by James Swain
“Why am I not seeing this?” Beck said belligerently.
“You will if you tape it and watch it in slow motion,” Valentine said.
“Arrest them,” Beck told someone standing nearby. To Valentine he said, “Thanks for the save.”
“Call me if you need me,” Valentine said.
Hanging up, he went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. It had been a long day and it wasn't even noon. He was looking forward to getting some lunch, maybe taking a nap later. He heard the phone ring in the other room.
He waited a minute, then picked up the message. The caller was Liddy Flanagan, and she sounded more distressed than any woman who'd just lost her husband needed to be.
“Oh, Tony, I need your help,” she said. “I found a notebook of Doyle's while I was cleaning. It's filled with the strangest entries. I think you should see it.”
The message ended without her saying good-bye. He stared at the phone while listening to his stomach growl. Lunch would have to wait. Taking his coat off the bed, he headed out the door.
The ten-minute drive to Doyle's house took twenty on the icy roads. The Mercedes was drawing a lot of stares from schmucks driving beaters, and Valentine was happy for the tinted windows. Himself, he drove a '90 Honda Accord, a good solid car with roll-down windows, the odometer stuck at 160,000 miles.
Liddy met him at the front door. She wore faded jeans and a fluffy green sweater, her hair done up nice. Only her bloodshot eyes betrayed her true feelings.
“The boys are here,” she said.
He followed her into the living room. Sean sat on the couch with a spiral notebook in his lap. He read aloud to Guy, who stood by the fireplace puffing nervously on a cigarette, his eyes fixed on the blue-orange flames.
“It's not like stealing from a friend, it's a goddamn casino. They expect it. Hell, they even budget for it.” Sean flipped the page. “Here's some more. ‘Nobody got hurt, so nothing really happened. I don't do this all the time, so I'm not really a thief.' ”
Sean stopped, unable to make something out. Valentine sat on the couch beside him. Sean handed him the notebook.
“You try.”
The page was covered with Doyle's infamous chicken scratch. Valentine deciphered the line at the top of the page.
“It's like a tree falling in a forest. If no one catches you, are you really breaking the law?” He looked up at Liddy. “Where did you find this?”
“I was changing the bed,” she said. “It was stuck between the mattress and box spring. I didn't understand it at first, but the more I read, well, it seems like Doyle is denying something that he's done.”
“He wasn't denying anything,” Guy spouted angrily, his gaze still fixed on the roaring fire. “My father didn't steal anything from anyone in his life.”
An uneasy silence filled the living room. Valentine glanced at Sean; Doyle's older son did not seem so sure. Neither did Liddy. Sensing his family's betrayal, Guy crossed the room and ripped the notebook from Valentine's hands. Flipping to the first page, he shoved it in front of Valentine's face.
“Look,” he said.
On this page, Doyle had drawn a floor plan of The Bombay, with tiny X's for banks of slot machines, O's for blackjack tables, R's for roulette wheels, and so on. In the margins were mathematical calculations, the numbers blurry from repeated erasure. There was also a scribbled name: Detective Eddie Davis. And the detective's cell phone number.
“My father was talking to the police,” Guy snapped. “He found something rotten at The Bombay, and he called Detective Davis. My father wasn't a criminal.”
“Guy, sit down,” Valentine said.
“You don't believe me!”
“Guy, I said sit down.”
Guy angrily marched out the front door. Moments later they heard car wheels spin as he backed down the drive. Liddy sat on the couch next to her older son.
“Poor Guy,” she whispered.
Valentine studied Doyle's map. Neither Frank nor Archie had mentioned that Doyle was talking to the police, which meant Doyle hadn't told them. He flipped the pages and reread the quotes. Had someone inside the casino told Doyle about something that was going on?
He stood up from the couch. He didn't know Davis, but there were a lot of new cops that he didn't know.
“I'm going to have to take this to the police,” he said.
Liddy's head snapped. “You are?”
“Yes.”
“But it makes Doyle look bad . . .”
“Liddy, it's evidence. Detective Davis should have a chance to examine it. He'll probably want to put the notebook through an Electrostatic Detection Apparatus, which picks up indented writing. If Doyle wrote something and later tore out the page, the ESDA will see it.”
“But what if . . .”
“Doyle was doing something dirty? I don't believe that for a minute.”
Liddy lay her head on Sean's shoulder. Valentine stood in the center of the living room, hoping she'd agree. Only she wasn't returning his gaze. He buttoned his overcoat, sensing it was time to go.
“Do what you must,” Sean told him.
8
Davis
Valentine pulled into an empty space at the Atlantic City Metro Police headquarters lot and killed the Mercedes engine. He hated to admit it, but the car was growing on him. It was built like a tank and clung to the road like a piece of gum. He liked safe, always had, and the car was the epitome of that. He locked the Glock in the glove compartment, then took Doyle's notebook off the passenger seat.
Walking through the front door of police headquarters, he passed through a metal detector, then entered an L-shaped room with plastic benches screwed into the walls. Forlorn-looking people sat in groups, talking among themselves. A teenager with a crying baby, her mother, and grandmother; a family of Chinese; a blind man, his guide dog, and doting wife.
On the far side of the room, a familiar face sat behind bullet-proof glass. Alice Torkalowski held up a finger, then said good-bye to someone on the phone.
“That was a great story you told at the funeral,” she said.
“Thanks.” He hadn't seen Alice at the funeral, but she was only four-four and got missed a lot. “How you been?”
“Up for retirement next June. Don't know if I should take the plunge or not. You liking it?”
Valentine shook his head. “I'm working again.”
“That bad?”
“I didn't count anymore,” he said, knowing that of all the people in the station house, Alice would understand this statement, having lived in the shadows of others all her life. “I opened up a consulting business.”
“Let me guess. You're making more money than before,” she said, cracking her gum.
“That wouldn't be too hard. Is Detective Davis around?”
Alice punched a button on the console of her phone, then put the receiver to her ear. “Hey, Shaft, Mr. Tony Valentine in the lobby to see you. Shake a leg.”
“Shaft?” Valentine said.
Alice smiled. “That's what I call him. He looks just like the actor who played Shaft. Real snappy dresser. Handsome, too.”
“You mean Samuel L. Jackson?”
“No,” she said, “the first Shaft. What's his name . . .”
Valentine couldn't remember the actor's name either. Alice's phone lit up. She started punching in buttons and answered the first line. Take care, she mouthed.
He sat on a bench and waited for Davis to come out. Alice had been around a long time. So long that she knew the score. So, when a stylishly dressed African-American appeared in the lobby a minute later, he tried to treat him like anyone else, knowing damn well that only a handful of blacks had ever risen to the rank of detective in Atlantic City.
“The Tony Valentine?” Davis asked.
Valentine smiled, instantly liking him. “That's me.”
“Ed Davis. My friends call me Eddie. I'm guessing you're here about Doyle Flanagan.”
“I am.” He'd
been carrying Doyle's notebook beneath his armpit and handed it over. “Doyle's wife found this. I thought you'd want to have a look.”
Over coffee in the cafeteria, Davis browsed through Doyle's notes. Looking up, he said, “You read this, I suppose.”
“No, I sealed it with Scotch tape and ran over here. Of course I read it.”
Davis's eyebrows rose an inch. “Any idea what this stuff means?”
A cop Valentine knew passed by, and they shook hands. When he was gone, Valentine said, “I was hoping you'd tell me. Your cell number's on the first page.”
Davis dropped the notebook on the linoleum table. “You conducting an investigation of your own?”
“Archie Tanner hired me.”
Davis smiled. “Must be nice, working for yourself.”
Valentine's consulting work paid well, only talking about it made him uncomfortable. He finished his coffee in silence. Davis drummed his fingertips on the table.
“Let me guess,” the detective said. “Five hundred a day, plus expenses.”
Valentine crumpled the Styro cup in his hand. “I was hoping we could share information. If you're not interested, I'll get out of your hair.”
“A grand,” Davis said. “You make a grand a day, don't you? Man, what a life.”
Valentine found his attitude toward the detective changing. What he made was none of Davis's business. He stood up to leave. Davis rose as well.
“You mind my asking you a question?” the detective asked.
“What's that?”
“I heard a story that you once caught a blackjack dealer cheating, only you were standing with your back to him. That true?”
Valentine nodded that it was.
“You got eyes in the back of your head?”
“What do you think?”
Davis scratched his chin. “Then how could you see what he was doing?”
“I didn't.”
“Come again?”
“I didn't see anything,” Valentine told him. “My eyes were closed.”
“Your eyes were closed?” Davis crossed his arms, clearly perplexed.
“I heard it,” Valentine said.
“Heard what?”
“He was dealing a deuce.”
“What's that?”
“He was dealing seconds.”
“The second card from the top?”
Valentine nodded. “A second deal makes a tiny click when it comes off the deck. Even the best card mechanic can't hide it. Whenever I suspect a dealer of dealing seconds, I stand next to his table, close my eyes, and listen.”
Davis smiled. It had obviously been bugging him. He stuck his hand out. Valentine shook it. It was a common trick in police work to wait until the end of a conversation to ask a loaded question, and Valentine took a chance.
“So what was Doyle talking to you about, anyway?”
Davis nearly fell for it, then caught the words as they started to come out of his mouth.
“None of your business,” he replied.
Valentine turned up his collar while walking through the parking lot. Eighteen months in Florida and his blood had already thinned out. Hearing footsteps, he turned to see a guy that bore a striking resemblance to Gerry walking behind him. The guy's clothes were old and dirty, and Valentine watched him walk out of the lot and down the street, hands shoved in his pockets.
Sitting behind the Mercedes' wheel, Valentine felt a wave of guilt sweep over him. Why was he trying to solve everyone else's problems while ignoring Gerry? He needed to help his son, no matter how angry his boy made him.
Then he had an idea.
AT&T had a great service that let him get a phone number from anywhere in the country for fifty cents. A minute later he was laying it on thick to a police sergeant at the police precinct near his son's bar in Brooklyn.
“. . . and the next thing I know, some hood named Big Tony Mollo has taken over my bar and is running things.”
“And this Big Tony is no relation, nor in your employment,” the sergeant said skeptically.
“No, sir,” Valentine replied.
“What is your son's relation to Big Tony?”
“The same as his father's.”
“Your son doesn't know him?”
“No, sir,” Valentine lied.
“Why do you think Big Tony took it upon himself to take over your bar?”
“Beats me.”
“You said you were a retired cop?”
Valentine gave him his credentials. He heard the sergeant's fingers tapping away on a computer keyboard, checking him out.
“Here you are,” the sergeant said. “Thirty years on the force. Two citations for bravery. I'm impressed.”
“Just doing the good Lord's work,” Valentine said.
The sergeant reeled off the name of every cop he'd ever known in Atlantic City. Finally he said a name Valentine knew. They traded stories. Satisfied, the sergeant said, “Okay, Tony, so what would you like done with this unwanted visitor on your property.”
“Get rid of him.”
“You don't want us to press charges?”
“Only if he resists. I have no gripe with this guy.”
“That's very decent of you, Tony,” the sergeant said.
“I'm getting soft in my old age,” Valentine confessed.
9
Honey
According to the scuttle at Doyle's funeral, the bomb that had killed him was pretty fancy. A quarter pound of cyclotrimethylene trinitramine, commonly called RDX, attached to a mercury switch. A trucker inside the McDonald's had likened the explosion to overheating a bag of popcorn in a microwave, with pieces of car flying in every direction.
Because Doyle's cell phone had briefly stayed on, Valentine had assumed it had landed behind a bush or beneath a car. He'd also assumed a cop on the scene would find the phone, and a check would have been run to see whom Doyle was talking to. That would have led to the police's contacting him and grilling him to find out what he and Doyle had been talking about.
Only none of this had happened.
Leaving Atlantic City Metro Police headquarters, he drove to the McDonald's where his partner had died, just to see if the police had forgotten to look someplace obvious.
He parked behind the restaurant. Hard as it was for him to spend money, he was starting to understand how people got attached to these cars. Smooth ride, great seats, an unreal sound system. He needed new wheels. Why not a Mercedes?
He took a walk around the property. It sat on a small parcel of land. There was a handful of trees, the rest of the landscape lunar. He decided he wanted to get on a higher elevation. Going inside, he found a pimply kid mopping floors and stuck a sawbuck in his hand. His name badge said Harold. Valentine whispered in Harold's ear what he wanted.
Harold met him behind the restaurant, ladder in hand. Propping the ladder against the wall, he pointed at his watch. “Sixty seconds. Just like we agreed.”
“Right.”
“The clock's ticking.”
Valentine scampered up the ladder. He walked around the roof edge, and to his surprise, saw a cell phone sitting near an air vent. Picking it up, he rubbed its cold blue steel against his pant leg. The explosion had blown its cover off, but otherwise it appeared intact.
A flicker of silver caught his eye. Out of the snow he plucked a silver dollar–size coin. It looked real, only instead of Eisenhower's profile it was stamped with Archie Tanner's grinning mug. Funny Money.
“Hurry up,” Harold called.
He climbed down the ladder. Reaching the bottom, he shoved the items he'd found on the roof into his pocket.
“What did you find?” Harold asked.
“None of your business.”
“You're not going to split what you found?”
“Why should I?”
“I thought we were partners,” the boy said with righteous indignation.
Valentine looked at him scornfully. Harold had carrot red hair and enough rings on his face t
o hang a shower curtain. A sullen-faced manager came around the corner.
“Harold? What the hell's going on?”
Harold spelled it out to him. Traitor. Walking over to the Mercedes, Valentine got in and drove away.
When you threw in tax and the extra battery the cute salesgirl at the AT&T store talked him into buying, the charger for Doyle's cell phone set Valentine back fifty bucks. It was ridiculous: People were spending a small fortune to do something that only cost a quarter. It was like the four dollar coffee at Starbucks, and ten dollars to see a first-run movie. Someday, everyone would be a millionaire, and a burger would cost a grand.
Sitting in his motel room, he plugged the charger into the wall and Doyle's cell phone lit up in his hand. The salesgirl had thrown in an instruction manual, and he taught himself how to access the phone's memory bank and scrolled through it. It contained six names.
Guy. Sean. Home. Tom. Tony. Honey.
Valentine stared at the last name. Who was Honey? Doyle had never mentioned her. That wasn't like him. Then he had an unsettling thought. Was Doyle seeing someone on the side?
The idea seemed absurd. When it came to women, Doyle was like him: a square. They'd both married their high school sweethearts, both stayed loyal through thick and thin. Only the evidence was staring him in the face.
He pulled a Diet Coke out of a paper bag and popped it. Whoever this woman was, he needed to talk to her. Chances were, she knew something. That was the real reason guys had girlfriends. You could get sex just about anywhere these days. But finding someone to talk to, that was tough.
He retrieved Honey's number and hit Send. After three rings a woman's groggy voice said, “Yes?”
It was nearly two in the afternoon. What kind of woman slept this late? Then he had a bad thought. What if it was someone he knew? Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said, “Is this Honey?”
