Funny Money tv-2

by James Swain

  “You're going to be so proud of me,” she said.

  “What did you do?”

  “I solved my first case.”

  He made the bed sag and unbuttoned his coat.

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, you got a FedEx package this morning marked urgent, so I figured I better open it. Inside was a letter from a joint in Laughlin, Nevada, called Lucky Lill's, and a check for two hundred dollars. Lill wrote the letter herself. She sounded desperate.”

  Valentine couldn't help but smile. Mabel had called the place a joint. Casinos with names like Lucky Lill's were joints. His neighbor was learning the business fast.

  “I know two hundred dollars is below your minimum fee, but you know how I am about money. So I figured maybe I could help her. Lill's husband died a few months ago and left the casino to her. Lill doesn't know much about gambling. She sent a surveillance tape of three Asian men who beat her for five thousand dollars at blackjack. I watched the tape for hours and figured out they were card counting.”

  “You sure?”

  “I'm positive.”

  “How?”

  “One of the books in your library said that the best way to spot card counters is by bet fluctuation, so I wrote down how the Asians bet. Any time they quadrupled their bets, I got suspicious. I wrote down the time showing on the surveillance tape, then rewound it and played the tape back. Then I wrote down which cards came out of the shoe. They were all high-valued. Which meant they were counting.”

  There were easier ways to spot counters, but Mabel's method would do in a pinch. She was right: He was proud of her.

  “You tell Lill this?”

  “I most certainly did. She was most appreciative.”

  “Congratulations,” he said.

  “I assume you've decided to stay in Atlantic City and finish your job.”

  “I have. Thanks for the pep talk yesterday.”

  “You're welcome. One last thing. Detective Davis called about an hour ago. He said if you didn't call him by three o'clock, he was going to track you down and have you arrested. I assume he's joking.”

  “Of course he's joking.” He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter till three. What had he done wrong now? He started to sign off, then said, “You did good, kid.”

  “You think I have a future?”

  “I sure do,” he said.

  He called Davis on his cell phone and caught the detective driving in his car. Davis did not sound happy. They agreed to meet at the IHOP.

  Ten minutes later Valentine pulled into the vacant lot and parked. Locking the .38 in the glove compartment, he went inside.

  Dottie, his least favorite waitress, was manning the register, an impossibly long ash dangling from her cigarette. He'd never come back for his change, and he stopped at the counter.

  “Remember me?”

  “Nope.”

  “I was in the other day with my son. I gave you a hundred-dollar bill for breakfast; you said you didn't have any change. Told me to come back later.”

  “Wasn't me,” Dottie said.

  “Sure it was.”

  “Look mister . . .”

  “I want my change,” he said irritably. “The meal was nine bucks. Add a buck tip, and you owe me ninety dollars.”

  “I'm telling you, it wasn't me.”

  Valentine could tell where this was going. He should have come back immediately and not let Dottie write him off. In the back counter mirror he saw Davis's Thunderbird pull in. The detective came through the front door with a stern look on his face, his designer shades vanishing into his breast pocket. He was wearing hip-hugger jeans and a black leather jacket and looked just like he'd stepped off a movie set. Valentine motioned him over.

  “Dottie, this is my friend Eddie.”

  “Hi,” she said stiffly.

  “Hello, Dottie,” the detective said.

  “Dottie and I have a little disagreement,” Valentine said, “which you could settle by showing her your credentials.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your badge.”

  Davis flipped open his wallet and stuck his silver detective's badge in the mean-spirited woman's face. Dottie changed colors, her waxy cheeks glowing red. Davis kept the badge out, and Valentine sensed that he was enjoying himself. Maybe he'd come in for coffee once and Dottie had been slow serving him. Or hadn't bothered serving him at all. That kind of crap went on every day in America.

  “So what do you think?” Valentine asked her.

  The no sale flag appeared on the register. Dottie counted ninety dollars into his waiting palm. Valentine handed her two dollars back. “Two coffees, when you get a chance.”

  “I hope she's not in the back pissing in our cups,” Davis said as they slid into the farthest booth from the counter. “I've seen that one before.”

  “Why don't you ask her?” Valentine suggested.

  “You're just filled with good ideas, you know that?”

  Their coffee came, Dottie bringing giant mugs and pouring from a fresh pot, treating them like normal customers. Davis spooned cream and sugar into his mug, then said, “I thought you told me yesterday you were going to apologize to Kat Berman.”

  So that was what this was about. Feeling relieved, Valentine said, “I got sidetracked.”

  “Well, she called the station this morning. The call got transferred to me. I told her we'd spoken, and how sorry you were. I promised her I'd find you and get you to apologize.”

  Davis was starting to grow on him. He said, “Did she give you a number where I can reach her?”

  “You're not getting off that easy,” Davis said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I called her ten minutes ago and told her I was meeting you here. She'll be by soon. You can apologize to her in person.”

  Valentine's cheeks grew warm. He felt like he was six years old and his mother had just scolded him. “I really appreciate this, Eddie.”

  “I bet you do. So here's what I want in return.” Taking a piece of paper from his leather jacket, he unfolded it, and slid it across the table. “The lab boys put Doyle's notebook through an ESDA machine yesterday. The machine detected an impression of a page that had been torn out. It was a note Doyle had written to his brother, Tom. Take a look.”

  Valentine slipped his bifocals on. The ESDA machine made a copy that looked like a bad Xerox, and he had to squint.

  Tom,

  Sorry for the blow-up yesterday at lunch,

  but this Bombay investigation has made me

  a nervous wreck. So many of my friends seem

  to be involved. I still don't know what to do.

  Thanks for lending a sympathetic ear.

  Doyle

  Davis leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If I'm reading this note right, it seems that Doyle discovered another scam at The Bombay, one where employees were involved. Normally, I'd go and lean on Tom Flanagan and find out what Doyle told him. However, since you were tight with Doyle, I figure you might be able to get him to open up.”

  Valentine put his bifocals away, then slid the note back to the detective. “The scam Doyle is referring to involved slots. A lot of employees were in on it, probably a whole shift. But it never came off.”

  Davis sat up very straight. “Say what?”

  “I spoke to Liddy Flanagan about it. She said Doyle spoke to the auditors at the Division of Gaming Enforcement, and the Casino Control Commission. They monitor the take on The Bombay's slot machines every week. And the auditors said the take was normal.”

  “So what happened?”

  Valentine chose his words carefully. He hated guessing, but in this case, he had no choice. “My gut says Doyle stumbled onto the scam right as it was about to happen. The employees got scared and backed off.”

  “You don't think the employees killed Doyle to keep him quiet, do you?”

  Valentine shook his head. “Doyle had a lot of friends at The Bombay. But I'll tell you this: Every one of them proba
bly pissed in their pants when Doyle got killed.”

  “Thinking they'd get blamed,” Davis said.

  “Exactly.”

  The detective grew silent. Then said, “We're talking about what, a hundred employees who must have known about this.”

  “At least.”

  “People in the cage, security people, chip people, dealers. A lot of lives ruined if I decide to keep digging.”

  “A lot of lives.”

  Davis finished his coffee. Conspiracy to defraud a casino was a serious crime in New Jersey. But Valentine had a feeling the people involved had learned a lesson. Like Doyle, he had a lot of friends at The Bombay, and he did not want to see them go to jail for a crime that had never come off.

  “Let it go, Eddie,” he told the detective.

  Their check came. Davis was taking his wallet out when his eyes flew out the window. He whistled through his teeth. “As I live and breathe. What do we have here?”

  Valentine followed his wolfish gaze. A navy Saturn had parked in the IHOP lot, and a knockout of a woman was getting out. He slipped his bifocals back on. It was Kat Berman.

  “That's her,” Valentine said.

  “That's the woman you knocked down?”

  Davis's eyes were dancing, the juices flowing to places they hadn't been flowing before. They both stood up as Kat entered the restaurant and approached their table. She was wearing makeup and had brushed out her mane of hair, the effect strong enough to make Valentine catch his breath.

  “So let's hear it,” she said, looking straight at Valentine.

  “I want to apologize,” he mumbled.

  “So do it!” she snapped.

  “I'm sorry about the other night. I was out of line.”

  She crossed her arms. “That's pretty lame.”

  “I'm really sorry,” he said, feeling like an idiot.

  “That's a little better.”

  “From the bottom of my heart.”

  “Much better.” She glanced at Davis. “Hello.”

  The detective was grinning like a kid at his first school dance. “How you doing,” he said cleverly.

  She looked at Valentine. “Would you mind?”

  “Mind what?”

  “Introducing us.”

  Valentine was not used to having his tongue tied in knots. This woman was having a strange effect on him. He said, “Kat Berman, I'd like you to meet Richard Roundtree.”

  “Nice to meet you, Richard.”

  Davis stared at Valentine like he'd lost his mind.

  “Who?”

  “What did I say?”

  “Richard Roundtree . . .”

  Kat was laughing. “You know, you look just like him.”

  “Who?” the detective said.

  “Richard Roundtree,” they both said.

  Davis was fuming, any potential for magic reduced to a shambles. He shot a murderous glance at Valentine, who busied himself staring at the floor.

  “I need to run,” the detective said. “It was nice meeting you, Kat.”

  “Nice meeting you, Richard,” she giggled.

  Valentine walked Davis to his Thunderbird. He put his hand on the younger man's arm and got the cold shoulder. “Hey look, I'm really sorry. I think it has something to do with growing old. Not all the neurons connecting.”

  Davis murmured something unpleasant under his breath, then got into the car. A moment later the window rolled down, his profile a study in constraint.

  “You are one cagey old man,” he said.

  And before Valentine could ask him what he meant, the detective gunned the ancient engine and drove away.

  24

  Deal

  Valentine slid into the booth, his seat still warm. Kat had slipped out of her leather jacket and was wearing a clingy black turtleneck that accented every vivacious curve. Dottie appeared with menus and a smug look on her face.

  “Nice trade,” she said.

  When she was gone, Kat said, “She a friend of yours?”

  “She tried to steal some money from me.”

  “You say the strangest things, you know that?”

  He shrugged. “You mind my asking you a question?” When she didn't object, he said, “How did you get into the wrestling racket?”

  It took Kat ten minutes to tell him her story. What it boiled down to was pretty simple: After she'd gotten canned from The Bombay, she'd gone looking for work and found that no other casino in town would touch her. The only other jobs she'd found were demeaning—stripping off her clothes, giving horny guys massages, or being a cocktail waitress and flirting for tips. So she'd taken up wrestling.

  “One day, I saw an ad in the paper,” she said. “‘Learn to wrestle, earn good money.' So I went and enrolled. And I was good. None of the other girls could touch me. It was my trainer's idea to wear the judo uniform. He thought I needed a gimmick, only I couldn't afford a costume. I had my uniform, so Judo Queen was born. Everyone tells me it sounds Japanese. You think I could pass as Japanese?”

  Valentine had not taken his eyes off her. She wanted something—women this beautiful did not talk to old guys with hair in their ears unless they wanted something—so he threw her a curve ball, just to see how she reacted.

  “I guess there are a couple of women in Japan who have a body like yours.”

  She laughed out loud, then reached across the table and squeezed his arm. He remembered the electricity he'd felt the day before when she'd poked him, and he felt it again now.

  “Do you say whatever's on your mind?”

  “I think it's called being retired.”

  “If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?”

  “Sixty-two.”

  “You're in some shape for sixty-two.”

  “You're sweet,” he said.

  Kat put her hand over her mouth, the laughter seeping out anyway. Dottie appeared, and they both said no to more coffee. Then they sat for a while, saying nothing. He saw Kat gaze dreamily out the window and realized she was staring at the Mercedes.

  “Want to go for a spin?”

  “I thought you'd never ask.”

  The Mercedes impressed her, but what impressed her more was that it belonged to Archie Tanner. Valentine wanted to tell her that he'd known Archie since he'd sold bootleg cigarettes out of the trunk of his car, but he didn't think it would win him any points. Archie was a local boy made good, and Jersey folks were passionate about loving their own. He found Sinatra on the dial doing a duet with Julio Iglesias. Kat hummed along, in heaven.

  “I asked around about you,” she said when they were sitting at a light. “Yun's prized pupil. I also heard you're an ex-cop, and wired in the casino business.”

  Valentine didn't know how wired he was, but decided to play along, just to see where she was going. “That's right.”

  “I need your help,” she said.

  The light changed and he gently tapped the accelerator.

  “I've got a cop who's stalking me,” she went on. “Name's Vic Marconi. Last summer, while I was working at The Bombay, I heard about a scam some employees were hatching. The ringleaders were over in Saudi Arabia during Desert Storm. Real gung-ho types. I was dating Vic at the time, so I told him. Vic and his partner found out who the employees were and put the muscle on them.”

  “Marconi told you that?”

  Kat nodded. “He's in love with me.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Not long after that, I got canned. It took me a while to put the two together, but I guess the Desert Storm gang decided I was a threat. Vic told me not to worry about it. He said he and Coleman had joined the gang, and he was going to make enough money to take care of me for the rest of my life. I told him I didn't want any part of it and broke the relationship off.”

  The island of Atlantic City was only thirteen miles long, and Valentine had reached the northern tip and parked in a lot for Captain Starn's Pier. The slips were empty, the sleek yachts and cabin cruisers having migrated south for the winter
. “And that's when Vic started stalking you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you filed a complaint?”

  “With the police? No. Vic's a scary dude.”

  “How so?”

  “Remember all those drug dealers that got robbed and killed a few years back? Vic told me he and Coleman did it.”

  Valentine tapped his fingers on the wheel. It sounded like the kind of boast a dumb cop might make. Because the casinos provided so much revenue to the state of New Jersey, Atlantic City cops were expected to be model citizens. With a few well placed phone calls, Valentine was certain he could either have Marconi demoted or out on the street looking for work.

  “I'll make you a deal,” he said. “I'll get Marconi to leave you alone, but I want something in return.”

  Kat shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Then she looked around the car, like seeing if there was someplace she could run to, if she didn't like what Valentine was offering.

  “I'm listening,” she said.

  “Take the sacred crane off your uniform,” he said.

  It took a moment for the words to sink in.

  “Is that all you want?” she asked.

  “That's all I ever wanted,” Valentine said.

  “Yun was the father I never had,” he explained, driving down Pacific Avenue as he took Kat back to her car. “He took me under his wing, taught me a lot besides just judo. Seeing him down in the dumps the other day, it made me realize how much I owed him.”

  “I understand,” Kat said.

  He drove past motel row. The Blue Dolphin came into view, the sidewalks ankle-deep in snow. Gerry's black BMW was parked in front, just like he'd told his knuckleheaded son not to do. He swore under his breath.

  “What's wrong?”

  “My son. I need to stop for a second, if that's okay.”

  “Sure.”

  He pulled onto a side street and parked in front of the manager's office. “This will just take a second,” he said.

  Kat stayed in the car. Valentine walked down the path to his son's room. The motel was deserted, and he was about to knock on Gerry's door when he saw a plastic cigarette wrapper lying in the snow. His son didn't smoke and neither did his girlfriend. An alarm went off in his head.