by James Swain
“Who told you there were only twelve?”
“The hostess. Gerry asked her if she knew which Funny Money machine had paid my sister's jackpot last month. And the hostess said, ‘Well, there are only twelve, so it shouldn't be hard to find.' ”
Valentine took a deep breath. All his life he'd been having epiphanies, and they always began with his asking himself a question. And the question he asked himself now was, why weren't the Funny Money machines all situated together, with a big neon sign hanging over them? That was how most promotions in casinos worked.
And the answer that came back was simple. So simple that it explained all the gnawing questions he'd been asking himself since counting the receipts in Anna's knapsack. The Funny Money machines weren't all together because it wouldn't have allowed the employees to rearrange the casino and secretly funnel money out. That was where the missing five million had gone.
“I'll make sure I put it in that machine,” he said.
30
Hard Count,
Soft Count
I was wrong,” he told Davis an hour later.
Valentine had looked everywhere for a restaurant besides the IHOP to meet Davis, and he'd come up short. It was the only decent place for miles that hadn't been closed down by the casinos' $5.99 all-you-can-eat buffets.
It was Davis's day off, and he'd arrived unshaven and out of sorts. Dottie served them Belgian waffles with sausages on the side. When she was gone, the detective said, “About what?”
Ignoring the advice of every doctor he'd seen in the past ten years, Valentine smothered the waffles in maple syrup and dug in. “The Croatians aren't the only people ripping off The Bombay. A group of employees are robbing Archie as well.”
“You have proof?”
Dottie was lurking behind the counter with her antenna out. Valentine lowered his voice. “No.”
“Then how can you be certain?”
“I just am.”
“Is this your fabled grift sense?”
“Yes.”
“So, what do you want from me?”
“I need you to help me make the scam,” Valentine said.
Davis started to answer, then spotted Dottie. He leaned forward so their faces were less than a foot apart. “What are you talking about, help you make the scam?”
“I need you to create a diversion inside The Bombay.”
Davis gave him a wild look. “What are you suggesting I do? Light a smoke bomb? Or fire my gun a few times? That should get them running, don't you think?”
“Nothing that drastic,” Valentine said, trying to calm him down. “Just get a few security guards riled up.”
“I'm a cop. This isn't the fucking movies. People know me.”
“Put on a hat and glasses. It just has to last a couple of minutes. Maybe you can bring a few friends along.”
“You mean, scary-looking friends.”
“That's up to you.”
Dottie came over to ask how their food was. Gossip was no doubt her great addiction, and it was a minute before she left. Davis devoured his food like he hadn't eaten in days. When he was done, he slid out of the booth and started to walk away. Then came back and tossed a five dollar bill on the table.
“Give me one good reason why I should help you,” he said.
Valentine had to think about it.
“Because you're a swell guy,” he said.
Valentine slipped into Frank Porter's office in The Bombay's surveillance control room an hour later and shut the door. The office walls were illuminated by grainy, black-and-white video monitors, the light so poor that for a moment he did not see Porter sitting at his desk, munching on a bagel.
“Hey,” Porter said.
“Hey,” he replied, pulling up a chair.
The room's temperature was a cool sixty-five degrees because of the delicate electronics, and Porter wore a baggy cardigan sweater beneath a blue blazer. Valentine knew the sweater well: He'd given it to Frank on his fiftieth birthday.
“I thought you weren't talking to me,” Porter said.
“I'm leaving town. I wanted to say good-bye.”
“You're not sore?”
“I'll get over it.”
Porter's eyes briefly left the monitors. Like most people in casino security, he constantly played with angle and magnification with his joystick to avoid falling asleep.
“Thanks, Tony,” he said. “Want to hear a joke?”
“You got any Diet Coke?” Valentine asked.
“Do I have any Diet Coke? You got me addicted to the stuff.” He took a bottle from the mini-refrigerator behind his desk and filled two plastic cups, the carbonated bubbles overflowing onto the blotter. They clinked cups, and he said, “This woman dies and they have a funeral. As they're taking the casket out, it gets bumped against a wall. They hear a groan. The woman's still alive. She lives another ten years. Then she dies. They have another funeral. As they're taking the casket out, the husband says, ‘Watch out for that fucking wall!' ”
Valentine felt a bead of sweat run down his spine. He hadn't taken off his overcoat, the .38 resting in his jacket pocket with the safety off. He felt Frank staring at him.
“Ha, ha,” he said.
“I'm going to close with that joke,” Porter said.
“It's a good one.”
“Thanks. When's your flight?”
“Couple of hours.”
“Back to sunny Florida, huh?”
Valentine heard it in his voice: Porter wanted him to leave.
“Got to cash those Social Security checks,” Valentine said.
The tension melted from Porter's face. The office door banged open. A member of Porter's surveillance crew stuck his head in. “We got a problem in the blackjack pit. Table 17.”
Then the man slammed the door.
Porter tapped a series of commands on his keyboard. Table 17 came up on every video monitor in the room. Three sharply dressed African-American males were arguing with a female blackjack dealer. Fiddling with his joystick, Porter got in tight on the man doing most of the talking. It was Davis, wearing a black bowler and designer shades. Picking up the house phone, he called downstairs. “You got this under control?”
Porter did not like the answer he got. Fights were bad for business, and it was his job to diffuse any harmful situations before they got out of control. Standing, he grabbed a walkie-talkie off the desk. “I'll be right back.”
At the door he stopped and gave Valentine a hard look. “Tony?”
Valentine turned in his seat. “What, Frank?”
“You are leaving town, aren't you?”
His cheery tone was gone. Valentine stared into his friend's face. “What kind of question is that?”
“Answer me.”
“Delta Flight 1711.”
The hard look vanished. “You want a ride to the airport?”
“That would be great,” Valentine said.
Porter left. Valentine went to the door and opened it an inch. Outside, Porter was talking to one of his crew, a bald-headed guy with a sinister Fu Manchu. The guy nodded, agreeing with whatever Porter was telling him. Valentine shut the door and tossed his cup into the trash. Then slipped his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the .38. Fu Manchu entered the office.
“How you doing?”
“Not too bad,” Valentine said.
“Frank asked me to give you a tour of the casino.”
“You don't say.”
Fu Manchu smiled. “I do.”
Valentine drew the .38 and pointed it at Fu Manchu's chest. With his other hand he pointed at the closet. “Let's start the tour in there.”
Trembling, Fu Manchu entered the closet. Valentine shut the door behind him, then tilted a chair against the handle. Then he sat down in front of Porter's computer.
He tapped the Shift key and the screen came to life. On it was a matrix that contained different feeds from surveillance cameras around the casino, allowing Porter to simultaneo
usly watch the action at the blackjack tables, roulette, Pai Gow, craps, and the slot and video poker machines. It also let him watch as the money was taken from the games, and counted in two special areas, called the Hard Count and Soft Count rooms.
Over the years, Valentine had investigated many employee casino scams, and one thing was always the same. The gangs had figured out clever ways to sneak money through the Hard and Soft Count rooms, then out of the casino. He did not believe The Bombay gang was any different.
Moving the cursor across the screen, he double-clicked the mouse, and the Soft Count Room filled the screen. Two middle-aged women were on duty. For eight hours a day, they counted bills. When their shift was over, they would be frisked by a Division of Gaming Enforcement agent. If the agent didn't like something, he might make them strip. Valentine used the joystick to look around the room. Everything appeared normal.
Returning to the matrix, he found the feed for the Hard Count room, and double-clicked the mouse. It was here that coins were weighed and wrapped. In the room's center sat a table that held a giant scale. Beside the scale was a coin-wrapping machine.
Everything in the Hard Count room looked normal, except for a second table propped against the wall. He fiddled with the joystick. On this table sat a smaller scale. He made the camera get close. What the hell was that for? Overflow?
He leaned back in Porter's chair. Was The Bombay gang taking buckets of coins taken from slot machines, dumping them onto the smaller scale, then spiriting the coins out of the casino?
He decided it wasn't possible. Every slot machine in The Bombay was video taped 24/7. These tapes were reviewed by teams of Division of Gaming Enforcement agents. The DGE counted how many buckets of coins were taken from each machine, and compared it to how many were dumped on the scale. If the numbers didn't match up, people got arrested.
Which meant he still had no idea what was going on.
He was getting disgusted with himself. He was better than this. Did losing his best friend and all the other nonsense in his life have something to do with his inability to think straight? Taking the bottle of Diet Coke from Porter's fridge, he unscrewed the top and swigged it.
“You still here?” Fu Manchu yelled from the closet.
Valentine tossed the bottle at the door. Then he tapped a command into the keyboard, and the matrix for the blackjack pit appeared on the screen. Porter was at Table 17, talking furiously to a dozen security guards. Davis and his pals were gone.
The guards dispersed. Using the joystick, Valentine followed them across the casino floor. Each guard appeared to be running toward an elevator, or one of the fire exits.
Valentine tapped in another command. Table 17 reappeared. Porter was still there. In his hand was a walkie-talkie. He raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth.
The phone on the desk started to ring.
Valentine hesitated, then picked it up.
“Tony?”
“Hey, Frank,” he said.
“You fucking bastard,” Porter screamed at him.
“What's wrong?”
Frank's face was twisted in fear. Which meant the secret to the missing five million was on his computer, and Valentine had failed to find it.
“You're a dead man,” Porter said.
31
911
Hanging up on Porter, Valentine called Archie Tanner's office. He expected the conversation to be brief. He was going to tell Archie to call the cops. Archie could have any employee arrested for suspicion of stealing, regardless of whether he had evidence. The state gave him this power, along with every other casino owner in Atlantic City.
“I'm sorry,” the receptionist said, “but Mr. Tanner is in Florida.”
“Is Brandi there?”
“She's at home, sick.”
“Who's in charge?”
“Frank Porter,” the receptionist said.
He hung up. He guessed he had a minute before one of Porter's men reached the third floor and shot him. Picking up the phone, he dialed 911. “There's a fire at The Bombay,” he told the operator.
He marched into the surveillance control room. The employees were gone. He opened the door to the hall and stuck his head out. Empty. He walked down the hall to a fire alarm and punched out the glass. A whooping alarm drowned out all sound.
He followed the red Exit signs to a stairwell. Stepping onto the landing, he heard someone coming up the stairs. Taking the .38 from his pocket, he aimed at the landing and pulled the trigger. He heard the same pair of feet run down the stairs.
He fired two more times as he descended to the first floor. He wondered how he was going to feel if he shot an innocent person. Then it occurred to him that everyone who wasn't guilty was probably standing outside, waiting for the fire trucks.
The first floor landing was deserted. He opened the door and peered into the casino. Several pit bosses had remained at their stations. He thought of the fifty grand in Sparky's bank account and shoe box. Fifty into five million was a hundred employees. He couldn't trust anybody.
Soon, firefighters were streaming into the casino. He waited until one happened by. Opening the door, he shoved the .38 in the firefighter's face. “Get in here.”
The firefighter obliged him. He was an Irish guy with freckles and flaming hair, and didn't seem terribly upset. Like he'd experienced worse than a .38 shoved in his face.
Valentine sent him up the stairs in his underwear. Then tried his uniform on over his own clothes. It fit. He saw the fireman standing at the top of the stairs, shaking his head.
The casino floor was pandemonium. Valentine passed several firefighters without drawing suspicion. He headed for the nearest exit, his heart racing out of control.
He drove to an all-night grocery and parked between two delivery trucks. Inside, he bought cigarettes and fired one up once he was back in the car. Filling his lungs with smoke, he felt himself start to calm down.
Man, that tasted good.
So good, that he smoked two more before taking out his cell phone and dialing Davis's number. The detective answered on the first ring.
“An arrest warrant's been issued for you. You're considered armed and dangerous. Did you really stick a gun in the fireman's face and make him take off his clothes? What were you thinking?”
“Porter's men were trying to kill me,” Valentine said.
“You made the scam?”
“No.”
“Do you know any more than you did before?”
“No.”
“I want you to turn yourself in,” Davis said.
“What?”
“You're out of control.”
“I am?”
“You're suffering from dementia, Tony. Running around town knocking women down and carrying a hot gun. Do you think that's normal behavior? For Christ's sake, you introduced me as Richard Roundtree yesterday.”
Valentine watched two police cruisers pass by. When they were gone, he blew out a monster cloud of smoke. “I'm not nuts.”
“It's your only defense,” the detective said.
Davis was right. It was the one defense that would probably keep him out of prison. But if he pleaded insanity, there would be a price. He'd have to close his business and spend the rest of his days doing . . . nothing.
“Good-bye, Eddie,” he said.
His cell phone rang when there were three cigarettes left in his pack. He stared at the face. Caller Unknown. Answering it was a risk—cell companies could trace any phone in seconds—but he did so anyway, hoping it was Mabel or his son, wanting desperately to hear a friendly voice.
“Mr. Valentine?”
His prayers were answered. It was Brandi.
“I'm on the other line with Archie,” she said. “He heard what you did at The Bombay tonight. He wants to know what happened.”
Valentine put one of the last cigarettes in his mouth but didn't light it up. He chose his words carefully. “Tell Archie a gang of employees is ripping him off. Frank Porter is one of th
e ringleaders. I was trying to nail them. They got wise, and tried to kill me.”
Brandi put him on hold, then came back. “Archie wants to know why you ran from the police.”
“Because there are police involved.”
“Do you have proof?”
“Yes,” he lied.
She put him on hold again, then came back. “Archie said not to worry. He's taking his private jet home tonight. He wants you to come to my apartment and lay low until he arrives. He says he'll get everything straightened out.”
Her tone was businesslike. He liked that. She gave him her address, and he realized he knew exactly where she lived.
“I'll be there in ten minutes,” he said.
Brandi lived in the Reserve, a pricey high-rise condominium overlooking the ocean. Ten years before, Valentine and his wife had looked at a one-bedroom and found they couldn't afford to pay the monthly maintenance fee, let alone the mortgage.
He drove to a movie theater several blocks away and parked behind the brick building. He got out of the car and stripped out of the fireman's uniform.
He hiked up Arctic Avenue, the stiff ocean breeze fighting his every step. It felt ten degrees colder than the last time he'd been outside, and he wondered if his body was trying to tell him something.
A block before the condo, he ducked into an alley. At its end was a fire escape, which he climbed to the roof. Back when he was in uniform, he'd climbed this building many times while chasing suspects, the view the best around.
Standing on the roof brought back a flood of memories. He stared up and down the street. None of the original businesses were open anymore. Gone was the baker and the shoemaker and the pet shop. Not good businesses to run in a casino town.
The building he stood on had once housed a sausage factory. Two chimneys stuck out of the roof like buck teeth. Standing in their shadows, he stared across the street at Brandi's condo. Through the front doors he could see into the lobby. The night guard sat at a desk, reading the paper. There was no one else around.
The guard got up to stretch. He was in his thirties, square-faced with curly hair. Night guards were usually old geezers like him. The guy was too young for this kind of drudgery. Taking out his cell phone, he dialed 911 and made his second false report of the night.
