nigel was a square joe. He would make Candy happy. Valentine was sure of it.
The ceremony was just right, the minister’s comments heartfelt. Nigel surprised everyone by reciting an English wedding ballad that had been in his family for five hundred years. Then Candy recited a poem about life’s choices that had been written by her sister, who’d died in a car accident long ago. Then the minister made everyone stand up.
Nigel said, “I do,” and Candy said, “I do,” and a dozen waiters standing in the back of the Delano’s dining room popped bottles of Moët & Chandon. A toast was made, and a rock-and-roll band hiding behind a curtain broke out in a rousing version of the Rolling Stone’s Satisfaction.
Valentine crossed the room and found his date. She wore a stunning twin-textured peach gown. He had paid more for it than he’d ever paid for a piece of clothing for his late wife, and he’d felt guilty buying it. But he needed to tell her how he felt, and something expensive was a good way to start.
“Want to dance?”
“Of course.”
He found an empty spot on the corner of the dance floor. When he tried to engage her, she said, “I have a question for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you miss her?”
He acknowledged that he did.
“Do you mind telling me how you ended it?”
“Is that important?”
“To me it is,” she said.
It hadn’t been easy. He’d flown to Memphis and taken her out to dinner, and they’d talked several times on the phone after that. He still liked her, only the chemistry between them had changed. When he’d told her he wouldn’t be seeing her again, she hadn’t objected.
“I thanked her for helping me get my priorities straight,” he said.
“You really said that?”
The band had broken into a slow number. It was too good to pass up, and Valentine and his neighbor glided like a pair of angels across the dance floor.
“I sure did,” he said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMES SWAIN, a gambling expert, is the author of Grift Sense and Funny Money. Swain is considered one of the best card handlers in the world. He lives with his wife in Odessa, Florida, where he is currently working on his fourth novel featuring Tony Valentine. Visit his Web site at www.jimswain.com.
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James Swain
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