by James Swain
“You're saying I should swallow my pride, and admit I got ripped off.”
“Yes,” Valentine said.
“We'll never catch the European then, will we?”
“Once the flyers appear, he'll leave town for sure.”
Archie got up and went to the window. The snow was coming down heavily, making it hard to see. Valentine stared at Archie's reflection in the glass. The casino owner looked worried.
“I'll do it,” he said. “but only if you agree to keep working for me.”
Valentine joined him by the window. “Doing what?”
“Find the European.”
There was real worry in Archie's voice. This scam had cut deep, and not just because six million had flown out the window. It had shown him how vulnerable he was, and Valentine had a feeling that Archie wasn't going to sleep well until the European was out of the picture.
And neither was Valentine.
12
Teacher
So, what you're telling me is, I'm still gainfully employed,” Porter said, eating an inch-thick roast beef sandwich with mayo oozing out of the sides.
“You sure are,” Valentine said.
Porter beamed through a mouthful of red meat. The good news had lifted his spirits, and he swallowed and said, “You know what I was going to do if Archie fired me? Go back into show business. I've got this great new act I've been working on. It's called ‘Why Men Aren't Secretaries.' ”
“Sounds politically incorrect,” Valentine said.
“It is. Here's my opening. This woman comes home, and on the refrigerator finds a note from her husband. It says, ‘Honey, your doctor called, and said Pabst Beer is normal.' ”
Porter slapped his desk, laughing hysterically.
“Keep your day job,” Valentine told him.
Driving away from The Bombay's valet stand, Valentine found Sinatra on the radio and jacked up the volume, remembering when there had always been Sinatra on the radio.
He headed south on Atlantic Avenue. He needed to find the European and guessed he had twenty-four hours before the flyers were distributed in the casino. Several ideas came to mind. But before he got started, he had to get a grip on a few things. The first was that he'd embarrassed himself at The Bombay. He'd spent the last eighteen months in the comfort of his living room, getting paid to watch casino surveillance tapes. His instincts had faded, and he hadn't realized it.
The second was that the European was smarter than him. Twice he'd gotten the best of him, and Valentine had a feeling that the next time they squared off, the European would beat him again.
Which was why he drove straight to Madison and parked in front of Master Yun's School of Judo & Self Defense. If anyone could help him get his head screwed on straight, it was his teacher. Entering the unheated stairwell, he went up.
On the second-floor landing he halted, seeing no light beneath the door. A piece of paper was thumbtacked to the door. Master Yun ill. Classes canceled until further notice.
He trudged downstairs. He'd come here three times a week for the better part of twenty years and couldn't remember Yun ever pulling a sick day. Which meant something was really wrong. They'd always gotten along, and he wondered if his teacher would mind if he showed up at his house unannounced.
He supposed there was only one way to find out.
He'd been to Master Yun's house only once, and that was the night he'd won the New Jersey heavyweight judo championships for a fifth time, and Yun had wanted to show him off to his relatives, a pair of toothless old hens with cackling laughs. The place looked the same—manicured yard, rock garden, shaded windows—and he pushed the doorbell and waited.
Lin Lin, Yun's agelessly beautiful wife, cracked the front door. Her eyes were puffy, and he guessed she'd been napping.
“What do you want?”
“Mrs. Yun, I don't know if you remember me. I was here many years ago . . .”
A look of recognition spread across her face. “Of course I remember you. Tony Valentine. One of my husband's favorite students. Come in.”
He entered and Lin Lin took his coat. She wore a green bathrobe and pink slippers. On the couch a toy poodle cracked an eye, decided he was harmless, and fell back asleep.
“Yun told me you retired, moved to Florida,” she said.
“That's right.”
“You like it there?”
“Can't beat the weather.” He drifted across the living room. On the mantle over the fireplace he spied a curled snapshot of him and Yun at the state championships, the big moment. “I went to the dojo and saw the sign. I figured it must be serious, so I came over.”
“They have judo in Florida?”
He nodded and put the photo back in its place. “Not a dojo like Yun's, but I get a good workout, and that's all I care about.” He turned to face her. “How bad is he?”
Lin Lin flopped down on the couch. “I don't know what I'm going to do. It gets worse each day.” She pointed at a rocking chair across from where she sat. “Please.”
“I know it's none of my business,” he said, the rocker moaning as he sat in it, “but what's wrong with him?”
She sighed heavily. “He stays in bed all day, only gets up to eat, use the bathroom. I tell him, it's no big deal, what this girl has done to you, but he doesn't see it that way. He helped this girl, you know? And she disgraces him. Damn bitch.”
“A student?”
“Yes. One he took off the street, single woman with a kid. Got fired from her casino job. They accused her of cheating. Of course, she said it wasn't so. And she had an abusive boyfriend. Real sob story.”
“Cheating how?”
“Something with the tray.”
“Dumping the tray?”
“I think so.”
Dumping the tray had turned more than one casino into a garage. A dealer would overpay a player, or secretly pass chips to him. If caught, the dealer would pretend it was an honest mistake. It went on constantly.
“Which casino?”
“The Bombay.”
He realized he was getting off track, and said, “So Yun took her under his wing and trained her, huh?”
She nodded. “One day, Yun invites her over. Over dinner, she tells me, ‘Your husband saved my life.' I think, wow, Yun has helped many people, but no one ever says this. It makes me happy all over. Yun too.”
Lin Lin pushed herself off the couch. “I'm being rude. How about a cup of coffee?”
“That would be great.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Black, please.”
She glided past, her feet making no sound. He listened to her grind the beans, then let his eyes drift down the hallway leading to the back of the house. His eyes snapped open.
At the hallway's end stood Yun in his skivvies, his gaze cold and unfriendly. He'd lost weight and looked like a bantam rooster, all skin and bone.
“Hey,” Valentine said.
Yun stared right through him.
“It's me, Tony.”
“I know who you are,” his teacher growled.
Valentine started to get up from the rocker.
“Don't,” Yun told him.
“I was in town, thought I'd drop by, see how—”
“Not interested,” his teacher said.
“I need your help.”
“Doing what?”
“Catching a killer.”
That got his teacher's attention. The scowl momentarily left his face and his voice softened. “I thought you retire.”
“I unretired.”
His teacher considered it. “I let you know.”
Yun went into the bedroom and shut the door. Valentine felt a mug of hot coffee being put into his hands. Sitting on the couch, Lin Lin petted the sleeping poodle, then continued her story.
“Couple weeks ago, Yun hears this woman is really a pro wrestler. He goes to the armory, and she is on the show. Judo Queen. Yun tells me she fights in the uniform he gave her, with the sacred crane
stitched to her bosom.”
“You're kidding me.”
“No. Damn bitch.”
Yun had come to the United States with the shirt on his back and his family's traditions buried deep in his soul. The sacred crane, a symbol of grace and hidden strength, had been in his family for centuries. Only in competition had Valentine worn it on his uniform, and only with Yun's permission.
“Did he talk to her? Ask her to take it off?”
“She told Yun to get lost. ‘Girl's got to make a living,' she says.”
The coffee was scalding hot, just the way he liked it. “You want me to talk to her? I used to be a cop, you know.”
A smile appeared on Lin Lin's face, and Valentine realized it was exactly what she wanted. Finding a pen, she wrote on a notepad, then tore off the paper and handed it to him.
“This is where she practices her judo now.”
He stared at the address. Body Slam School of Professional Wrestling, 1234 Winston. It was a bad part of town, filled with rowdy bars and guys on Harleys who didn't sell stock during the day. “This woman got a name?”
“Kat.”
“I'll make sure I bring a whip and chair.”
They finished their coffee. Then Lin Lin got his coat and walked him to the door. As she opened it, the toy poodle darted through Valentine's legs and disappeared into the bushes.
“Tell Yun I'll be back,” he said.
He was a block away from Yun's house when a Chevy Caprice appeared in his mirror. The Atlantic City Police Department had been buying Chevies for as long as he could remember, and people on the wrong side of the law usually knew when a plainclothes detective was crawling up their behind.
He pulled off the road and parked. The Chevy parked behind him. Valentine hit the button that unlocked the passenger door and watched Detective Davis climb in.
“You're something else,” Davis said.
“I am?”
“You come by the station with Doyle's notebook, I figure you're a friend. Next thing I hear, you're at the McDonald's poking your nose where it doesn't belong. That's an Italian thing, isn't it? Kiss 'em before you fuck them.”
“The manager file a complaint?”
“Sure did. Said you had no right going on his roof.”
“His employee supplied the ladder. Did the manager tell you that?”
Davis glared at him. Angry, he looked almost brutal, his eyes fixed in a vicious gaze.
“Doyle was my best friend,” Valentine explained. “I wanted to see where he died, okay? You don't like that, take a hike.”
“The kid at the McDonald's saw you put something in your pocket. Give it to me, or I'll arrest you.”
Valentine tapped the steering wheel with his fingertips. How long had Davis been a detective? A few years? You never let a suspect empty their own pockets. You cleaned out their pockets yourself. He extracted the Funny Money coin, while leaving Doyle's cell phone. He handed the coin to Davis.
“Huh,” Davis said. “You found this on the roof?”
“That's right,” Valentine said.
“You think it was in Doyle's car?”
“I think Doyle was holding it when he got killed.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Doyle was always playing with money, sort of a nervous tic.”
The detective rolled the coin across his knuckles, showing some skill. He was calming down, and Valentine sensed he was going to let him off the hook. Alice was right; he did look like Shaft from the first version.
“You know the skinny about these coins?” Davis asked him.
Valentine said that he didn't.
“Funny Money has been turning up in cash registers around town. Pizza joints, dry cleaners, bars. The police have been all over Archie Tanner about it. FBI, too.”
“What did Archie say?”
“Archie says if the cashiers are stupid enough to take them, what's he supposed to do?”
Over the years, Valentine had known a lot of people who ran cash businesses. As a rule, they were meticulous about checking the money that went into their tills.
“That doesn't make sense,” he told the detective.
“Tell me about it.” Davis flung open his door and started to get out. Then glanced backward at Valentine. “Keep your nose clean, will you?”
“Sure. Can I give you some advice?”
The detective eyed him warily. “What's that?”
“Lose the Chevy. It's a dead giveaway.”
Davis walked away muttering under his breath.
13
Judo Queen
Richard Roundtree,” Valentine said aloud, remembering the name of the actor who'd played Shaft as he drove away. A good-looking guy and a sharp dresser, at least in the movies. Davis looked a lot like him, although he wasn't nearly as sharp.
The roads had iced up, and he drove cautiously to the Body Slam School of Professional Wrestling, the daylight doing a slow fade in his mirror.
He parked in front of the building and got out. A knot of middle-aged bikers stood around the storefront window. From inside he could hear bodies slamming the canvas, the concussive sound making the glass vibrate. The burly boys in leather shook their heads.
“I'd like to do her,” a ponytailed biker said.
“Do her?” another mocked. “Hell, she'd do you.”
Valentine shouldered his way to the front. The wrestler getting all the attention was a knockout in a black leotard, her braided hair hanging halfway down her sweaty back. She was beautiful in an overwhelming sort of way. Big all over, and proud of it. The ponytailed biker tapped Valentine's shoulder.
“Hey,” he said.
Valentine glanced at him. “Hey yourself.”
“You're blocking the view, old man.”
“Is that Judo Queen?”
“Sure is.”
Through the window, Valentine saw a muscular guy in sweats climb through the ropes. Judo Queen charged across the ring and took him down with a perfectly executed dropkick. The ponytailed biker tapped Valentine's shoulder again.
“Like what you see, old man?”
“She's something else,” Valentine admitted.
The bikers erupted, making barnyard sounds. They were pushing fifty, big-gutted, their lives running out of road. Valentine opened the front door and went in.
The school's interior was sweaty hot. Up in the ring, Judo Queen had her opponent in a hammerlock, a classic submission hold. Wrestling and judo had a lot in common, with cleverness playing as great a role as technique. Laying his overcoat over a metal folding chair, he took a seat.
For the next twenty minutes, he watched Judo Queen practice the gimmicky moves of her trade. He could see why Yun had taken a liking to her. Hard worker, no nonsense, eye-of-the-tiger intensity. Mixed in was a nasty attitude—it was there every time she took her opponent down—and right away he could imagine her hurting someone.
At the session's end, her opponent clapped his hands and said “Go!” Judo Queen ran across the ring, hit the ropes, then sprinted back and rebounded off the other side like a human slingshot. It gave new meaning to conditioning, and after five minutes she staggered to a corner and fell into the ropes.
“See you Monday,” her opponent said.
“Right,” she gasped.
Her opponent climbed through the ropes. Rising, Valentine went to the ring apron. Judo Queen lifted her head.
“Would you believe I pay that guy two hundred bucks a week to go through this?”
“It's sure paying off.”
“Thanks. Those mutts with you?”
Valentine glanced over his shoulder. The bikers were still there, their collective breath fogging the glass.
“No,” he said.
Judo Queen grimaced and stood erect. “I've got a knot in the middle of my back. Know anything about massage?”
“A little.”
“Please. It's killing me.”
He climbed into the ring and got behind her. With his thumbs,
he worked the troubled muscle up and down. Normally, he didn't go around touching strange women, but he had an audience and she'd asked. Seize the moment, seize the day.
“Thanks,” she said. Turning, she stuck out her hand. “Kat Berman.”
“Tony Valentine.”
Her handshake was firm. The Mercedes was visible from the ring, and Valentine had a sneaking suspicion she'd seen him arrive and decided he was someone important.
“So, what can I do for you, Tony?”
“I need to speak to you.”
Kat smiled. “Let me guess. WCW. No, WWF.”
He had to think. Those were the wrestling federations. Kat thought he was a promoter, here to make her dreams come true.
“AARP,” he confessed.
She giggled like a little kid. She didn't seem so nasty anymore, so he let the bomb drop.
“I'm a friend of Yun's.”
Her face turned to stone. “Did he send you?”
“His wife.”
“I've got no argument with the Yuns,” she said, jabbing his arm to make her point. “I offered to pay him for those lessons. Did Lin Lin tell you that?”
“That's not the issue.”
Another jab. “I've got a kid to support. A little girl.”
“Did you have to wear the crane on your uniform?”
“I couldn't afford another one, Mr. Mercedes Benz. When I'm famous, he'll be flattered I've got that stupid bird on my tit.”
“I doubt it.”
Her hand came up to slap his face. Valentine intercepted it, squeezing her wrist and holding it firmly. Outside, the bikers were jumping up and down. One waved a Budweiser can.
“I've taken a thousand body slams and a dozen fat lips to get where I am,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Nobody is going to stop me from succeeding. Understand?”
And with that, Kat pulled her arm free, grabbed his wrist, and turned sideways, getting her weight centered to throw him. She was standing in a corner, which meant she planned to hurl him over the ropes, and into a row of folding chairs.
