by James Swain
“That’s it,” Valentine said. “A pretty girl was waiting for my son at the station house. She was bait. She convinced him and his friends to drive her someplace, where Jinky’s boys were waiting. That’s my theory.”
Longo thought back to early that morning when he’d released Gerry and walked him to the reception area. He’d done a quick scan of the visitors, like he always did. There hadn’t been any pretty girls sitting on the plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Had she come from somewhere inside the station house? He put his pen down.
“Let me look into this,” Longo said. “Give me a number where I can get back to you.”
Longo wrote Valentine’s cell number on his blotter and hung up. Then he sat at his desk, deep in thought. He had to handle this right, and not make any accusations until he was certain he had the right cop. He pushed himself out of his chair, and walked to the front of the station house with the legal pad pressed to his chest.
The receptionist on duty was a no-nonsense female sergeant named Cobb. Cobb sat behind a three-inch piece of bulletproof Plexiglas, her eyes riveted to the reception area. No matter what time of day it was, the reception area was always filled with angry and sometimes desperate people. Longo came up behind her, and asked to see the logbook. Cobb pulled it off the desk.
“Don’t go too far with that,” she snapped.
Longo pointed at the chair behind her own. “Here okay?”
“Perfect,” she said.
He sat down, opened the logbook on his lap, and found the entries from early that morning. The station house had several hundred visitors a day, and it took him over a minute to find Gerry Valentine’s entry. Gerry had signed out at 3:04 A.M. According to Tony Valentine’s theory, the girl who’d baited Gerry had done so right after he’d been released, which meant she’d probably signed out around the same time. Longo checked the names of the visitors who’d signed out around the same time as Gerry, and found only one. A woman named Bonnie Vitucci.
Longo stared at the Person Here to See box next to Vitucci’s name. It was blank. Rising from his chair, he tapped Cobb on the arm.
“Who was working the graveyard shift last night?”
“Boy, your memory’s going,” the sergeant said.
“Why do you say that?”
“I was working the graveyard shift. Fannie got sick, so I took her shift.”
Longo pointed at Bonnie Vitucci’s name in the logbook. “Does this woman’s name ring any bells?”
Cobb had eyes like a lizard, and looked at the name in the log without shifting her head. She cracked her bubble gum and nodded at the same time.
“Who is she?”
“A stripper who also does tricks on the side,” Cobb said. “She got arrested for offering an undercover detective a BJ.”
“When was this?”
“About a year ago.”
“How can you remember that clearly?”
“It was her walk,” Cobb said.
“Her walk?”
“Yeah. The way she sashayed through here when she got arrested, you’d swear she was sleeping with somebody in the department. That’s what we thought.”
“We?”
“The other ladies on the staff. We.”
Longo realized he was nodding his head. Everything Cobb had said made perfect sense. Jinky Harris had gotten one of his strippers to start sleeping with a detective, and the stripper had pulled the detective over to the dark side. That was how those kinds of things worked. He knew that for a fact, because he’d fallen for a stripper himself once. Sex made you blind and it made you stupid. He put the log back in its place and thanked Cobb for her help.
Longo returned to his office and shut the door. He sat down in front of his ancient PC and pulled up Bonnie Vitucci’s rap sheet. The mug shot showed a pretty blonde in her late twenties with a faraway look in her eyes. He read the rap sheet, and saw that the charge had been reduced to a misdemeanor when the arresting officer had not shown up in court for her trial. Longo guessed that this was when the affair had started.
The arresting officer’s signature was at the bottom of the sheet, and he hesitated before scrolling down. He knew every detective on the force, and considered nearly all of them his friends. He found himself almost not wanting to know who it was.
Longo took a deep breath. His own affair had nearly cost him his career, and his marriage. But his buddies on the force had closed ranks, and so had his wife and two daughters. They had given him a second chance, and he’d sworn to them that he’d never screw up again.
But this situation was different. This dirty cop had fed information to Jinky Harris, who’d ruined the lives of more young girls than anyone in Las Vegas. Longo took out his wallet, and stared at the plastic-enclosed snapshot of his two teenage daughters. The girls Jinky had ruined were just like them, he reminded himself.
Longo put his finger on the mouse and scrolled down to the name of the arresting officer on the rap sheet. Detective Hector Frangos. He’d known Hector since they were both rookie cops, and had been to his house in Henderson a couple of times for backyard barbecues. Hector had a wife and three small children, and if he remembered correctly, the youngest was autistic. He’d considered him a friend, up until now.
He picked up his phone and started to dial Hector’s three-digit extension. He was about to ruin the life of a brother officer, as well as the life of his wife and three kids. It didn’t seem right, considering that he’d been given a second chance for committing the same crime. But then again, no one ever said life was fair.
He punched in Hector’s extension while his other hand removed the pair of handcuffs attached to his belt, and placed them on his desk.
49
Gerry Valentine had once read in Newsweek magazine that the biggest challenge for terrorists who made bombs was not to get blown up in the process. According to the article, over half the terrorists who made bombs either blew themselves up, or created a bomb that blew up prematurely and killed the wrong people.
The same thing appeared to be true of operating a flamethrower. Turning one on was relatively simple, provided you didn’t set yourself—or someone standing nearby—on fire. Once you got past that part, handling a flamethrower was easy.
Luckily, the four men who’d been beating them up in the warehouse had not read the article, and were taking turns setting one another’s clothing on fire while starting up the flamethrower Jinky had sent over. It was designed like a lawn blower, and spit out a terrifying, long, bright orange flame. Each time one of them caught on fire, Gerry prayed that the man handling the flamethrower would drop it on the ground and break the damn thing.
But it wasn’t meant to be. The guy who’d brought the flamethrower to the warehouse stepped out of the shadows, crushed his cigarette into the ground, and cursed the men in Italian. The man went by a single name. Mario. His English was broken, and he frequently reverted to speaking Italian. He was skinny, and had hair and eyebrows so black they looked painted on.
Mario took the flamethrower, and showed the men how to operate it. As flames shot across the warehouse, they illuminated his face, and even though he was on the other side of the warehouse, Gerry instantly recognized him. It was the man he’d seen in the stairwell of the Atlantic City Medical Center ten days ago.
“That’s Jack Donovan’s killer,” he said under his breath.
“You’re sure?” Vinny asked.
“Yeah, that’s definitely him.”
“This is just getting better and better,” Vinny moaned.
They watched Mario continue his tutorial. Gerry knew that the Mafia liked to use guys right off the boat to do dirty jobs because they were hard for the police to trace. Guys who came into the country illegally were called wops. It meant “without papers.” Mario had an air of ruthlessness about him that was almost palpable, and Gerry imagined him ripping the oxygen tubes out of Jack Donovan’s nose, and then pounding on Jack’s chest with his fists, robbing Jack of his last breaths.
“That guy is a psycho,” Vinny said.
“You think so?” Gerry asked.
“He’s got Anthony Perkins written all over him. Just look at his eyes. There’s no life in them.”
Gerry stared at Mario’s eyes. They looked like the eyes you’d find on a stuffed animal. His father had once told him that professional killers nearly all shared one thing in common. They’d been abused as children, and no one had done anything to stop it. This made them angry at the world, and allowed them to enjoy the work that they did.
Jinky’s men still couldn’t get the hang of operating the flamethrower. Mario got angry with them, and started to direct the action. He had one man get behind Frank’s chair and wrap a steel chain around Frank’s neck. Then Mario turned the flamethrower on, and brought the flame within a few feet of Frank’s face.
“Tell us which one of you shot Russ Watson, or we’ll burn your head off,” the man strangling Frank said.
Frank stared wide-eyed at the flame hovering near his face. He seemed to be debating what to do, as if there was a choice at this point. He stubbornly shook his head. He wasn’t giving in to these guys; not now, not ever.
“Tell me,” the man said.
“Screw you,” Frank said.
Mario brought the flame closer to Frank’s face. Frank pulled his head back, and the guy strangling him jerked his head forward. Frank’s head was turning colors, first purple from the lack of oxygen, then bloodred from the heat of the flame. Smoke poured off his face as his eyebrows began to catch on fire. The man doing the strangling turned his attention toward Gerry and Vinny, who sat bound in their chairs on the other side of the warehouse.
“You boys liking this?” he yelled to them.
“Turn the flamethrower off, and I’ll tell you who did it,” Gerry yelled back.
“Tell me now,” the man replied.
“Turn off the flamethrower,” Gerry yelled.
“Go fuck yourself,” the man yelled.
“I hear you’re the expert,” Gerry yelled back at him.
“You’re next, asshole.”
Gerry had been silently praying for a miracle, and he got one. Frank’s right hand—his hitting hand—had popped free of the ropes. Frank made a fist and brought his hand up in an arch, catching the guy strangling him flush on the side of the face. The chain came loose from around Frank’s neck, and fell jangling to the concrete floor.
Getting hit by a boxer was different from getting hit by an ordinary Joe, and the guy who’d been doing the strangling came staggering around Frank’s chair, his eyes rolling in his head. Frank grabbed him with his free hand, and threw him directly into the path of the flamethrower. The man’s clothing and hair instantly caught fire, and he threw his arms into the air, screamed, and took off at a dead run.
Mario looked surprised at the turn of events, but not terribly upset. He extinguished the flamethrower by flipping off a switch, and stood with the three men and watched their partner do flaming pirouettes in the center of the warehouse. Within a few moments the flaming man fell face-first to the floor, his arms and legs twitching. Mario and the others stood silently and watched him die.
“We need to call Jinky, tell him what happened,” one of the men said.
“I have better idea,” Mario said.
“What’s that?”
“We kill them, then call Jinky.”
They all seemed to think this was a good idea. Mario drew an automatic handgun from behind his belt.
“I do them,” Mario said.
“You want to kill all four of them?” one of the men said.
Mario nodded his head forcefully. “All four,” he replied.
Frank had continued to pull at the ropes holding him to the chair. He was nearly free, his fingers nimbly pulling the knots apart. Nunzie was cheering him on while trying not to look at the men who were about to kill them.
“Come on, Frankie Boy,” Nunzie said.
“Almost there,” Frank said, breathing hard.
Gerry looked sideways at Vinny, and saw his friend’s lips moving.
“You praying?”
“What else is there to do?” Vinny asked.
Gerry looked at the door. Shadows were dancing in the puddle of light streaming through the bottom of the door, indicating there were people standing outside.
“Start yelling,” Gerry said.
“What?”
“You heard me. There’re people outside. Start yelling.”
Vinny started yelling like it was nobody’s business. His voice was drowned out by a battering ram being applied to the door, the sound echoing across the warehouse’s ceiling. The door buckled on its hinges, but did not give way.
“It’s a raid,” one of Jinky’s men shouted.
The man drew a gun holstered beneath his sports jacket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the door and ricocheted dangerously around the warehouse. His partners also drew their weapons and fired at the door, determined to shoot it out with whoever was on the other side. Within seconds bullets were flying, and Gerry was reflexively jerking his head while begging God to spare him from being shot.
“Look at Frank,” Vinny said.
“Why?”
“He’s almost free.”
Gerry stopped jerking his head and stared across the warehouse. Frank had almost wriggled free of his ropes. He was taking his time, just like he had in the casino parking lot. Standing, he walked over to where the flamethrower lay on the floor, picked it up, and clutched it against his chest the way Mario had instructed. Then he got up behind the four killers. The flamethrower’s flame was on low, and he jacked the flame up, then squeezed the trigger, causing a huge flame to leap through the air. It engulfed the men, catching their clothes and hair on fire. Within seconds they were screaming and running wildly in circles around the warehouse.
One by one, the men dropped to the floor, and stopped moving. The battering ram was still hitting the door, the sound like a clock ringing its final toll. Frank solemnly lowered the flamethrower while shaking his head.
“Enough of that shit,” he declared.
50
One winter when Valentine was a detective on the Atlantic City police force, his wife had talked him into taking a few night courses at a local community college. She had thought the classes would help round him out and broaden his horizons.
The two courses that had made an impact were an English course, which had turned him on to reading Raymond Chandler and other crime writers, and a philosophy course, which had gotten him thinking about things he’d never thought about before.
In the philosophy course he’d read a problem by the French philosopher Descartes that he’d never forgotten. The problem was this: You take your son and his friend to the beach. The two boys go swimming, while you stay on shore. Suddenly, you realize the boys have been pulled out by an undertow and are drowning. The boys are far apart, and as you swim out to rescue them, it becomes apparent only one can be saved. You are responsible for your son’s friend, since you’re the adult in charge, but you’re also responsible for your son, since you’re his father. Who do you save?
According to Descartes, you saved your son.
Descartes’ reasoning was perfectly logical. You might someday forgive yourself for letting the other boy drown, but you would never forgive yourself if your son drowned. It was a lesson that Valentine had never forgotten.
As the Metro Las Vegas Police Department SWAT team entered the warehouse where Gerry and his friends were being held, Valentine ignored the orders of the SWAT team’s commander, and came in behind them. The warehouse smelled of smoke, and he stared at the four burning bodies lying on the floor, the three men tied to chairs, and a man with a horribly damaged face holding a flamethrower. Then his eyes found his son.
Of all the men in the room, Gerry looked to be in the best shape. Gerry hadn’t been badly beaten up, and the look on his son’s face said that his spirits were still intact. The others needed help in one form
or another, but Valentine ignored them and ran to his son. He untied the ropes holding Gerry prisoner. His son rose and they hugged each other.
“Go outside and stay with the cops,” Valentine said.
“I need to help my friends,” his son said.
“Just do as I say. I’ll take care of your friends.”
Gerry tried to say something. It was unusual for him to be at a loss for words, and he started to walk to the open door with light streaming through, then turned and walked across the warehouse to one of the burning bodies lying on the floor. Gerry stared down at the corpse and balled his hands into fists.
Valentine came up next to him. “What’s wrong?”
“This is the guy who killed Jack Donovan.”
Valentine looked down at the blackened body and then up into his son’s face. Many times he had heard wronged people say that there was nothing sweeter than revenge, but had never believed it himself. He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Feel any better?”
“You mean because this bastard’s dead?”
“Yeah.”
“No,” Gerry said. “I don’t feel any better at all.”
Gerry walked out of the warehouse, and Valentine untied Vinny and Nunzie from their chairs, and told them to go outside as well. As both men got to their feet, they shook Valentine’s hand and thanked him.
When they were gone, Valentine went over to check on the man with the damaged face. The man had put the flamethrower on the ground, and was standing with his hands against the wall, and his feet spread apart. While one SWAT team member frisked him, a second SWAT team member pointed a rifle at him. The man’s face looked like something out of a horror movie, and he grinned at Valentine.
“Hey, Mr. Valentine, how you doing?”
“Frank? What happened to you?”
“They tried to get me to talk,” Frank said, still grinning.
“You tell them anything?”
“Naw. They would have killed us.”
Valentine immediately understood. Frank had been willing to take the punishment on the slim hope that they’d be rescued. He was as dumb as an ox, but sometimes that was what you needed to survive in this world.
