by James Swain
14
Ann
Valentine lay on his motel bed and stared at the cheap popcorn ceiling. He'd had crummy days before, but none like this. He'd brained his son, let a crook slip through his fingers, and knocked down a crazy broad. It had to be some kind of record.
He closed his eyes and tried to nap. It didn't work. Something was weighing on his mind. Then he realized what it was. He still needed to change motels.
He didn't go far. Two blocks south was the Blue Dolphin, and the manager rented him a room behind the swimming pool for fifty bucks a night. He unpacked, then took out his cell phone and punched in Mabel's number.
“I moved,” he informed her.
She wrote down the new number and filled him in on the day's events. Then she said, “I decided you were right. I need a dog for protection. Everyone says that mutts are the best. What do you think?”
“Beats me. I never owned a dog.”
“I'm going to check the pound. If one licks my hand, I'll bring it home with me.”
“You were always a sucker for a warm tongue.”
“Stop that.”
“I need you to research something on your computer,” he said. “It's called RDX.”
“Sounds intriguing. Should I use Whoopee?”
For Christmas, he'd given Mabel a subscription to an Internet service called Road Runner. He'd never been a fan of cyberspace, but seeing the joy it gave his neighbor, he'd decided it wasn't such a bad thing after all.
“Yahoo,” he said.
“I know what it's called. I like Whoopee better. Now, is RDX a vegetable, animal, or mineral?”
“It's a powerful explosive. That's all I know about it.”
“Is this what killed your friend?”
A stiff wind banged his motel room door, and Valentine jumped an inch off the bed. Like a ghost in an Edgar Allan Poe story, he imagined Doyle's spirit hanging outside, keeping tabs on him.
“Sorry,” his neighbor said.
He got dinner from the Burger King down the street and ate while watching Hogan's Heroes on the mute TV. A station out of Newark liked to show the old stuff. It was such garbage, you didn't need the volume to figure out what was going on.
He stared at the set while thinking about the European. A bad haircut, a fake gun, and a blackjack system that let him always win. That was the part that bugged him. Every blackjack system that didn't rely on outright cheating was based on card counting, and card counting wasn't infallible.
He remembered a crew of card counters he'd encountered years ago. They'd had five members. Four were expert counters. The fifth was a businessman who played the role of the BP, or Big Player, and carried a huge bankroll.
The counters sat at different blackjack tables and did their thing. Card counting was based upon the fact that a deck rich in high cards—the tens, jacks, queens, and kings—gave the players an edge. When the deck became rich, the counter would signal the BP, and the BP would come over and play.
Only on the night he'd seen this crew play, the BP had lost all his money. And all because of a statistical principle called standard deviation. Standard deviation was the average number of misses that might occur in a game of chance and often produced a large swing in the odds. In blackjack, it could wipe out a card counter's edge.
Somehow, the European had gotten around this, which was like saying he'd learned how to walk on water.
The show ended, and he killed the power with the remote. Tomorrow was going to be a better day; he was just sure of it. Turning off the lights, he buried himself in the sheets.
The phone on the night table interrupted his dreams. He cracked an eye. Almost eleven. Mabel was a night owl, and he answered the phone with, “So what did you find?”
“Is this Tony Valentine,” a woman with a thick accent said.
He turned on the lamp on the night table. He'd heard that accent earlier today in the bathroom at The Bombay.
“That's me.”
“Do you know who this is?”
He hesitated. “I think so.”
“There is a bar on Atlantic Avenue. The Chatterbox Lounge. Do you know it?”
Since before you were born, he nearly said. “Yes.”
“Go there and take a booth in the back. Come alone, or I won't.”
“Wait—”
“You have twenty minutes.”
The line went dead. Slipping out of bed, he took his wallet off the night table and removed Davis's card. He punched in the detective's cell number. Five rings later, a woman with a dreamy voice said, “Yes?”
“I need to speak to Eddie.”
“He's not available.”
“You sure about that?”
Her voice turned sharp. “Who is this?”
“Tony Valentine. Get him, will you?”
The woman went away. Valentine glanced at his watch, its face glowing in the room's dim light. A minute slipped away, then another. Davis's lady friend came back on the line.
“Eddie wants to know if it's urgent,” she said.
“It sure is,” he said.
Then he hung up on her.
The Chatterbox was a longtime hangout of Atlantic City's underbelly. Valentine parked under the busted neon sign and went in. In the smoky room he made out a few vague forms shooting pool. Otherwise, it was dead.
The bar was in the shape of a horseshoe and surrounded by a dozen stools. For drug deals and illicit rendezvous there were booths on the far wall, each lit by a single candle. He caught the bartender's eye and ordered a Diet Coke.
A few stools away sat a woman of negotiable affections. Her skirt was hiked up to her crotch, exposing red satin underwear. Without looking his way, she said, “See something you like?”
“Not in here.”
She spun on her stool, facing him. “You sure?”
She sounded desperate. In her face he saw a hard life hidden behind the paint. She smiled, thinking he was warming up to her.
“Scram,” he said.
“What are you, pops, a cop?”
“How bad do you want to find out?”
She flung her purse over her shoulder and bolted. The bartender placed his soda on the bar. “Are you a cop?”
“Ex.”
“You look familiar. Soda's on the house.”
The bartender was a guy his age, lots of character in his face. Sometimes Valentine regretted that he didn't drink. Some of the finest people he'd ever met served booze for a living.
He slipped into a booth and sat with his back to the wall. He looked at his watch. Eleven-eighteen.
Two minutes later, the European's accomplice entered the bar, her wool cap flecked with snow. She stopped and ordered a draft beer, then came to the booth and slid onto the other seat.
“Hello,” she said.
Close up, she was even prettier than he'd expected. But what struck him was her smell. She smelled of cigarettes, or more precisely, a few thousand cigarettes, her teeth stained from years of abuse. She removed her cap and shook it out on the floor.
Valentine kept looking at the two exits, waiting for one of her partners to come in.
“I'm alone,” she informed him.
“You got a name?”
“Ann.”
“What do you want, Ann?”
“Are you always so . . . direct?”
Only with thieves, he nearly said. “Yes.”
Ann pulled a square of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and slid it across the table. His eyes scanned the page.
Wanted!!!
For the murder of Doyle Flanagan and stealing money from The Bombay. If you see either of these individuals inside the casino, alert a pit boss or security immediately. These people are armed and extremely dangerous.
Do Not Attempt To Apprehend
These Individuals!!!!!!
Beneath the screaming type was Ann's picture, lifted off a surveillance tape, another of her partner. Not good shots, but she was so pretty, it would be easy to spot her. He slid the flyer back.
<
br /> “Let me guess,” he said. “You didn't do it.”
She took a long swallow of beer. It left a wet mustache on her face that she did not seem to notice.
“New Jersey has the death penalty, you know.”
“We are not murderers,” she said. “Your friend was involved in something else.”
“You think so?”
“It is the only logical explanation. We are being turned into—what is the expression?”
“Fall guys,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Fall guys.”
“But you are ripping off The Bombay.”
“Ripping off?”
“Stealing.”
“Yes, yes, we are doing that. But we did not kill your friend. We would never do such a thing. You must believe me when I say this.”
Valentine drank his soda. He got the feeling Ann was being sincere, which could only mean one thing. Her partners had planted the bomb in Doyle's car without telling her.
“Why should I?” he said.
She took another swallow of beer. “The Bombay hired you to investigate Doyle Flanagan's murder, yes?”
“That's right.”
“And you are an ex-policeman.”
“Right again.”
“You have an open mind, yes?”
Valentine shook his head. She didn't understand, so he spelled it out for her. “Doyle Flanagan was my partner and my best friend. Did your sources tell you that?”
Ann leaned over the table. “The night your partner was murdered, we were playing blackjack at The Bombay.”
“Prove it.”
She killed the beer and her cheeks grew flushed. “As you are probably aware, we play at tables which are not being monitored by surveillance cameras.”
“So there's no film,” Valentine said.
“No. But a member of our team did cash in our winnings—”
“—and since the cage is always being filmed,” Valentine finished, “your partner would be on tape.”
She slapped her hands on the table. “Exactly!”
“Honey, all that tells me is that one of you was in The Bombay that night.”
The Chatterbox's front door banged open. A dozen uniformed men stormed in, bringing an arctic wave of cold air with them. They ripped off their fireman's jackets and bellied up to the bar, loudly ordering pitchers of beer.
Ann's eyes went wide. Seconds later she was out of the booth and beating a path toward the back door. Wearing his soda, Valentine ran after her.
“Try to keep it civil,” the bartender called out.
Ann hit the back door like a truck. The door swung open, and Valentine saw her run into the parking lot, then suddenly stop, looking in both directions. Had her ride gone and left her?
Being old definitely had its advantages. For one, people were always underestimating his physical prowess, and Ann let out a scream when he grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her like a top. He started to shake her.
“Tell me where your partners are,” he said.
“Do not . . . be stupid.”
That got Valentine mad. She was the stupid one. Any other hustler would have left town. He started to reply, then felt something hard tap the back of his skull.
He awoke on an icy metal floor, his wrists handcuffed to an exposed hot water pipe. Voices danced around him; three men and a woman. The cold floor was doing a number on his bowels, and he fought the urge to soil himself.
He tried to make out the conversation but couldn't place the language. Not Turkish or Greek or Albanian but similar, from that part of the world. He cracked an eye open, and got a look at the other two males who made up the gang. Late thirties, gaunt, with sallow complexions, their faces without humor.
The room they had brought him to was filled with litter. Mostly beer cans but also shattered crack pipes, and he guessed he was in an abandoned warehouse on the west side of town.
Ann stood in the room's center. She'd changed into sweats and wore a Walkman around her neck. She came over and knelt beside him. Coming out of the earphones was Vivaldi's The Four Seasons. Her hand touched his brow.
Valentine opened his eyes. “Hi.”
The gang circled him. Taking out a penlight, the European shined the tiny beam into Valentine eyes. Then he said something reassuringly to Ann.
“Good,” she said in English.
Valentine rattled his handcuffs against the water pipe. “Would you mind undoing these? I'm not going anywhere.”
“Only if you'll tell me something,” the European said.
“What's that?”
“I want to know how you spotted me in the casino.” Then he added, “No one else has.”
“These first,” Valentine said.
The European took out the keys and opened the cuffs. Pushing himself into a sitting position, Valentine leaned against the wall and watched the room spin.
“Out with it,” the European said.
“You cut your own hair, don't you?”
The European nodded. “We take turns.”
“Well, it shows.”
“You're saying my hair gave me away?”
“Afraid so.”
“Your country is filled with strange-looking people. And so are your casinos. Why would I stand out?”
Valentine tried to think of a delicate way to explain it. Some of the worst-dressed human beings could be found in American casinos. Only these people did not play at the five thousand dollar blackjack tables. They played keno and the quarter slot machines. The gamblers at the five-thousand-dollar tables wore Rolex watches and had hundred dollar haircuts. They had dough, and they flaunted it.
Valentine said, “Well, it's like this. You look . . .”
They were all staring at him.
“Poor,” he said.
The European winced. Valentine had hit a nerve.
“You haven't been in this country long, have you?”
The European put his hand on Valentine's shoulder. “You are a clever man, and if we keep letting you talk, I'm sure you'll find out plenty about us. So, shut up.”
“You bet,” Valentine said.
They huddled on the other side of the room. Valentine used the break to take deep breaths and try and get his heart to slow down. An old martial arts trick that he'd never been any good at. He saw Ann break away from the group. She came over and knelt down beside him.
“Will you please listen to me,” she said.
“I'm listening.”
“We have played blackjack all over the world. Eventually, the casino figures out they cannot beat us, and we are eighty-fived—”
“Eighty-sixed.”
“Thank you. So we go elsewhere. Monte Carlo, Nassau, San Juan. A month here, a month there. It is always the same.”
“I'm not reading you,” he said.
“Eventually, we are barred,” she explained. “The casinos figure out they cannot win and throw us out.”
“Okay.”
“The Bombay was different. We played and won and kept playing. Each night we wondered, ‘When will it end? When will the house make us leave?' It was too good to be true.”
“You're saying The Bombay let you cheat them?”
“Yes.”
Valentine had heard a lot of ridiculous alibis over the years, but this took the cake.
“Wow,” was all he could think to say.
She stormed out of the room. The other three came over, and the European knelt down. From his leather jacket he removed a familiar-looking Glock and stuck the barrel against Valentine's cheek. Valentine pressed his knees together. He was seconds away from peeing on himself.
“I would kill you, only Ann would never speak to me again,” the European said. “So go back to wherever you live and enjoy your golden years. Understand?”
“Yes,” Valentine said.
The European tossed the Glock over his shoulder. One of his partners caught it. Then he handcuffed Valentine back to the water pipe, and the three men left the roo
m.
15
RDX
They left him with a long piece of string with a handcuff key tied to the other end. Valentine took his time pulling the string in and freeing himself, not inclined to run after them. Getting KO'd was no fun, especially at his age. He'd feel the effect for days, maybe longer.
The cold had seeped into his bones. Rising, he took a piss in the corner, then walked around the room. Stopping at a window, he stared at a white van sitting at a traffic light a block away. It was the same van he'd seen outside the IHOP, a real junker. It didn't make sense. They'd stolen six million bucks, why not get a decent set of wheels?
He found the stairwell and descended cautiously, clutching the railing for dear life. A rat ran past, brushing his ankle. Kicking down a splintered door, he stepped into a backyard strewn with bottles and cast-off tire rims. The building next door looked familiar and he peered over the fence. Two blocks away, he saw the Chatterbox's neon sign. He hopscotched his way to the sidewalk, then started walking.
The temperature had dropped, his breath as white as freshly fallen snow. At the corner, a woman stepped out of the shadows. It was the hooker from the Chatterbox. She parted her jacket and he saw that she'd stripped down to the red underwear she'd so kindly shown him earlier.
“Scram,” he said.
The Chatterbox was closed. He banged on the front door anyway. The bartender came to his rescue, microwaving him a cup of coffee and giving him an ice pack. Fifteen minutes later he climbed into the Mercedes. He had the key in the ignition when he heard a voice inside his head.
Never let your guard down.
Yun had said that to him a hundred times the year he'd gone undefeated. He got out, dug a newspaper out of a trash bin, and spread it on the macadam. Then he looked under the car.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
Davis arrived with the Atlantic City bomb squad.
He'd taken Valentine's advice and ditched the Chevy for an immaculate '74 Thunderbird. Driving it, he didn't look like a cop anymore, a fact he seemed to appreciate as much as anyone.
“She's my baby,” he said. “Bought her secondhand when I got out of high school. Put a new engine in, refurbished the interior. The whole nine yards.”
He'd brought two cups of police house coffee. Valentine found himself liking the detective again. Sitting in the Thunderbird, they watched the bomb squad defuse the explosive device taped to Valentine's starter and drop it in a bucket of water. The captain of the bomb squad waved to Davis. Davis replied by flashing his brights.
