by James Swain
“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.
“What's up?” the manager asked, turning down the portable TV on his desk as Valentine came into the office.
Valentine made a sawbuck appear. “I'd like you to call my son's room, tell him there's a package for him out front.”
Pocketing the money, the manager made the call.
“Now call the police,” Valentine said.
The manager scowled. “I don't want no trouble.”
“Then make the call.”
Valentine hid in the snow-covered bushes beside the path. Moments later, a bandaged Joey Mollo strolled past, heading for the manager's office. Stepping onto the path, Valentine kicked Joey's legs out from under him. Joey hit the ground hard. Valentine offered his hand, and as Joey took it, punched him in the face.
He marched down the path. The door to Gerry's room was ajar and he stuck his head in. His son and girlfriend sat in the room's center, roped to a pair of chairs. The Mollos had taped their mouths shut and tied bricks to their feet, like they planned to drown them.
Valentine heard a rustling behind him, then a woman's muffled cry. He turned to see Big Tony holding Kat in a headlock. In his other hand was a bag from Burger King.
“This must be my lucky day,” Big Tony said. “I go to get some lunch, and I find this lovely lady sitting in your car.”
“You need help?” he asked Kat.
“No,” she said through clenched teeth.
She stomped on Big Tony's instep, then slipped free of his headlock. Grabbing the big man's wrist, she give it a twist, and he let out a yelp.
“Hey, lady,” he whined, twisting in agony. “I didn't mean nothing, honest.”
“Really?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
Kat kicked him in the balls. He doubled over, and she brought her knee into his face. Big Tony's eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell onto the frozen lawn with a deadening Whumph!
Valentine entered his son's room, and Little Tony jumped out from his hiding place behind the door. There was something clutched in his hand—a small knife or a blackjack—and as Valentine socked him in the jaw and sent him flying into the bathroom, the weapon fell from his fingers. Valentine picked it up. It was a blue Pez dispenser.
Valentine untied his son and fiancée. Yolanda let out a pitiful sob as the duct tape was pulled from her mouth. Valentine knelt down beside her.
“He touched me,” she whispered.
Valentine stared at her chest. Her blouse was ripped open, her left breast hanging out. The skin looked scratched and raw. “Who did this?” he asked.
She started to cry. Gerry put his arm around her shoulder, and told her everything was going to be all right.
“Who did this?” Valentine demanded.
His son looked at him. He'd been slapped around pretty good, his cheeks puffy and discolored. “It was Big Tony. He fondled her right in front of me.”
Valentine made Gerry open his mouth. His teeth were all there. He and Lois had nearly gone broke having braces put on them. Then he marched outside.
Big Tony was on the lawn on all fours, trying to reconnect with gravity. Kat hovered over him.
“Hey, stupid,” Valentine said.
Big Tony lifted his head and gave him a blank stare, like he couldn't remember who Valentine was. A glimmer of recognition spread across his bovine features.
“What . . . ?” he mumbled.
“Why'd you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Mess with the girl.”
Big Tony spit contemptuously on the ground.
“Because she's a whore,” he said.
Valentine stepped on his hand.
25
Call Me Dad
There were a lot of drawbacks to having a criminal record. In most states, you couldn't get a liquor license or vote in an election. If your crime was serious, you couldn't drive a car or work as a civil servant or sit on a jury or run for office. You became persona non grata, at least to the government.
Another drawback was that you couldn't have a serious conversation with a cop. Having a record meant you were criminal—even if you'd paid your debt to society and had been a model citizen ever since—and that made you an enemy in the eyes of the law.
Which was why his son didn't press charges when the police showed up a short time later. Although Gerry's rap sheet was nothing serious—an arrest for bookmaking, and a bust for marijuana when he was a dopey teenager—it was enough to paint a picture to a streetwise cop that he was no choirboy. Which meant the Mollos would get a chance to present their side of the story, namely that Gerry owed them fifty big ones. And, since New Jersey didn't have a problem with people collecting deb
ts—the casinos went out of state to collect markers all the time—his son might find himself in court.
Standing on the curb to Atlantic Avenue, Valentine watched the Mollos drive away in a black Lincoln, its rear slung low to the ground. Their first stop, he guessed, would be a hospital emergency room. Then back on the prowl. Guys like this didn't learn their lesson; they kept coming back until you did something drastic to stop them.
He stepped into the manager's office. The manager was working on a bottle of Johnny Walker, his eyes riveted to the portable TV on his desk.
“We're at war,” he announced.
Valentine came around the desk. The TV was filled with shotgun-toting FDLE agents inside the Micanopy Indian Reservation Casino. Dead alligators were strewn about, some flopped on felt gaming tables, others belly-up on the roulette wheel, all shot in the head, oozing blood.
“Gators are an endangered species,” the manager said. “Government broke its own damn laws.”
“Did they nab Running Bear?”
“He's still hiding in the swamps.”
Valentine dropped a twenty on the counter. “If those thugs show up again, call my room, will you?”
The manager pocketed the money. “I'll keep an eye out for them. I like the way that girl of yours handles herself.”
Valentine was taken aback. That girl of his? What did the manager think, that Kat was his daughter?
“Me, too,” he replied.
Gerry was pacing his motel room like a caged animal.
“They'll be back,” his son said. “You know that, don't you?”
Valentine sat down on the bed beside Yolanda. She seemed to be doing better, her toughness coming through once the initial shock of being molested had worn off. He took her hand with both of his. “I'm really sorry I was such a flaring jerk this morning.”
She smiled faintly. “You made up for it this afternoon.”
“You going to be okay?”
“I'll live.”
He saw Kat glance at her watch, then make a face and grab her jacket off a chair. “I've got to go pick up my daughter from school. It's been nice meeting you folks.”
Valentine walked her out to the sidewalk in front of the motel. The wind was blowing off the ocean mean and cold, and he draped his overcoat over her shoulders.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“Hey,” he said, “thanks for helping out.”
“You ever been to a wrestling show before?” she asked.
He had, as a kid, and hated every minute of it. The sight of big flabby guys in tights with monikers like Pretty Boy Williams and Mr. Wonderful was so repulsive to his childhood sensibilities that he'd asked his old man to take him home.
“Years ago,” he said.
“Like it?”
“I had a great time.”
“I'm wrestling at the Armory tomorrow night. Show starts at eight. I go on at nine-thirty.”
“I'll be there,” he heard himself say.
A checkered cab turned onto Pacific and he waved it down. Kat handed him his overcoat and got in. She lowered her window, and he knelt down so their faces were inches apart.
“I like the way you fight,” she told him.
She closed her eyes, and Valentine realized she wanted to be kissed. Smooching the same woman for forty-five years had taken some of the thrill out of it, and he let his lips linger longer than he should have. She didn't seem to mind. Standing, he watched the vehicle head north until it had been swallowed up by the city, then headed back to Gerry and Yolanda's room.
His son was putting a hole in the carpet. Valentine shut the door and dead-bolted it, then said, “Something wrong?”
“You're not funny,” Gerry said belligerently. “I asked you to help me, and look what happened. Those bastards are going to kill us. It's just a matter of time.”
“They haven't killed you yet,” Valentine said.
“Aw, for the love of Christ,” his son said, throwing his arms into the air. “I wish I'd never come to you with my problems. You get pleasure seeing me suffer, don't you?”
“No,” his father lied.
Gerry sat down on the bed beside Yolanda. “You could have fooled me,” his son moaned.
“Someday you'll have kids, and you'll understand.”
Gerry looked at Yolanda and both of their faces seemed to melt at the same time.
“No,” Valentine said.
Gerry kissed the top of Yolanda's forehead.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Really?” Valentine said.
They both nodded that it was so.
“How far along?”
“Twelve weeks,” his son said.
“Oh, boy,” Valentine said.
In their faces he saw a pair of lovesick pups, happy about the mistake they'd made. He put his hands on their shoulders and drew them close to him, kissing Yolanda's forehead, then his son's. Gerry looked at his father, smiling.
“Oh, boy,” Valentine said again.
“You've sure been good for business,” Dottie said, refilling their coffee cups.
“It's the service,” Valentine told her.
She cackled like a mother hen and walked away. Gerry resumed telling his father how he'd taken Yolanda for a stroll on the Brooklyn Bridge the previous week. It had started raining cats and dogs, so he'd taken his jacket off and held it over their heads, then popped the big question.
“It was so beautiful,” his fiancée cooed.
Valentine was so damn happy he didn't know what to say. She was a smart, lovely girl with morals and a solid work ethic. What more could he ask for?
“We want to get married soon,” Gerry told him.
“I'll cover it,” his father replied. To Yolanda he said, “You want a big wedding?”
Yolanda wrapped her hand into his son's. “We should talk about this later, when things calm down.”
“Okay,” Valentine said. “Whatever you'd like.”
Out on the street, a low-slung car drove past the restaurant and Valentine watched it pass. He didn't think the Mollos had gone far, and turned to his son. “Not to spoil the party, but would you mind telling me how those guys found you so fast?”
“I screwed up,” Gerry said uncharacteristically.
“No, I screwed up,” Yolanda said. “I told Gerry I wanted to go to The Bombay and play Funny Money. My sister won a car, so I figured maybe lightning will strike twice.”
“The Mollos were there and spotted us,” Gerry explained. “It was all my fault.”
“No, mine,” she said.
They were already sounding like a married couple. Their dinners came. His son had ordered pancakes and sausages. Down south, they came wrapped and were called pigs in blankets. A strange concept to northerners, but one that Valentine found oddly appealing. He watched his son smother his pancakes with maple syrup. He was going to be as big as a house one day if he didn't start watching what he ate. When he had a dripping forkful inches from his mouth, Valentine said, “I know it's been a rough couple of days, but how would you and Yolanda like to do a little detective work for me tomorrow?”
His son put his fork down. “You're kidding, right?”
“Not at all,” Valentine said.
“After what we've just been through?”
“I'm just talking a couple of hours,” he said.
“That's not the point.”
Yolanda put her fork down, and placed her hand on Gerry's arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. His son looked at her. Yolanda whispered something under her breath. Gerry grimaced, trapped.
“Sure,” his son said.
Valentine sipped his coffee, enjoying himself probably more than he should have. Since the day he'd started talking, Gerry had been defying him. With Yolanda in the picture, that was all going to change.
“We'd love to, Mr. Valentine,” Yolanda added.
“Call me Dad,” he told her.
26
Single's Day at
Waldbaum's
The next day was Saturday, and Valentine got up at seven-fifteen, did his exercises, then walked down the block to Burger King and bought coffee and juice and biscuits. Back in the precasino days, there had been a dozen good breakfast spots in this part of town, but now there were only fast-food franchises that pretended to serve breakfast.
He stopped by the manager's office and talked him into lending out the yellow pages, then went to his son's room and tapped on the door. Gerry answered, his eyes half shut, his face puffed up from yesterday's encounter with the Mollo brothers.
“You're serious about this, aren't you?” his son said.
“Yes,” Valentine replied.
“We'll be ready in ten minutes,” Yolanda called from the bathroom.
“She's a wonderful girl,” he told his son.
They ate breakfast while sitting on the bed in Valentine's room. “There's a group of hustlers I'm looking for,” he explained to his son and Yolanda. “I think they've been wiring their winnings out of the country to a crime boss. I want to visit all the Western Union offices in town and see if anyone can identify them.”
“And you want us along for company,” Gerry said sarcastically.
Valentine found the ad for Western Union in the yellow pages and jotted down the addresses of all six branches in Atlantic City. Finished, he looked his son square in the eye. “All my life, people have been pegging me for a cop. Sometimes it helps with investigations, sometimes it doesn't.”
“I still don't understand where we fit in,” Gerry said.
“Your father wants us to help him with the people that it doesn't,” Yolanda explained.
“Boy, she's smart,” Valentine told his son.
With his windshield wipers beating back the snow, Gerry pulled his BMW in front of the Western Union office on the seven hundred block of Indiana and killed the engine. Through the storefront window they could see an ornery-looking woman sitting behind the bullet-proof glass. Gerry said, “I'm not dealing with that one.”
“She looks hostile,” Yolanda said.
“Okay, okay,” Valentine said from the backseat.
