Grift Sense

by James Swain

  While Longo went to deal with the reporters, Valentine caught Higgins's attention and the two men slipped into the kitchen. Touching his friend's shoulder, Valentine said, “This is some of the worst police work I've ever seen.”

  “Longo was never the sharpest knife in the drawer,” Higgins admitted. “You think Underman's involved?”

  “Of course not,” Valentine said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “What does he stand to gain? He's got to be as rich as Croesus. Nola set him up.”

  “You think she orchestrated her own kidnapping?”

  “No, Sonny did. But Nola's still involved. She has to be.”

  Higgins and Valentine stood in the doorway, watching Longo and Underman. The chubby lieutenant had his hand out. The defense attorney reluctantly shook it, sealing their deal.

  “What a prick,” Valentine said.

  “You never extorted a suspect?” Higgins asked.

  No, he hadn't. Nor had he ever stood up in court and lied under oath or taken a bribe to look the other way or robbed the dead. By today's standards he was a square, and he wasn't afraid to admit it.

  “Never,” Valentine said.

  “You're a better man than I am,” Higgins said.

  “I didn't mean that, Bill.”

  “I know you didn't. You want a ride back to town?”

  “I'll hitch one off Nick. Thanks anyway.”

  Valentine rode shotgun in Nick's Caddy, the vent blowing hot air on his face. His heart was pounding, so he took his pulse while staring at the clock on Nick's dashboard. Ninety-four beats a minute. There was a reason cops retired young: The work ruined your health. Nick was equally flummoxed and mumbled to himself as he drove. Wily sat in back, still wearing the borrowed bathrobe.

  Valentine watched the monotonous scenery, wishing he were home. The rules were different out here and always would be. The casinos were built by gangsters and bootleggers, and although the mob's influence was gone, their way of doing business remained. Ruthless men still ran the town; they just happened to be small-time thugs like Nick or renegade cops like Pete Longo.

  Nick stopped at Wily's house so Wily could change. The pit boss bolted from the car and hopscotched across the lawn, the in-ground sprinklers shooting his robe open. At the front door, he was met by his wife, a big blonde in spandex. She pointed at his robe and demanded an explanation. Just then, his two stepdaughters walked out of the garage wearing postage-stamp-size bikinis. They pointed and laughed at their stepfather like he was a freak. Valentine did a double take: He had never seen two young girls dressed so provocatively.

  Nick shook his head sadly. “Somebody once said that marriage was the single biggest enemy of love.”

  “I think it was Sinatra,” Valentine said.

  “Old Blue Eyes said that? Sinatra sure knew dames.”

  “Wasn't he married a bunch of times?”

  “Four or five,” Nick said. “Why?”

  Valentine shrugged. Nick was not the person with whom he wanted to have a conversation about the virtues of monogamy. No one ever said marriage was easy, or that raising kids was particularly fun, but it was what you did because it worked better than anything else. He gave Wily credit for toughing it out.

  Finally, Wily managed to get into his house and the commotion died down. Turning, Nick said, “Mind my asking you a personal question?”

  Valentine eyed him. “Go ahead.”

  “I noticed you don't drink. You a rummy?”

  “My old man,” Valentine said. “I swore it off before I had my first drink.”

  “You've never touched the sauce?”

  “No.”

  “I admire people who don't drink,” Nick confessed. “It screwed up my life in a big way. Your father a jerk?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You ever patch things up?”

  Valentine fell silent, wishing his employer would drop the subject. He had tried to patch things up and had chased his old man around Atlantic City for years, bailing him out of jail and cleaning him up dozens of times, only to watch his father drink himself into oblivion and, eventually, to death. Clearing his throat, he said, “No.”

  It was Nick's turn to start clearing his own throat. Valentine stared at his watch, then the dashboard, then out the window.

  “How'd you like to make a quick five grand?” Nick asked.

  “On top of what you already owe me?”

  “How much is that?”

  “Two grand.”

  Nick pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and peeled off twenty hundred-dollar bills. Handing them to Valentine, he said, “On top of that.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Nick hesitated. “This is going to sound stupid.”

  “Try me.”

  “I want you to find Nola.”

  “I thought you'd be glad to be rid of her.”

  “I've had a change of heart.”

  “Nick, she hates your guts.”

  Nick stared through the windshield, swallowing hard. “I know.”

  “She's also guilty as sin.”

  He swallowed hard again. “Probably.”

  “She really did a number on you back there, didn't she?” Valentine said.

  “Hey,” Nick said. “I did it to myself.”

  “How's that?”

  “I had an epiphany,” he explained.

  Nick had been having epiphanies a lot longer than Valentine had. His first epiphany occurred, oddly enough, during a religious festival that bore the same name. He had been all of sixteen.

  Every January sixth, the tiny Greek fishing village in Florida where Nick grew up celebrated the Epiphany. This day had been chosen to commemorate the baptism of Christ in the River Jordan, when the Holy Spirit descended on the young Jesus in the form of a dove. In the view of the Orthodox Church, this event above all others revealed Christ's divine nature and mission.

  “Bigger than Christmas,” Nick explained.

  The day was always the same. The town would shut down and everyone would pack into the Orthodox Church of St. Nicholas. After a brief service, clergy and congregation would form a procession and walk to Spring Bayou, the priests dressed in embroidered robes and bearing jeweled crosses and croziers and magnificent silk banners. They were followed by a young girl dressed in white, her hands cradling a pure white dove.

  “She was always the prettiest girl in the town,” Nick explained, the memory making his face light up. “One year, they chose a girl I was in love with, Zelda Callas.”

  After an invocation by the archbishop, the dove is released to fly over Spring Bayou. The archbishop then casts a white cross into the water, and fifty boys leap out of a semicircle of small boats in a mad scramble to retrieve it.

  “The kid who gets the cross, he brings it back to the archbishop, and he gets a blessing and is guaranteed a year of good fortune, courtesy of Jesus Christ.”

  “Not a bad deal,” Valentine remarked.

  “You said it,” Nick said, shaking his head. “I needed some good fortune back then. I'd lost my father and my grandfather and had to quit school to support my mom and sisters. Let me tell you, I was determined to get that white cross and get blessed and impress Zelda Callas. I mean, I was ready.”

  Nick kept shaking his head. Valentine said, “And then?”

  “Didn't happen.”

  “You didn't find the cross?”

  “They didn't let me jump. The priest asked my mother to keep me on shore, out of respect for my father and grandfather. To tell you the truth, I don't think they wanted me in the water, scared I might drown. You know how it is.”

  “Sure,” Valentine said.

  “Then the damnedest thing happened,” Nick went on. “I was standing on the shore, watching all my pals jumping into the water, and I had my first epiphany. Right there, my father appeared to me, and he shook his finger in my face. ‘Never give in,' he said. Then he was gone. Poof, just like that.”

  “You
really saw him?”

  “Sure did,” Nick replied. “And he was mad. Never give in. It was like he was scolding me. And you want to know something, Tony? I haven't given in to anybody ever since. That's been my mantra, and it's gotten me where I am. It's who I am, you know?”

  “I understand,” Valentine said.

  “And then I'm standing in Nola's house and I have another epiphany. It was in that house that I learned that my father was wrong. Sometimes, you have to give in. God, what a mistake I made.”

  “You loved her?”

  Nick filled his lungs with air. “Yeah. And she loved me. She even signed a prenup. What more could I ask for? I got down on my knees for her, Tony. Got down on that ugly carpet and slipped that giant rock on her finger and asked her to marry me. And she says yes, and what do I say? Stupid fucking me. I say, ‘But you've got to get your tits done.' And then the excrement hit the air-conditioning.”

  “So you got drunk and wiped it from your memory,” Valentine said.

  “That and a lot of other stupid things,” Nick admitted. He stared at him. “So, will you do it?”

  “You mean find Nola?”

  “Yeah. I need to see her one more time.”

  “You really feel bad about this, huh?”

  Nick grunted in the affirmative.

  Valentine gave it some thought. He hadn't tracked anyone down in years. Still, five grand was a lot of dough, and there was a fringe benefit. Along the way, he just might stumble across Frank Fontaine and get to extract a little payback. What was that old expression? Revenge is a dish best served cold. Suddenly, a few more days sweating through his clothes did not seem like such a bad idea.

  “Why not,” Valentine said.

  His suite was still being cleaned when Valentine returned later that afternoon. Ushering the Mexican chambermaid out of the bathroom, he locked himself in, stripped off his smelly clothes, and took a long, ice-cold shower. He emerged shivering and revitalized.

  The suite was clean, the air reeking of Windex and fresh flowers. He found the remote on the dining-room table and flicked on the Yankees–Devil Rays game. Top of the seventh, Devil Rays ahead by two. He'd have to track Gerry down, rub it in. It was a crummy thing to do, but it would make him feel good, so it couldn't be all that bad.

  He searched his bedroom closet for something lightweight to wear. All he'd packed were long-sleeved shirts, all solid colors; three pairs of slacks, all black; and a couple of navy blazers. He was still dressing like a cop, and he supposed it would be his uniform until the day he died.

  All the booze had been removed from the bar and replaced with Evian and Diet Cokes. What service. He popped a soda and lay down on the couch. Seventh-inning stretch, the announcers hawking dog food and motor oil. You didn't last on TV these days if you didn't know how to sell. A Bud Light commercial came on, its stars two smart-ass ball players, one with a lengthy criminal record. At home, he listened to baseball on the radio, the way it was meant to be experienced, and limited his TV watching as much as possible.

  The Yankees tied it up in the ninth and sent the game into extra innings. In the eleventh, Boggs hit a solo shot into the bleachers, and the Devil Rays chalked up another win. Gerry would be going insane right about now. Going into the bedroom, he dialed Mabel's number.

  “He's gone,” his neighbor informed him. “Left on the twelve-o'clock flight. Said he had some business to take care of. He's a wonderful young man, Tony. I can't see why you dislike him so.”

  “Someday over a milkshake I'll give you my side of it,” Valentine replied, sinking into the bed's soft mattress. In the ceiling mirror he watched himself wiggle around, then said, “You're not going to believe this Mabel, but there's a mirror above my bed.”

  “That must be nice, lying there watching yourself shave.”

  “Touché,” he said. “I appreciate your taking care of him.”

  “My pleasure. You know, he eats like you.”

  “With his hands?”

  “No! The way he addresses his food. Mealtime was obviously serious business in your house. Are you having a good time out there?”

  “It could be worse.”

  “You sound miserable. Are they paying you?”

  “Like a king,” he said.

  “Well, then stop complaining.”

  “Who's complaining?”

  “You were about to start. I looked at the weather report in the paper. It said it hit a hundred and twelve in Las Vegas yesterday.”

  “It's dry heat. You remember to feed the bird?”

  “Feed the—” Mabel's voice got caught on the words. Hesitation, then, “You don't own a bird!”

  “No, but I had you going. Hey, I got your message. Did you come up with a new ad to replace the last one?”

  “I sure did,” Mabel said. “I faxed it to your hotel an hour ago.”

  “You did?” Valentine glanced at the phone to see if the message light was blinking. Sitting up, he said, “The front desk hasn't called. Look, let me hang up and check. If it didn't come in, I'll call you back, and you can fax it again.”

  “Gerry helped me,” she informed him.

  He put the receiver back to his ear. As far as he knew, his son hadn't helped anyone in years. “Come again?”

  “He came up with the concept. He's a very clever young man. I think it's my best yet.”

  “Better than the ‘tattooed man seeks tattooed lady' ad you ran in the religious section of the paper?”

  “It's light-years ahead of that.”

  This he had to see. Saying good-bye, Valentine slipped on his loafers while trying to picture Gerry writing an ad. Maybe Mabel was the dose of reality his son needed. She had certainly done him a world of good.

  Going into the living room, Valentine was looking for his plastic room key when a man wearing a cowboy hat stepped out of the kitchen and pointed a .380 Magnum in his face. He was tall and rangy, with yellow hair past his collar and ice-cold eyes.

  “On your knees,” the cowboy said.

  Valentine sank to the floor. The icy tiles sent an unpleasant sensation up his legs. He watched the cowboy reach into his breast pocket.

  “Look familiar?”

  In his hand was Valentine's honeymoon snapshot.

  “Yeah,” Valentine said.

  Holding a corner of the photo between his teeth, the cowboy ripped the snapshot in half, then in quarters. Valentine watched the pieces float to the floor, remembering that day on the Steel Pier as if it were yesterday.

  “I've got a message from Frank Fontaine,” the cowboy said.

  “I'm all ears,” Valentine said.

  The cowboy flashed a lopsided grin. “Fontaine wants you to know that he's got a flag in every state. You know what that means, old man?”

  Valentine nodded. It meant that Fontaine had gangsters he could call in every city in the country who'd do a job for him, no questions asked. He watched the cowboy reach into his pocket again.

  “Look familiar?”

  This time, he was holding Valentine's address book.

  “Yeah,” Valentine said.

  “Leave town by tomorrow,” the cowboy said. “Or Frank will make a call, and someone you love will get hurt. Get it?”

  “Got it,” Valentine said.

  The cowboy made him go into the bathroom and shut the door. The bathroom phone had been ripped out of the wall. Valentine dropped his pants and checked his Jockeys. Still dry.

  “Stay in there a while,” the cowboy said.

  “You got it,” Valentine replied.

  He pulled his pants back on and sat on the toilet. Having nothing better to do, he mulled over Fontaine's threat. Why hadn't Fontaine just whacked him? The only answer he could come up with was because Fontaine didn't want that kind of heat.

  Which could only mean one thing: Fontaine planned to rip off the Acropolis one more time.

  Five minutes later, Valentine emerged from the bathroom. His honeymoon snapshot was still on the floor. Retrieving it, he slipp
ed the pieces into his breast pocket. Two pieces of Scotch tape and it would be as good as new.

  He cased the suite, just to be sure the cowboy was gone. Then he sat down on the bed and came to a decision.

  He wasn't going to run. If he did, he might as well quit the consulting racket and learn to play shuffleboard or bingo or whatever it was retired people did in Florida. He couldn't be in Fontaine's back pocket and be any good at what he did.

  No, he was going to stay and track Fontaine down. Most of his friends, he was not worried about; many were cops and could take care of themselves. Two people who weren't cops—Mabel and Gerry—he was sure he could keep out of harm's way until Fontaine was in the arms of the law. There could be only one reason why Fontaine was threatening him—because he was scared. Not just of getting caught, but of losing. His pride was at stake, and his reputation.

  And so was Valentine's.

  17

  Roxanne was busier than a one-armed paperhanger, the line of guests waiting to check in twenty deep. Valentine had forgotten that Tuesday night was the Holyfield title fight, and he grabbed a table in Nick's Place and waited for her to go on break.

  His heart was still pounding from having a gun shoved in his face. There was no worse experience, unless the gun happened to go off. Roxanne appeared and joined him at the table.

  “I heard you did a Chuck Norris out at the airport,” she said when their drinks came. She sipped her Chardonnay and made a face. “I didn't peg you as a martial arts expert.”

  “I spent nearly twenty years working inside casinos,” he said, sipping his tap water. “Guns don't work with that many people around.”

  “Is that why you took it up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me guess: You're really the quiet type.”

  Valentine smiled. His heart had finally stopped racing and he felt himself starting to relax.

  “That's me. You want something else to drink?”

  “That's okay.”

  Roxanne gave him a dreamy, faraway look. She looked older than the other day, the wrinkles showing through when she was tired, and for some reason it made him like her even more, the chasm between them not as big as he'd first thought.