by James Swain
She needed some air. Going out the back door, she stepped barefoot on the patio and started dancing, the bricks hot enough to fry an egg. Hopping onto the grass, she crossed onto her neighbor's property. The owners, a husband-and-wife dance team called the Davenports, had retired to Palm Springs and left the house with Century 21. It had been vacant for months, and Nola put her face to a shuttered back window and tried to peer in, wondering if the police really were inside.
She felt the wall hum; something electric was running inside. Curiosity killed more than just cats, and she crept around back and retrieved the spare key from a rock in the garden.
Clutching the key, Nola contemplated unlocking her neighbors' back door and marching inside, just to see if the police really were there. Did she have the guts?
No, she decided, she didn't. Instead, she went to the Davenports' two-car garage, unlocked the door, and slipped in.
Parked inside was an unfamiliar Chrysler sedan. Nola pressed her face to the driver's window. A two-way radio was mounted to the dash. Cops. She shuddered. Score another round for Fontaine.
Inside the house, she heard a man talking on the phone, his voice gravelly and mean. Nola tiptoed across the concrete floor, remembering all the times she'd watched her neighbors practice their intricate routines, and stuck her ear against the flimsy particleboard.
“The fuck I know what she's doing. It's been silent since she made the call. Can you believe it? Home ten minutes and she calls a bar where Fontaine hangs out. Of course I got it on tape. The guy's got a twelve-inch schlong is what I think. She neeeeds him.”
Nola brought her hand to her mouth. How in God's name was she going to convince the police she didn't know Fontaine now? The fact that Fontaine had called her first would be irrelevant in their eyes. She was doomed.
Okay, Frank, she thought, you win.
She slipped out the garage door and locked it. Retracing her steps, she went into her own house and marched down the hall. Opening the front door, she made a beeline for the mailbox at the curb.
Despite the heat, it was a beautiful day without a cloud to mar the bright blue sky. She worshiped the sun and fresh air and had stayed in Vegas probably longer than she should have because she got to enjoy these things every day. She would not do well in prison, if it came to that.
Her mailbox was jammed with junk mail. One envelope stood out. Her address was hand written, and there was no return address. She tore it open and a steel key fell into her palm—and with it, a note.
Nola,
This is how I signed your name.
She examined Fontaine's forgery. It didn't look anything like her signature, but that wasn't the point. It was written in simple script and would be easy to duplicate. As crooks went, he was awfully smart.
But why was Fontaine throwing her a life preserver? What did he gain by helping her prove her innocence? He was a hustler: There had to be something in it for him.
The sun was making her feel like one of the French fries she'd eaten for lunch. Back inside, she grabbed her keys and entered the garage from the kitchen, hopping into her Grand Am. She kept the garage air-conditioned, so the car was ice cold. For the longest while, she sat behind the wheel, thinking.
The conclusion she came to was a simple one. Like it or not, she needed a lawyer, a real good lawyer, one that could buy her time until she could straighten the police out. If the safe deposit box was filled with cash, then she was going to take it. What other choice did she have?
She fired up the engine and hit the automatic garage door opener. Sunlight flooded the interior. A sense of urgency overcame her, and she threw the car into reverse and skidded down the drive, barely able to see.
She braked at the curb to check for the neighborhood kids and saw the cops' Chrysler backing down the Davenports' driveway.
She did thirty through her development, the Chrysler fixed in her mirror. Braking at a stop sign, she watched the car pull up. Inside sat two dudes in their midthirties, one black, the other Hispanic, both wearing Terminator shades and hip street clothes. She wasn't fooled for a second.
She slowed down, forcing the Chrysler to hang back. The guard booth in front of her development sat vacant, just as it had since the day it was built. A quarter mile away was the entrance ramp for the Maryland Parkway. She spun the radio to her favorite station, classic rock for whining boomers, and with the Stones' “Satisfaction” pumping adrenaline through every vein in her body, punched the accelerator to the floor. The Grand Am let out a beastly roar and she blew past the empty guardhouse.
Her tires were smoking as she flew onto the six-lane superhighway and was immediately challenged by a sleek Porsche Boxster whose driver was determined not to give up the lane. Freedom was a glorious thing, and Nola was not about to relinquish hers anytime soon.
Blowing past the Boxster, she was soon doing one hundred and twenty. The cops in their Chrysler were nowhere to be seen.
8
The fifty-year-old bellman was waiting when Valentine returned to his room. Without a word, he retrieved Valentine's suitcase and escorted him upstairs to his new digs, a twelfth-floor suite with travertine floors, red leather furniture, and a Jacuzzi sporting eighteen-karat gold fixtures. It was high-roller heaven, the kind of room money couldn't buy, and Valentine called the front desk and left a thank-you message for Roxanne.
Exhausted, he went to bed early and slept as soundly as he had in a long time. The next morning, a Mexican busboy appeared at his door at eight A.M. with scrambled eggs, toast, fresh OJ, a pot of coffee, and the local paper. He had finished reading the box scores when there was a tapping at his door. He opened it to find a grinning Sammy Mann.
“Remember me?” the head of security asked.
Old age had robbed Sammy of his debonair good looks, his face gaunt and unhealthy. Gone, too, were the tailored clothes and silk neckties, replaced by beltless polyester slacks and a tacky madras shirt.
“If it isn't Sammy ‘The Whammy' Mann, last of the red-hot deck switchers,” Valentine greeted him. “Come on in.”
Sammy limped in and took a seat at the head of the dining-room table, a chrome-and-glass monster big enough to seat twelve. As he got settled, Valentine poured two cups of coffee and pulled up a chair. Sammy tipped his cup, his dark eyes twinkling. They seemed to be saying, Isn't life filled with little ironies? Sammy was one of the classier cheats Valentine had ever arrested, and for a while they reminisced about the old days and the various hustlers they'd both known.
Their mutual acquaintances were many. Like most hustlers, Sammy had switched partners as often as he changed shirts, and the array of talent he'd plied his trade with was a venerable Who's Who of Sleaze. Jake “the Snake” Roberts, Whitey Martindale, Larry the Lightbulb, Sonny Fontana, Big J.P., and on and on.
“I probably ran with every great hustler of the last twenty-five years,” Sammy boasted, working on his third cup.
“Who was the best?”
“Sonny Fontana, hands down.”
“They ever catch the guy who murdered him?”
“Not yet.”
“Looking back, you have any regrets?”
“I just wish I'd gotten to Atlantic City sooner.”
It was a common lament. In the late seventies, Atlantic City had put a new rule into play at its blackjack tables. It was called Surrender and allowed players to look at their cards, and if they had a bad hand, surrender half their bet. Someone had forgotten to do the math, as Surrender actually put the odds in favor of the players, especially those who knew how to card-count. Overnight, the word went out that the little city on the Jersey shore was a candy store, and hustlers from around the globe had come running. Surrender was eventually banned, but by then the damage was done. The casinos had lost millions.
“A lot of boys retired after visiting Atlantic City,” Valentine said.
“Until you came along,” Sammy said ruefully.
“Someone had to stop them.”
Soon the conversation
drifted to the topic of Sammy's bribing a judge. He was not ashamed to talk about it. “I was scared as hell of going to prison. You hear stories. Every prison has a crime boss. If the boss finds out you're a hustler, he puts you to work. Believe me, I wasn't about to start cheating other criminals.”
“That could prove hazardous to your health.”
“No kidding.”
“How much did it end up costing you?” Valentine asked.
“Thirty grand and a condo I owned down in the Caymans. I was facing five years minimum, so I didn't mind paying.”
Valentine topped off Sammy's cup with the last of the coffee. He'd heard the same complaint from hustlers over the years: Prison was tougher on cheats than other criminals. “So tell me about this Fontaine character. Wily says you know him.”
Sammy corrected him. “I think I know him. His play reminds me of someone from a long time ago. His attitude strikes a nerve.”
“How so?”
“He's arrogant. Like he's daring us to catch him.”
“Think about what you just said,” Valentine said, passing the cream. “You paid a judge a small fortune to avoid prison, and this joker Fontaine dares you to nab him. Doesn't make sense.”
“I know,” Sammy said. “Wily told me you keep profiles of every hustler you've ever arrested. Maybe Fontaine matches one.”
“I already tried that,” Valentine admitted. “Physically, he doesn't resemble anyone I've got in my computer. That means he probably had plastic surgery. If I'm going to make a match, I need to learn more about him. His habits, the way he dresses, what he drinks, that sort of stuff.”
“I'll give you a list of everyone he came into contact with at the casino. Wily had a lot of interaction with him.”
“Good.”
Across the street, the volcano at the Mirage blew its stack, sending a giant doughnut of black smoke into the humid summer air. They watched it float lazily over their heads and burn a hole in the simmering sky.
“You've seen a lot of hustlers over the years,” Valentine said. “How would you rate Fontaine's play?”
“One of the best.”
“But no one knows who he is.”
“Yeah,” Sammy said. “Creepy, isn't it?”
The pager clipped to Sammy's belt went off. He checked it, then pulled out a small cell phone and made a call.
“That was Wily,” he said, hanging up. “He's down in Nick's office. Looks like we have a breakthrough.”
Valentine had never been fond of snitches. Although most law enforcement agencies depended heavily on them for information, they were still parasites, barely human types who spent their lives clawing on the glass, forever on the outside looking in.
The lady sitting in Nick Nicocropolis's lavish office was a perfect example. Her name was Sherry Solomon, and on the surface, she was a real dish—cute face, nice figure, an easy, engaging smile. A pretty nifty package until you looked hard and saw the bags under the eyes and realized she was pushing forty and the charms she'd lived on all her life were starting to fade. She was afraid for her future, so she'd taken to selling out her friends. Before Nick's secretary escorted her in, Nick Nicocropolis asked Wily if he'd ever slept with her.
“Never,” the pit boss had replied sharply.
Nick looked relieved. He explained to Valentine that his memory was shot, and that he could no longer rely on it to keep a record of his sexual conquests. The legendary lover Don Juan, Nick's boyhood idol, had died being unable to name a single lover. Nick didn't want that to happen to him, which was why he'd kept Wily around for so long. Hearing this news, the pit boss tugged uncomfortably at his collar.
Valentine nodded and said nothing. Over the years, he had met his share of oddball casino owners, and Nick fit right into that group. A little guy with a Napoleon complex who'd probably jumped on every female who'd ever shown the inclination. Nothing new there.
Sherry played her tape for the four men. Wily sat beside her, nodding his head enthusiastically. Nick sat at his desk, rolling dice on the blotter. He smirked when the tape went silent.
“So?” the casino owner said.
Wily jumped in. “Nola hates you. You can hear it in her voice.”
“A lot of people hate me,” Nick reminded him.
“It shows motive,” Wily said.
“She was laughing at me,” Nick said, throwing a seven. “What's this ‘yeah, yeah, yeah' crap? Is this some inside joke?”
His employees' faces turned to stone. Standing behind the desk, Sammy cleared his throat. “It's what you say when you get excited, Nick. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.'”
Nick looked flummoxed. Valentine could tell that he had absolutely no idea what his head of surveillance was talking about. Never tell the emperor that he has no clothes.
Nick looked to Wily for help.
“‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,'” Wily chorused like a parrot.
“Why are you saying that?” Nick said, getting furious.
Wily grinned oafishly. “‘Yeah, yeah, yeah'. It's what you say when you get riled up.”
“I don't say ‘yeah, yeah, yeah,'” Nick said heatedly. “I never say ‘yeah, yeah, yeah.' That's horseshit. I say ‘yeah,' like everyone else. So don't go around saying that anymore, okay?”
“Sure, Nick,” they all said.
“Now where were we? Oh yeah, the tape. I think you're going to have to do better, honey.”
Wily nudged Sherry Solomon with his elbow. “Sherry, tell Nick what you told me this morning about Nola.”
Sherry folded her hands in her lap and looked straight ahead, her pose reminiscent of that of a naive schoolgirl.
“Well,” she began, “Nola and I roomed together for a while. This was right after you and she split up. I heard her say things that were scary. Nola has it in for you.”
Nick's face turned serious. “She does?”
“She wants to ruin you.”
Nick gave her a stony look. “Just what did I do to Nola Briggs besides give her a job and try to take care of her that made her want to hurt me?”
“You pierced her soul.”
“I did?”
Sherry nodded solemnly. “She wanted to go to a shrink and get it off her chest, but she didn't have any dough, so she spilled her guts to me. Anyway, she talked a lot about paying you back one day. In spades.”
“She's got revenge on her mind?”
“Yes. She said there was a flaw in the casino's security system, and if she could figure out a way to exploit it, she was going to take you for a bundle.”
“Nola actually said that?”
Sherry Solomon nodded her bleached blond head.
Nick turned and looked at Sammy. “What flaw?”
“I don't know what she's talking about,” Sammy replied.
Nick looked back at Sherry. “What flaw?”
“She never told me,” Sherry explained. “But I do know this: She said you took her up on the catwalk one night, and while you were screwing her, she looked down and saw it. She was going to tell you, but the next day you dumped her.”
“You don't think she was just talking tough?” Sammy said, clearly disturbed by this piece of news.
“That's not like Nola,” Sherry said.
“But this happened ten years ago,” Nick said. “I mean, time heals all wounds, doesn't it? Why now?”
“Something happened to Nola six months ago that triggered it,” she explained. “She broke up with a guy and got real depressed. Started missing work, sleeping in all day. I stopped by one afternoon and found a pamphlet from the Hemlock Society in her house. She was thinking of killing herself.”
“This is some messed-up chickie,” Nick said, his gaze now fixed squarely on Wily. “How come you didn't pick up on any of this?”
“She seemed okay to me,” the pit boss said sheepishly.
Nick fixed his gaze on Sherry. “So what happened?”
“She took a Mexican vacation,” Sherry replied, “and came back a new person. I asked her what happen
ed, and she told me she'd finally found a way to pay you back.”
“Did she say how?” he asked.
“No, sir, she didn't. But then this Fontaine character showed up, and I started to wonder. I mean, he's her type, and it's her table he keeps going to.”
“And what type is that?”
“Dark, ethnic, lots of fun.”
“That's Nola's type?”
“Yeah. Gets her juices flowing.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Nick said, swiveling his chair around so he was facing the window, his brown and deteriorating empire laid out before him like a faded Hollywood movie set. “So what you're telling me is, she's a threat to me and everyone who works for me.”
Sherry began to answer, then halted, her lips trembling. Opening the purse in her lap, she removed a cigarette. By the time it had reached her lips, Wily had a flame waiting for her. She took a deep drag and the tension melted from her face.
“What I'm telling you,” she said evenly, “is simply this. Nola hates you. It's the kind of hatred men don't understand. You pierced her soul. She told me she could never look in the mirror after what you said and see herself the same way. So now she's paying you back.”
Nick spun around, not appreciating his employee's lecturing tone. The dice hit the wall and came to rest on the carpeted floor at Valentine's feet. Snake eyes.
“For what?” he said angrily. “What did I do? Tell her she had bad breath? Call my bookie after I had my orgasm? You're killing me, honey. What did I do to deserve some chickie holding a grudge against me for ten whole years?”
“You told Nola her tits were too small,” Sherry said. “When she wouldn't get implants, you dumped her.”
Nick scowled, his darkly tanned face shriveling like a prune. He looked at Wily for help; when none was forthcoming, he stared at Sammy, then at Valentine, who'd been busy scribbling notes on a pad. Finally, in desperation, he looked to Sherry Solomon.
