Wild Card (Tony Valentine Series)

by James Swain

  “I wanted to tell you that I still love you. I always have, and I always will.”

  His father didn’t move, his eyes simmering with rage. Maybe someday it will sink in, Valentine thought. He walked out of the dining room, and did not look back.

  Chapter 45

  He drove away from the flophouse shaking his head. His old man thought the mafia was stealing free rooms. So much for the power of alcohol.

  The storm had not let up. Sitting at a light, he listened to the oddly soothing sound of the windshield wipers beating back the rain. A car in his rearview mirror caught his eye. A white Ford Fairlane, idling a block behind him. As the light changed and he pulled away, so did the Fairlane. The image of Luther lying dead on the beach flashed through his mind. He drew his .38 and lay it across his lap.

  The Fairlane followed him into the casino’s employee parking. The Pinto didn’t have much pep left in it, and he had to floor it to put any room between himself and the other car. He circled the lot and came to an open area. He slammed his foot on the break, and felt the rear wheels lock. As he turned the wheel, he released the brake, and the Pinto did a smooth one-eighty. He punched the gas, and headed straight toward the Fairlane. The driver of the Fairlane bailed, and hit his brakes hard. As the car came to a screeching stop, Valentine jumped out of the Pinto holding the .38 with both hands.

  The Fairlane flashed its lights, and the driver’s window lowered. Valentine walked over to the vehicle. Sitting behind the wheel was Mike Hatch, a detective on the force, and a guy he’d known since grade school. Hatch was shaking in fear.

  “Why are you following me?” Valentine asked.

  “Who said I was following you?”

  “I did.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “You’re a lousy liar. Out with it.”

  “Banko’s orders,” Hatch said.

  Valentine put his gun away, knowing he was screwed.

  Banko’s office seemed unusually cold. Sitting in a chair that faced his superior’s desk, Valentine saw why: The window behind the desk was cracked open, and winter had invaded the room.

  “You’re damn right I had you followed,” Banko said, standing behind his desk. Hatch stood against the wall, avoiding Valentine’s stare. “You’re an officer of the law. You start acting weird, its casts a bad light on the entire department.”

  Weird. It was a better description than crazy, and Valentine felt himself relax. Picking up the pad on his desk, Banko read aloud. “Three mornings ago, you walked out of the station house with a prostitute, went to her car, and were seen handcuffing her. You drove with her to another prostitute’s apartment, where you spent —” He glanced at Hatch, and the detective held up three fingers “ — thirty minutes inside. You got to work around noon. Two days ago, you went to the Rainbow Arms, then went and visited a psychiatrist. Again, you got to work about noon. Today, you visited Nucky Balducci, then were seen taking a homeless man to a flop house.” Banko looked at the clock on his desk. It was nearly noon, and his eyes fell on Valentine’s face. “Your job is to police Resorts’ casino. How can you be doing that when you’re on the street?”

  “I can explain,” Valentine said.

  Banko dropped the pad, and leaned on the desk with his fists. “You can explain disobeying my orders? That’s not an explanation I care to hear. You’re acting weird, Tony, and I don’t like it one bit. It’s making me nervous.”

  Valentine struggled for something intelligent to say. Banko pointed at the door, and Hatch walked out. “I’m suspending you, with pay,” Banko said when Hatch was gone. “I want you to see a shrink, and get these issues ironed out. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have let you return to the force so quickly after the shooting at the Rainbow Arms.”

  “You think I’m crazy?”

  “No, just someone who needs help.”

  Banko went to the door, and held it open. Valentine pushed himself out of his chair, thinking of Vinny Acosta and the person behind the voice and all the other people in town who wanted him out of the way. They’d gotten their wish, and he realized he had no one to blame but himself.

  That night, sitting on the couch in Valentine’s living room, Doyle tried to make light of what had happened. “It’s no big deal. You see a shrink, talk about how your mother had you in diapers until you were eighteen, and get a clean bill of health in a couple of weeks. People expect cops to have emotional problems. It comes with the territory.”

  “You think I have emotional issues?”

  “No, no. It’s just what people expect, that’s all.”

  Doyle and Liddy had brought dinner over to cheer him up. Liddy’s famous Irish stew, mashed potatoes, mixed green salad, and vanilla ice cream. By the time they’d started eating dessert, Valentine had started feeling like his old self.

  In the kitchen, Liddy and Lois were dividing up the leftovers; then it would be their turn to clean the dishes. Valentine glanced at his partner. The job affected everyone differently. For Doyle, it showed in his face. His boyish exuberance was still there, only now it was masked by flecks of gray hair and worry lines.

  Valentine felt his body melt into the cushions. The meal was taking its time settling in his stomach. The phone rang. Upstairs, he heard Gerry bound down the hall to answer it. “Hey Pop it’s for you,” his son called out.

  He glanced at his watch. A quarter of ten. No one called this late except pesky salesmen. He pushed himself off the couch, went to the head of the stairs.

  “Tell whoever it is to call back,” he said.

  Gerry appeared at the head of the stairs. He’d stopped sleeping in his PJs a few weeks ago, and wore his skivvies. “It’s Mrs. Mink. She wants to talk to you.”

  “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “No, but she sounds upset. I just think she’s crying.”

  Valentine glance at Doyle, and saw his partner bounce off the couch. “I’ll take it in the kitchen,” he told his son.

  In the kitchen he found Liddy and Lois standing at the counter, popping lids on Tupperware containers. The phone hung from the wall, and had a long extension cord. Picking it up, he heard Gerry hang up, then said, “Gloria, this is Tony. Is everything okay?”

  Gloria Mink sobbed into phone. “No!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s got a gun.”

  “Who’s got a gun?”

  Lois and Liddy’s heads snapped.

  “My husband,” Gloria said, her voice cracking. “He started drinking whiskey this afternoon. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. Then he started breaking dishes and pictures and other things. Then he went and got the gun.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In his study. He told me to leave the house. He’s going to hurt himself. He blames himself for what happened. Please help me. Please.”

  “Did you call 911?”

  “No.”

  “Gloria —”

  “I can’t,” she sobbed. “Please come over and talk to him. You’re the only one who will understand. Please, Tony. Before he shoots himself.”

  The Minks lived on the south end in a split-level ranch house. The area had an unusual reputation; it was predominantly lower income, yet had consistently produced the island’s best athletes. Gloria was at the door when they arrived, and had pulled herself together. As they went in, she grabbed Valentine’s sleeve and looked into his eyes.

  “I tried,” she whispered.

  At the funeral Valentine remembered thinking how the loss of her son had robbed her of her beauty. Now, something else was being taken away.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the study. Please bring him back.”

  “I’ll try,” Valentine said.

  Doyle remained with Gloria in the living room while Valentine crossed the house. He’d been to the Mink’s house several times for Sunday afternoon football parties, and remembered the study being right off the kitchen, the rooms separated by a swinging wooden door. He found the door,
and tapped on it with his knuckles.

  “Go away,” a voice said drunkenly from the other side.

  “It’s Tony Valentine. Can I come in?”

  “Get out of my god damn house,” Mink shouted through the door.

  Valentine decided to take a chance, and pushed the door open with his toe, and stuck his head through. Mink sat behind a desk on the other side of the room, and looked drunker than a sailor on a Saturday night.

  “Hey, buddy,” Valentine said.

  “Don’t buddy me,” Mink snapped.

  “You mad at me?”

  “Go away. Now.”

  “Come on. Let me in.”

  Mink grunted drunkenly. Valentine took it as a yes, and entered the study. He saw Mink put his hands onto the desk, and ball them into fists. Both of his hands were caked in dried blood. An empty whiskey bottle sat on the blotter; beside it, an automatic pistol. Valentine held his palms out so Mink could see he was not carrying a weapon.

  “I need to talk to you,” Valentine said.

  “Really? And for the past few months, I thought you were avoiding me.”

  “Can I sit down?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Valentine took a chair from the wall and pulled it up to the desk. Next to the chair were the display cases Mink had built to house Marcus’s impressive collection of football trophies. Mink had smashed the glass in each case.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Valentine said.

  “You said that at the funeral. Do you have any idea why my son is dead?”

  Mink’s head sagged forward, and he looked like he might pass out. Valentine reached across the desk, took the revolver, and placed it on the floor between his feet. Mink stared at the spot where the revolver had been.

  “No. Why don’t you tell me?”

  Mink continued to stare at the spot. “Marcus knew,” he whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A few weeks ago, I told Gloria what really happened at the Rainbow Arms that night. Marcus was supposed to be at basketball practice, but he came home early, and overhead us talking. My son knew I was dirty. Do you know what that means?”

  Valentine swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “No.”

  “I had no traction with the boy. I couldn’t control him.”

  “What did Marcus hear?”

  Mink banged his blood-stained hand on the desk. “That his father went along for the ride. That his father wanted to be one of the boys. That his father was weak.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  Mink took a deep breath and nodded.

  “You didn’t take any money?”

  “That was to come later on.”

  Mink’s eyes shifted to a high school portrait of Marcus hanging behind the gridiron trophies inside the shattered display case. Marcus had been blessed with his mother’s good looks and his father’s winning smile. Tears welled up in Mink’s face and he wiped them away with his palm.

  “Last week, I came home from work, and there was a motorbike sitting in the driveway. Gloria and I tried to take it away from him. Marcus said if we took the bike, he’d tell his friends at school he knew I was dirty. So I let him keep it.” Mink shook his head and began to cry. “I made a mistake, and the Lord has taken away my most precious thing.”

  Valentine let a long moment pass. “What happened at the Rainbow Arms? I’ve never fully understood it.”

  Mink stared at his hands. The dried blood had turned them a color that no man should have to bear. “The Prince knew the mob was inside Resorts, and that Crowe, Brown and Mickey Wright were on the take. The Prince tried to get a piece of the action, and was turned away. He had one of his whores sleep with a hood named Vinny Acosta. She rolled him, and took his address book. Crowe and Brown were sent to get it back.”

  “Why is the address book so important?”

  “Acosta is skimming the casino,” Mink said. “He’s got casino employees converting free rooms and comps into cash, then using runners to take the cash out. The address book contains the names of the runners.”

  Valentine could not believe what Mink was saying. His father had been right.

  “How much cash?” he heard himself ask.

  “A hundred grand a day.”

  “Vinny Acosta is stealing three point six million dollars a year?”

  Mink laughed hoarsely. “Try thirty-six million.”

  The number was so large, it didn’t seem possible.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Mink said.

  “How are they getting the cash out?”

  “Each runner gets a hundred thousand dollar line of credit from the casino. The runner gambles for a few hours, but only bets a little money. Then the runner converts the chips into cash, and walks out the door with it. The people on the inside show the money going towards comps.”

  Valentine thought of the dozens of cheaters he’d busted in the past few months. All combined, he didn’t think they’d stolen as much as Vinny Acosta was stealing every day.

  “Guess what my take was,” Mink said.

  “I don’t have any idea.”

  “Five hundred bucks a week. And look what it bought me. A life of penance, and shame.”

  The rage had seeped out of Mink’s voice, his spirit shattered by what he’d done. The moment of horror had passed, and Valentine came around the desk and offered Mink his hand. “Come on,” he said.

  Mink rose on wobbly legs. He put his hand on Valentine’s arm for balance, then said, “Are you going to arrest me?”

  Valentine shook his head. Mink had suffered enough for what he’d done.

  They walked into the kitchen. It was the kind of kitchen you hardly saw anymore — an expanse of rubbed down linoleum, an old gas range, and a refrigerator with rounded corners. The sink was on porcelain legs, and Valentine stood beside it while Mink washed the blood from his hands. Gloria and Doyle appeared, and Gloria went to her husband and embraced him. Mink rested his head against his wife’s bosom. Gloria whispered in his ear, and Mink said, ‘I’m sorry,’ several times in reply.

  Valentine looked at Doyle and saw his partner nod. They had done what they could, and walked out of the house to their car.

  Chapter 46

  The next morning, Valentine met with the two auditors assigned to keep tabs on Resorts’ gambling revenues. They worked in a brick building several miles away from the casino, and Valentine felt safe in assuming they hadn’t heard about his suspension yet.

  The auditor’s names were Finkel and Carp. Not smart enough to become CPAs, they’d taken this beat instead. As a rule, they didn’t deal directly with anyone who worked at the casino, and they reacted cooly to Valentine’s bribe of fresh bagels and coffee.

  “What do you want?” Carp growled at him.

  Valentine had known Carp since junior high. Back then, Carp had worn his hair shellacked like James Dean, and smoked cigarettes behind the school with the greasers. These days, he didn’t have any hair, and wore cheap suits from Men’s Warehouse.

  “I’m meeting with Resorts’ management next week,” Valentine said. “I’m supposed to show the impact Doyle and I are having on the casino’s profits.”

  Carp snorted. “You lose.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re surveillance, and surveillance is the enemy of the bottom line.”

  “It is?”

  “Surveillance is the second-to-worst non-revenue generating department in Resorts,” Carp explained. “You only exist because the law says you have to.”

  “Who brings up the rear?”

  “Payroll.”

  “I still think we’re making a difference,” Valentine said. “I want to examine the profits of the different games before, and after, Doyle and I entered the picture. If profits are up, it means there’s less cheating, and we’re improving the bottom line.”

  Finkel tore apart one of the bagels. They had also gone to school together, yet somehow their path
s had never crossed. When Carp had introduced them as classmates, Valentine had thought he was kidding.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Finkel said.

  Carp shrugged indifferently. “Tony, it doesn’t matter what you say to upper management. It still won’t change their opinion of you.”

  “Which is what?”