by James Swain
“My stomach, my head, my back,” Sammy complained. “If it's not one thing, it's the other.”
“Maybe it's cancer,” Wily said, bursting into laughter.
Sammy looked ready to hit him. “Is that supposed to be a joke? You're sick in the head, you know that?”
“Hey, my kid told me that joke,” Wily said defensively.
“Your kid told you that and you didn't hit her?”
“Hit my kid? Are you nuts? I could go to jail.”
“You've punched enough morons in the casino.”
“That's different,” Wily said.
“Which kid?”
“The youngest, Michelle.”
“She's twelve, right?”
“Eleven.”
“You poor bastard.”
Valentine stood mutely in the corner. During the wait, Sammy had told him about Wily's miserable home life. His kids were the casualties of his wife's first marriage and as mean as junkyard dogs. By working double shifts, Wily saw them only two weekends a month, which made the situation tolerable.
“Tony has some bad news,” Sammy announced.
Wily looked Valentine in the eye. “You made Fontaine?”
“He sure did,” Sammy said.
Wily continued to stare at him. “And?”
“It's Sonny Fontana,” Valentine told him.
Wily slammed his drink on the desk. Miraculously, not a single drop escaped. “What? That's horseshit. Sonny Fontana is dead. Everyone and his brother knows that. We're paying you a thousand clams a day and you turn up a dead guy? Get serious.”
Sammy tossed Wily the DCF profile and said, “Forget what you know. Tony made the match.”
Valentine watched the blood drain from Wily's head as his eyes absorbed what was on the page. Looking up, he said, “Didn't some guy in Lake Tahoe crush Fontana's head in a door so hard his brains came out of his ears? That's the story I heard, and the guy who told me swore to God it was true.”
“I heard the same story,” Sammy said.
Valentine had heard the story, too, his source none other than Bill Higgins. Which was why Sonny's file had been retired.
“Then this can't be him,” Wily said.
“I don't want to have an argument about this,” Sammy said, growing annoyed. “I knew when I heard Fontaine laugh that he was someone I'd run with. This confirms it. We got robbed by the best cheat who's ever lived. Now we gotta make sure it doesn't happen again.”
“Jesus.” Wily took another swallow of his drink, set it on the desk, and then pushed it in Sammy's direction. The head of surveillance raised the whiskey to his lips.
“Salute,” he said, downing it.
“Didn't you once run with Fontana?” Wily asked.
“A long time ago,” Sammy said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Sonny's got no loyalty to me now, if that's what you're thinking.”
Wily looked to Valentine for help. “Why us?”
That was a good question. Why would Fontana waste a good face-lift to hit a dump like the Acropolis? Fontana would know the casino would sweat a big loss and lean on him.
“I don't know,” Valentine admitted.
“You ever arrest him?” Wily wanted to know.
“No,” Valentine said.
“Tony's got a grudge against Fontana,” Sammy informed him.
“You do?” Wily said.
Valentine nodded that it was so.
“Well,” the pit boss said, “maybe now you can settle it.”
“So who's going to tell Nick?” Wily asked a few moments later.
“You are,” Sammy said.
“Me? I think Tony should. He made him.”
Sammy shot Valentine a weary look. “You up to that?”
Normally, Valentine would have declined; being the bearer of bad news was not in his job description. Only, Sammy looked terrible and Wily was a little drunk. “Okay,” he said.
“I'll toss you for who gets to chauffeur,” Sammy said. He fished a worn Kennedy half-dollar from his pocket and flipped it into the air. The coin rotated lazily above their heads. Catching it, he slapped it against the back of his hand. “Call it.”
“Heads,” Wily said.
Sammy lifted his hand. “Tails. You lose.”
“How come I never win with you?” Wily asked.
Valentine nearly laughed. Like seventy percent of the population, Wily probably always called heads. Which was why hustlers carried around double-sided coins.
“Who knows?” Sammy said.
“Looks like Nick's entertaining,” Wily said, pulling his Buick up the driveway of his boss's palatial estate. It was nearly eleven and the manicured property was lit up like a used car lot.
“How can you tell?”
“The driveway's empty. Nick's got a staff of four. He gives them the night off whenever he brings a lady home.”
“Classy guy.”
Wily parked by the front door. Valentine got out, counting eight polished pillars supporting the marble portico. History either praised or ridiculed men who built shrines to themselves, and Nick had set himself up for a lot of abuse—not that Valentine thought the little Greek cared.
Wily rang the bell. A gong sounded dully behind the door. When no one answered, he punched the intercom button.
“Yeah?” Nick barked over the black box.
“It's Wily and Valentine,” Wily said.
“I know who it is. I'm watching you with a camera, you moron. Why aren't you home sleeping?”
Wily brushed a spider's web away before placing his mouth next to the intercom. He did not know who Nick was with or whether that person should hear what he was about to say. It was the smartest thing Valentine had seen the pit boss do.
“We need to talk,” Wily said, dropping his voice.
“Isn't that what we're doing right now?”
“Face-to-face.”
“Mano a mano? Why, you want to punch me out?”
Nick's giddy laugh filled the box. A woman's giggle accompanied it. Valentine got the picture. Sex was Nick's narcotic. When he was getting it, there was no happier male on the planet.
“We've got some bad news,” Wily explained.
“How bad?” Nick asked, sounding worried.
“I think we should tell you in person.”
“This must be serious.”
“Yeah, Nick, it is.”
Valentine heard what sounded like the splashing of water and then the front door buzzed open. “Wipe your feet,” Nick told them.
They did, then entered the ten-thousand-square-foot palace that Nick had somehow salvaged through six messy divorces and countless out-of-court palimony settlements. While questioning the hotel staff, Valentine had heard all about Nick's home, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer horror of it. Built by the same crazy Greek fairy who'd designed the Acropolis, the house had dozens of false windows that looked onto painted scenes of the Greek countryside, the flora and fauna enhanced by anatomically inflated nymphs and nymphets engaged in every conceivable act of fellatio and intercourse.
“For the love of Christ,” Valentine muttered under his breath.
“It's something, isn't it,” Wily marveled. Heading into the living room he said, “How about a drink?”
“Water would be fine.”
The bar was marble and shaped like a cock. Wily filled a glass from the tap, then plucked a pair of O'Doul's from the fridge and opened them. An unfinished cocktail sat on the bar, the glass smeared with burnt-orange lipstick. “Someone new,” he quipped.
Drinks in hand, the pit boss marched down a hallway to the master suite. He paused at the door before knocking.
“Come on in,” they heard Nick say. “We're all friends here.”
The suite was massive, with more square footage than Valentine's entire house. It also had more stuff in it. Wily stood in the room's center, looking for his boss.
“Over here, stupid.”
Wily started grinning. Valentine followed his gaze. Through an open doo
r, he saw Nick in the Jacuzzi with a young miss perched on his lap, still in the act of screwing her.
“Attaboy,” Wily said under his breath.
Nick waved to them. The woman's shoulders tensed and she spun her head around like Linda Blair in The Exorcist and gave them a wicked stare. It was none other than Sherry Solomon.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Nick called to them.
The suite had a living room at one end. Wily took the L-shaped leather couch; Valentine, the cushy chair designed like a hand. Under his breath, Wily said, “I wish Nick would stop screwing the help. Someday it's gonna ruin him.”
“You should talk to him,” Valentine suggested.
“Right,” the pit boss said.
While they waited, Wily talked about Nick's sex life like it was a matter of public record. To hear him tell it, the thing that had gotten Nick into trouble his whole life was the same thing that made him great. It was the way he treated women. He loved every single one he could get his grubby little hands on. If they were legal and willing, he'd show them the best time they'd ever had, lavishing gifts and attention and limos and the best seats at the best shows and fresh-cut roses every day, and just about everything else their little hearts could desire or ever hope for.
And it was this wonderful display of affection that got Nick into so much trouble. He was too nice to the women he slept with. After a few weeks of being treated like a princess, the poor ladies were not ready for him to take off the magic slippers and tell them the ball was over. It was a big letdown, and their reactions usually ranged between hysteria and suicide.
Sometimes, Nick would cave in and marry one of them, and he'd end up forfeiting another chunk of his fortune to extricate himself. Wily had seen it coming every time, the last wife leaving him on the exact day Wily said she would.
Nick came out of the bathroom in a red satin robe, his curly hair dripping wet. He snatched an O'Doul's out of Wily's hand. Sitting in a leopard-skin recliner, he took a guzzle.
“So how bad did we get hit?” he asked.
“Hit?” Wily said. “Who said anything about getting hit?”
“It's a pattern,” Nick said. “Whenever the casino gets hit, you show up on my doorstep.”
“I didn't know I was so predictable,” Wily said uncomfortably.
“Well, you are,” Nick said, the bottle never leaving his lips.
“Tony made Fontaine,” the pit boss said.
Nick leaned forward, his robe parting and exposing his swollen genitals. “You interrupted the best lay I've had in six months to tell me that?”
Wily bit his tongue. “That's right.”
“What's so goddamned funny?”
“I can see your balls.”
Reddening, Nick covered himself. Wily put his serious face back on. Valentine sipped his water, trying not to laugh.
“Tell him,” Wily said.
“It was Sonny Fontana,” Valentine said.
“Stop blowing me,” Nick said, killing the fake beer. “Fontana's dead. He got his head stuck in a door in Lake Tahoe.”
“That's the story we all heard,” Valentine said. “Trust me, Nick. It's definitely him.”
“You're sure?”
“I am.”
“One hundred percent positive sure?”
“That, too.”
Nick did not want to believe it. Eyeing Wily, he said, “Are you and Sammy in agreement on this?”
“Yeah. That's why we came over.”
Nick stood up and began pacing the room. Valentine heard Sherry Solomon brush past, then the bedroom door open and close. If Nick heard her leave, he gave no sign of it.
“Sonny Fontana,” Nick said, punching his fist into an imaginary target. “My life is turning into a disaster movie. Why the hell would Sonny Fontana rob me?” Spinning on his heels, he pointed an accusing finger at his pit boss. “Any ideas?”
“I still think Nola's involved.” Wily hesitated, then added, “Tony does, too,” knowing Nick was more interested in Valentine's opinion than his own.
“That true?” Nick asked him.
Valentine nodded. “Get the police to haul Nola in and make her take another polygraph.”
“You think we'll learn something?” Nick asked.
Valentine nodded. One of Fontana's trademarks was that he always worked with inside talent. “Nola said she'd never met Fontaine. Maybe not, but I'll bet my paycheck she knows Fontana.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Nick said, his anger spilling over. The empty brown bottle left his hand and flipped lazily through the air, shattering against the head of the porcelain replica of the Venus de Milo standing inconspicuously in the corner of the suite.
“How come I can't remember this broad?”
Nick looked at Wily, as if expecting him to know the answer. The pit boss shrugged his shoulders.
“She sure remembers you” was all he could think to say.
13
Sunday morning found Nola circling the covered parking garage at McCarran International Airport. The lot was full, and she parked a half-mile away in Long Term, then hiked to the terminal, her shoes nearly sticking to the baking macadam.
A pregnant-looking jet roared overhead, arcing gracefully so as to give the passengers a last look before ascending into the cottony clouds. Growing up on Long Island's south shore near Queens, Nola had spent many afternoons at Kennedy Airport, smoking joints and lying in a hidden spot off the runway, watching the jets take off. How could her youth, which she'd hated, now seem so warm and fuzzy?
The terminal's freezing cold air snapped her awake. Someone who liked to walk had designed McCarran's terminals, and soon she was wishing she'd brought more sensible shoes. She'd dressed up nice, and her pumps were killing her feet.
By the time she reached security, she'd removed her shoes and was walking barefoot. She passed through a metal detector and an alarm sounded. A sleep-walking guard ran an electronic baton up and down her legs. Her keys.
The new terminal, D, required a tram ride and two long walks to reach its last gate, and she stopped along the way, bought a pretzel, and tossed four quarters in a Quartermania slot machine. Her horoscope had called this her lucky day, and she pulled the arm, thinking it was certainly about time.
Five minutes later and twenty dollars richer, Nola reached gate 84. The booth was deserted; the next flight not until noon. Slipping her pumps back on, she removed a pair of binoculars from her purse and gazed out the window. A quarter mile away, a bus with barred windows was parked on the tarmac, the words U.S. Immigration stenciled on its side. Standing in the bus's shade, twelve chained Mexicans awaited deportation. She studied each man's face. Raul was not among them.
Her breath grew short. Raul was a Houdini when it came to getting out of tight jams; maybe he'd talked his way out of this one and at this very moment was sitting on her living-room couch in his Jockeys, anxiously awaiting her return.
Then she saw him, and her happy ending shattered into a thousand pieces. The police had shaved his head and put him in drab prison garb. Her eyes burned with tears. It didn't take much to get her blubbering, and when she did, she usually got livid. This time, her anger was directed at the government. We're a nation founded by immigrants, she thought. What gives us the right to deport someone for trying to feed his family?
A cargo plane appeared on the tarmac and taxied toward the bus. Nola glanced at her watch: 7:15, just like the message on her e-mail said. Thank you, Frank Fontaine, whoever you are.
Nola saw Raul say something to the Immigration officer in charge. The officer laughed, his broad chest heaving up and down. A cigarette was produced, put in Raul's mouth, and lit. Nola wiped at her eyes. What a charmer.
Movable stairs were rolled up against the cargo plane, and the prisoners went up them. At the top of the stairs, Raul stopped and let the cigarette fall from his lips. He crushed it out with his shoe, then went inside.
“Good-bye, sweet boy,” Nola whispered.
The cargo pla
ne took off toward the south, the sun's blinding rays balanced on each wing like a dagger. She watched the plane until it was no bigger than a pinprick, the man who had restored her faith in love swallowed up in deep blue sky.
“I love you so much,” she whispered, her lipstick smudging the warm glass. “We'll be back together soon. I promise, baby. You just take care of yourself. And don't forget me. Please don't do that.”
She was blubbering again. Stuffing the binoculars into her purse, she searched for a tissue.
“Here,” a man's voice said.
Nola jumped a few inches off the ground, then did a full one-eighty. She had an audience.
It was Lieutenant Longo and four uniformed officers, plus Sammy Mann and Wily and an older Italian guy with salt-and-pepper hair and an interesting face. A gawking crowd had assembled behind them. Nola took the Kleenex from Longo's outstretched hand and blew her nose, her eyes never leaving the lieutenant's face.
“Planning to take a little trip?” Longo inquired.
“You see any luggage?” Nola asked. She opened her purse for everyone to see. “Or a ticket?”
“I'm taking you in,” Longo informed her. “Let's go.”
“Taking me in? For what?”
“The charge is fleeing prosecution,” he said, unsnapping a pair of nickel-plated cuffs from his belt. “Put out your hands.”
Nola stepped back, her shoulders pressing the glass. “I can't come to the goddamned airport and see my boyfriend be deported? What kind of inhumane assholes are you?”
“Give me your hands,” the lieutenant demanded.
“I wasn't going anywhere,” she protested, playing to the growing crowd. “You're throwing my boyfriend out of the country and now you're persecuting me. Leave me alone.”
Longo wagged a finger inches from her face. “Now, you listen to me. You can walk out of here like a little lady or you can be dragged out like a raving bitch.”
“You mean I have a choice?”
“You sure do.”
“I'll take raving bitch,” Nola said.
From her purse, Nola produced a can of pepper spray. She doused Longo, then dug her knee into his groin and bent the detective in half. Someone screamed, and the crowd showed its colors by heading for the exit.
