by James Swain
“Oh, baby,” Dolores said, putting her arm around Roxanne's shoulder. “I'm so sorry.”
“Me, too,” Roxanne said, crying silently.
At 10:20, Roxanne stuck her head out of the lounge. Nick and his troops were in the pit applauding Joe Smith, who stood on a blackjack table with his shirt off, doing tricks with his muscles. A man in cowboy clothes lay on the floor, sleeping soundly.
Stubbing out her cigarette, Roxanne said her good-byes. Then, just as she had a thousand times before, she walked across the casino floor to the front entrance, opting to take the long way to her car, which was parked in the employee lot in back. Everyone who worked in the casino had seen her do it, and everyone knew why.
Because Roxanne had a dream, no different from the rest of them. A dream of a better life, one without alarm clocks and mailboxes filled with bills and time clocks to punch. It was the dream of wealth, and it had made her leave her husband and come to Las Vegas. As she walked, she removed five silver dollars from her purse, kissing Eisenhower's profile on each. Then she shook them in her hand like a pair of dice. Every day for a thousand days, she'd gone through this ritual. The long walk, the coins, the kiss, the shake, and finally the moment of truth, when she'd feed her money into One-Armed Billy and blow a kiss at Joe Smith, who'd always wished her luck.
Every day the same ritual. She'd become part of the fabric. Some of the employees found it funny, others a little sad. Look, there goes Roxanne and her silver dollars. She kisses them for luck, you know. If anyone deserves to win the jackpot, it's her.
She slipped into the alcove and stared at Joe Smith's vacant stool. How careless of Nick to pull him out. When the casino's surveillance cameras had been updated, Nick had installed dummy cameras over One-Armed Billy, too cheap to rewire the ceiling at this end of the casino. Nick was his own man, and now he was going to pay for it.
Roxanne stepped up to Billy and held onto the giant arm while she removed the tennis ball and dropped it into her purse. For a split second, she caught her reflection in the polished brass. Words could not describe the look of exultation on her face.
She hesitated, savoring the moment before she released the giant arm and set the bells off that would bring Nick and the rest of the gang running. They'd see her jumping up and down, and once the initial shock wore off, they'd be happy for her good fortune. Everyone loved a winner, and everyone was going to love her.
Roxanne was sure of it.
But when she tried to release Billy's arm, her fingers became stuck. A man's hand had clasped itself over hers and was holding Billy's arm in place.
“Let go,” she begged.
“No,” the man said.
“Please.”
But the man would not let go. She did not have the courage to look him in the eye, and instead looked into Billy's polished brass. It was Valentine, his face a bloody mess. Behind him, Wily stood in the alcove's entrance, filming her every move with a camcorder.
“I was hoping like hell it wasn't going to be you,” she heard Valentine say.
27
You've got some balls,” Bill Higgins said a few hours later, sitting on the edge of the mammoth granite desk in Nick's office and blowing steam off a cup of coffee.
Valentine sat on the couch, an ice pack pressed to his forehead. One of his judo exercises required him to stand on his head a few minutes a day to keep his neck strong, and he supposed this was why the cowboy had not split his skull open with the steel pipe. Bill was showing little sympathy, their twenty years of friendship about to go up in flames.
“You ride into my town like Wyatt Earp,” Higgins went on, “conduct your own investigation, then nail the bastards without consulting the GCB or the police. I should haul you in.”
“I called you first, didn't I?”
“So?”
“It's your collar,” Valentine mumbled.
“My collar?” Higgins laughed derisively. “I can't take this in front of a judge without a story to go with it. It's nobody's collar until you explain to me what's going on.”
Rising on shaky legs, Valentine went to the window behind Nick's desk and stared down. Eight police cruisers jammed the Acropolis's front entrance, their bubbles throwing an eerie red light onto the gawking crowd pushing at the wooden sawhorses. Three thousand miles away, he imagined another crowd was gathered, staring at a body lying beneath a sheet. His son's.
Valentine felt the pain well up in his chest. He needed to be alone for a while, to stare into the darkness. But if he didn't explain to Bill what had happened, Fontaine and his gang might walk. And no matter how bad he felt, he was not about to let that happen.
“How about I start at the beginning?” Valentine said.
“You mean when you rode into town?”
“No, I mean when this really started.”
“I'm all ears,” Higgins said.
“Ten years ago, Nick fell in love with Nola,” Valentine began. “One night, they go on the catwalk and start screwing. A fight breaks out below. The guard who baby-sits One-Armed Billy comes running, and Nick goes ballistic. Nola's not stupid and she makes the connection. The guard beside Billy isn't for show. He's for real.”
“The flaw Sherry Solomon was taking about.”
“Right.”
“Why did Sammy Mann say it didn't exist?”
Valentine shrugged. “Nick probably swore Sammy to secrecy— didn't want to risk losing his license.”
“Okay.”
“Jump to six months ago. Nola goes to Mexico, falls back in love with Sonny. She tells Sonny about the flaw, and they decide to rip Nick off.
“Nola leaves Mexico. Sonny thinks it through, realizes the scam is flawed. Nola knows too much; she'll never pass a polygraph. So Sonny changes the plan. He gets plastic surgery, then finds a look-alike and sends him to Tahoe.”
“And that's who Little Hands whacked.”
Valentine nodded. “Sonny, aka Frank Fontaine, moves to Vegas. He scouts the Acropolis and hears about Roxanne's ritual of playing Billy every day. He also learns that Roxanne hates Nick. Seems they had an affair—”
“Who told you that?”
“I saw an album that Nick keeps of all the ladies he's slept with. Roxanne was in it.”
Higgins shot him an angry look. “Why didn't you tell me?”
Valentine shrugged.
“You fell for her.”
Valentine shrugged again.
“You sly dog.”
Old blind dog was more like it, Valentine thought.
“Roxanne joins the team,” he went on. “They rehearse, then try their scam last week. Fontaine beats the house silly, hoping he'll get barred so he can start a fight. It's all a ruse to get Joe Smith out of his chair so Roxanne can rob Billy. On the third night, Fontaine gets his wish, and Sammy Mann bars him. Fontaine starts brawling, but Joe Smith stays put. The whole thing's a dud.”
“I'm with you so far,” Higgins said.
All the talking was giving Valentine a headache. They were up high enough to see behind Caesars, and he watched a legion of shirtless men dismantle the canvas ring where Holyfield had beaten his unworthy opponent. In a week, they'd show a replay on TV, and he'd make it a point not to watch it. It was never the same after it was over.
“Go on,” Higgins prodded him.
“Nola gets arrested. Fontaine springs her, brings her into the gang. Then hatches a new plan. He puts Nola in a motel. She calls Nick, who rescues her and takes her back to the Acropolis. Nola fingers the gang to Nick. Nick sends his men into the casino, not realizing it's a ruse to get Joe Smith out of his chair.”
“You're saying Fontaine set himself up,” Higgins said.
“Uh-huh.”
“But we arrested him. What kind of plan is that?”
“He'll be out of jail in a few hours,” Valentine said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he didn't break any law,” Valentine said, wishing Bill would wisen up so he could go find Gerry's b
ody. “Reading a blackjack dealer isn't illegal. And you can't prove Fontaine grabbed Nola at the house.”
“But Nola fingered him.”
“To Nick. I'm sure her story will change when she talks to the police.”
“But Fontaine started a brawl in the casino.”
“Nick's men started the brawl. Look at the video. The only thing Fontaine's gang did was resist Nick's men. And Fontaine didn't even do that. The only law he broke was stepping foot in Nevada, which you can only fine him for.”
Higgins considered Valentine's point. “Jesus,” he muttered.
“Am I right?”
“Of course you're right. Stop rubbing it in.”
“Sorry.”
Higgins made a face. “When I brought you the hangers, you realized Nola had been planning this a long time, didn't you?”
Valentine nodded.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I was afraid you'd tell Roxanne.”
“You suspected her?”
Valentine nodded again.
“Why?”
“Because I'm sixty-two and she's thirty-eight,” he blurted out, his eyes fixed on the sea of flashing neon that defined the Vegas skyline. “I wanted to believe she liked me, but deep down I knew it wasn't real.”
Higgins heard something in Valentine's voice that made his own soften. He put his hand on Valentine's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Hey, it really happens sometimes,” he consoled him.
“Only in the movies,” Valentine replied.
Higgins dropped his hand. “So how do I go about prosecuting these people?”
“Put the screws to Roxanne,” Valentine said. “Threaten her with hard time, then offer to cut her a deal.”
“You think she'll squawk?”
“Like a chicken with its head on the block.” Valentine turned from the window. “Look, Bill, I need to beat it.”
“Longo's going to want to talk to you some more,” Higgins said.
“Think you can explain it to him?”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“To New York.”
“Something wrong?”
“Family emergency.”
Higgins looked hard and saw the grief balled up behind his friend's face. “You got a flight to catch, then go.”
The truth was, Valentine didn't have a flight to catch, but he figured he could talk his way onto one. Higgins walked him to the elevator. Valentine had run out of things to say and so he stared at the hideous carpet. Pushing the button, the GCB chief said, “You want to tell me what's wrong?”
Valentine lifted his eyes and met Bill's sympathetic gaze. It was a small consolation that in the past three days he hadn't ruined every one of his friendships, and he said, “My son got whacked this afternoon.”
Higgins swallowed hard. “No, Tony . . .”
“It was Fontaine,” he said. “He threatened me a few days ago.”
A shadow passed over Higgins's face.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Valentine shrugged. “Maybe I thought I was Wyatt Earp.”
The elevator doors parted.
“You want me to have him hurt?” Higgins said. “I can talk to Longo. He'll break Fontaine's legs if I tell him.”
Valentine knew that. But it wouldn't bring Gerry back, and it wouldn't make him feel any better. He shook his head and got into the elevator.
“Call me if you change your mind,” he heard Higgins say as the doors closed. “You hear?”
28
Back in his suite, Valentine sat on the couch and stared into space. Every part of his body hurt, his head most of all. And tomorrow, he was going to hurt a lot more.
The scent of Roxanne's lilac perfume clung heavily to the air. On the couch were the dents she'd left in the cushions; on the coffee table, a half-smoked cigarette and her lipstick-stained drink. She was everywhere, her lovely memory haunting him. He fired up a book of casino matches to erase the intoxicating smell.
A knock on the door interrupted him. Not every member of Fontaine's gang had been apprehended, and so he approached the door cautiously. Through the peephole he saw a uniformed waiter. He cracked open the door.
“What's up?”
“Mr. Valentine?” the waiter inquired.
“That's me.”
The waiter handed Valentine a cream-colored envelope. “Mr. Nicocropolis apologizes for not delivering this in person, but he's busy with the police.”
Valentine reached for his wallet and the waiter shook his head.
“No need, Mr. Valentine. Good night.”
He walked away and Valentine tore the envelope open. Inside were fifty hundred-dollar bills. And a note.
Tony,
Billy's jackpot would have busted me—I'm liable for the first three million. Thanks.
Wily told me about your son. Really sorry. My jet is still available.
Nick
P.S. You're a good guy, even if you are from Jersey.
Valentine took out his wallet and added the bills to his growing collection. Then he slipped Nick's note in behind his torn honeymoon photo. After Lois died, he found a scrapbook in her closet filled with newspaper clippings and commendations he'd received as a cop. She'd cared about that stuff, and he would add Nick's note to the collection, knowing how happy it would have made her.
He was tossing his dirty clothes into his suitcase when the phone rang. He ignored it, not wanting to talk. But to his annoyance, it continued to ring. Apparently this call was not going to voice mail. He lifted the receiver to his ear and said, “Yeah?”
“Tony? Is that you?”
“Mabel?”
“I'm free,” she squealed with delight. “I know it's late out there, but I had to call and tell you my good news.”
“You're out of jail?”
“I most certainly am!”
Valentine heard a screen door slam in the background, then a familiar voice. “Mabel, where'd you say the ice cream was?”
“Gerry?” he said in astonishment.
“In the icebox in the garage,” Mabel said. “I've got your father on the line.”
“Hey, Pop,” Gerry said from afar.
“Gerry?” Tears rolled down Valentine's face. “Gerry!”
“Hey,” his son said, coming on the line.
“You're alive!”
“You bet I'm alive. Those judo moves you taught me as a kid finally came in handy.”
“What happened?”
“Guy was choking me to death in the Holland Tunnel and I snapped his arm back. He fell over, hit his partner, bidda-bang, bidda-boom, they're both out cold. I cabbed it to the airport, jumped on a plane.”
Valentine could not remember when his son's voice had sounded so good. “You called Yolanda, didn't you?”
“She's flying down tomorrow,” his son said. “We're going away for a few days.”
“Good boy.”
“Mabel's dying to talk to you.”
Valentine heard the screen door open and close. Ice cream. His son had gone to get some ice cream. Did he have any idea the anguish his father had been through, thinking him dead?
No, Valentine realized, probably not.
Mabel came on, her voice filled with schoolgirl glee. “Oh, Tony. You would have been so proud.”
“Tell me,” he said.
“Your son flew down an hour ago and drove straight to the courthouse. He begged a judge to hear my case, and they dragged me out of jail. Your son told that judge exactly what happened, how he was to blame, and how he should have come down and straightened things out, and how his father was a cop, and that he'd been raised knowing right from wrong, and this time there was no doubt he was wrong. Then he begged the judge to let me go—”
“Mabel,” Valentine said, “slow down before you croak!”
His neighbor took a deep breath, then plunged back in. “Tony, it was so touching, I cried. Gerry told the judge that just a few hours ago, two hoodlums had tri
ed to murder him and that he'd had this amazing life-changing experience. He had a strange name for it—”
“An epiphany?”
“That's it. Anyway, he said it was a real wake-up call. He told the judge that he had to take responsibility for his life and that this was as good a way as any to start.”
“Gerry said that?”
“I know,” she laughed merrily. “Tony, for a minute I thought I was listening to you!”
“What did the judge say?”
“Well, the judge was a she and a real tough nut. She praised Gerry for his honesty, but then told him the law was the law, and fined him fifty-five hundred dollars.”
“Fifty-five hundred bucks!” he shouted into the phone. “That's highway robbery. She ought to be run out of town.”
“Well, your son doesn't feel that way.”
“What do you mean? What did he do?”
“He paid up.”
“What?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘I broke the law, and I'll pay whatever fine you see fit.'”
Valentine heard the screen door slam. “Put him on, will you?”
“Hey,” his son said a moment later.
“Mabel told me what you did. I'm proud of you, boy.”
“Yeah, well, now that you mention it, I was wondering if I could ask you a favor,” his son said.
“Sure.”
“I paid the court with a check, and my cash flow's been kinda short lately, if you know what I mean.”
Valentine pushed himself off the bed, not believing his ears.
“You want me to cover you?”
“Well, yeah,” his son said.
Valentine kicked the night table and got violent feedback from his big toe. The more things changed, the more they remained the same.
“I'll pay you back,” his son mumbled.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Gerry cleared his throat. “Pop.”
“What?”
“I know this is hard to believe, but I'm trying.”
“You're trying,” Valentine echoed.
“Yeah, I'm trying.”
