Grift Sense (24 page)

The line inched ahead. As if by magic, the big board turned into a digital TV screen. Holyfield and the Animal were in the ring being introduced by the announcer. When the announcer was done, a bloated Wayne Newton look-alike belted out the national anthem. Reaching the betting cages, Valentine saw that the singer
was
Wayne Newton.

He threw his money down. “Holyfield in five.”

“You're in the minority on that one,” the man in the cage informed him.

“Keep it that way.”

Valentine shoved the ticket into his pocket and felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Nick, and his face was flushed.

“Wily just called. He just spoke to Nola,” Nick said excitedly.

“Where is she?”

“Hiding out on the west side of town. She escaped from Fontaine.”

“Did Wily call the police?”

“No. I want to talk to her first.”

“Nick,” Valentine said. “Call the police.”

“I've got to talk to her,” Nick insisted. “Come on.”

They jogged through Caesars to the front doors. All gambling had stopped and all eyes were glued to the giant-screen TVs that had been erected throughout the casino. The fight was less than a minute old and Holyfield had already eaten a punch and was lying flat on his back. The Animal stood in a neutral corner, taunting him. The champ staggered to his feet on the count of eight.

“There goes my hard-earned dough,” Nick lamented. “Come on Evander, you lousy bum!”

Valentine found himself thinking the same thing and realized he was more concerned about his C-note than Holyfield's health. He took the bet ticket from his pocket and tore it into pieces. They left the casino and got into Nick's golf cart.

“You've got to call the police,” Valentine said as Nick sped them up the Strip.

“No, I don't,” Nick replied.

“Nola's a fugitive. Knowing where she's hiding makes you an accomplice. That's a felony.”

Nick gave him a sideways glance.

“You, too,” Nick said.

“You want me to make the call?”

“No,” Nick said. He raced to the entrance to the Acropolis, where the harem of his ex-wives glowed eerily beneath amber spotlights. “Look—I want to apologize to her like a gentleman. You think Longo will let me do that?”

Valentine wanted to say yes, but knew he'd be telling a lie. Sympathy was for doctors and the clergy, not the police.

“No,” he said.

“I just want five minutes with her,” Nick said. “That's all.”

“Just five minutes?”

“That's all.”

“Is that a promise?” Valentine said skeptically.

“On my mother's grave,” Nick swore.

25

N
ola was holed up at the Lucky Boy, a motel on the west side of town. Las Vegas got progressively worse the farther you strayed from the Strip, and the Lucky Boy was a wrecking ball away from being turned into a parking lot, the broken neon sign spelling something slightly obscene. Nick parked his Caddy in the motel's deserted lot and killed the headlights. For a long moment, neither man cared to speak.

“I still think you should call the police,” Valentine said.

“Fuck the police.”

“What if there's trouble?”

Reaching across Valentine's lap, Nick opened the glove compartment and removed a pearl-handled .38 that looked like a novelty-store item.

“Put that thing away before you hurt yourself,” Valentine said.

“I'm not going in there unprotected,” Nick said, slipping the piece under his belt. “Anything else on your mind?”

“Yeah,” Valentine said. “You'd better call Wily.”

Nick wiped his face on his sleeve. Twenty seconds without AC and the car was already an oven. “What for?”

“Tell him to put everyone on alert.”

“Why?”

Valentine stared at him in the dark. Why couldn't Nick see it? Or was it one of those things that was so obvious it somehow became invisible? “Because the last act of Frank Fontaine and Nola Briggs is about to start.”

“You think I'm about to get ripped off?”

“I sure do.”

Sweat poured off Nick's nose. “How can you be sure?”

“I can feel it in my bones,” Valentine said.

“What are you, psychic?”

“For this kind of thing, yes.”

Nick made the call. Valentine played with the radio and found the news. A loudmouthed announcer was reading the sporting news. The fight was still on and Holyfield was getting the living daylights beat out of him. At the end of the fourth round, he'd eaten another vicious right and taken a breather on one knee. The champ sounded finished.

They got out of the Caddy. A nasty wind blew invisible grains of sand in their faces. Blinded, Valentine rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. He'd take Florida's blood-sucking mosquitos any day. Nick banged loudly on the peeling red door of 66-A.

“Who's there?” a woman's voice said meekly.

“Guess,” Nick said.

The door opened and a sliver of yellow light leaked out from within.

“Hey, Nick,” Nola whispered.

They slipped into the room. The accommodations were the kind you rented by the hour, with a waterbed and a TV bolted to the floor that took coins and showed porno. Valentine checked the bathroom, then went to the window and lifted a blind with one finger. In a loud voice, he said, “Mind telling us how you got here?”

Nola stared at him blankly. She sat on the bed with Nick, holding hands. If Valentine didn't know better, he would have sworn they'd just gotten married.

“You didn't walk here,” Valentine said accusingly. “Did you?”

“Leave her alone,” Nick said.

“Why should I?”

“Because somebody beat her up, that's why.”

Valentine got down on one knee to have a look at her. She'd been worked over by a pro. Her eyes were blackened, her nostrils were bloodied, and her lower lip sported a little purple pig. Ugly, but nothing disfiguring: no teeth gone, the pretty little nose intact. To Nick, he said, “I hope you're not buying this little charade.”

Nick blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Somebody did this with some oranges stuffed into a nylon stocking,” Valentine explained. “It's an old trick, causes lots of bruises.” To Nola he said, “Didn't they?”

Nola stifled a pathetic little sob. Nick put his arm around her, shielding her from Valentine's accusation.

“Tony, you're a real asshole,” Nick said.

Valentine's face grew hot. He stood up and pointed a finger at Nick. “Five minutes, like we agreed.”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “Five minutes.”

“I'm calling the cops in five.”

“Five minutes,” Nick repeated. “Now just get the hell out, okay?”

“Sure.”

Valentine went to the door. He'd done what he'd been hired to do. Now it was time to extricate himself from Nick's crazy world and go back to his own. His son needed him, and so did Mabel. And he desperately needed them. He opened the door and stepped outside.

The loudmouthed announcer had said that Holyfield had taken more punishment tonight than most boxers endure in a lifetime, but none of the blows that had bounced off the champ's skull were as unexpected as the one that awaited Valentine in the parking lot. It snapped his head straight back and he took a few wobbly steps backward. Then he collapsed in the open doorway of room 66-A.

His eyes snapped open to the sound of Nola's screams, followed by the unmistakable bark of Nick's toy .38. A punch followed, bone hitting bone. Nola's screams stopped and were replaced by the sound of someone choking the life out of her. Clutching the doorsill, Valentine tried to move his fingers and found them frozen in a spastic claw. Slowly he pushed himself off the floor and staggered back into the room.

Little Hands stood over the bed, holding Nola by the throat.

“Where's Fontaine?” he demanded.

“I . . . don't . . . know,” she gasped.

“Like hell you don't.”

Nick had wrapped his arms around Little Hands's massive leg and was biting him. Little Hands swatted him away like a flea.

“Help us,” Nick begged.

Valentine wasn't sure he knew how. Judo was great if someone was attacking you but offered little offense of its own. And Little Hands was a pro and not likely to let Valentine get the jump on him. The best he could try for was getting Little Hands outside, in the hope that someone would pass by and come to their aid.

Stepping forward, Valentine kicked Little Hands in the rump. It was like kicking a piece of rock. Little Hands glared murderously at him.

“You're next,” he said to Valentine, while putting the squeeze on Nola.

Valentine kicked him again.

“I'm going to mutilate you, old man.”

Valentine's instincts told him to run—only, Nola's face was turning blue, her time running out. He tried another approach.

“Felix Underman said your mother got drunk and screwed a dwarf,” Valentine said. “Is it true?”

Little Hands dropped Nola on the bed, the demented look on his face suggesting Valentine had pushed all the wrong buttons. He rushed forward, screaming like a banshee, and Nick pulled the rug out from under him. Little Hands fell forward, catching himself on the TV.

The force of his body turned the TV on and porno filled the screen. A naked woman was on a bed with a black guy, who for some reason wore a sombrero. Their screwing bordered on violence, and it seemed to make Little Hands go crazy. He made another mad-bull charge at Valentine.

Most contract killers are proficient in the martial arts, but whatever training Little Hands had went out the window. Valentine grabbed the collars of his open shirt and threw him sideways into the wall. Then he elbowed Little Hands in the face. He heard cartilage break, and Little Hands sank to the floor.

Valentine retrieved Nick's .38 and aimed it at Little Hands. The giant man rolled over, his face sheeted with blood, and pointed at the TV just as the guy with the sombrero started to climax.

“Turn the TV off,” he cried.
“Please, turn it off!”

Valentine had never seen a guy lose his marbles over dirty movies. Maybe in prison, the state could get a psychiatrist to drill a hole in Little Hand's head and find out what was wrong with him.

“How did you find us?” Valentine said.

“Turn it off!”

Nola, who'd been lying motionless on the bed, rose and went to the TV. Finding no knobs, she said, “I can't turn it off.”

“Kick it,” Valentine told her.

She did and the screen slowly faded, the sombrero vanishing like a sunset. Valentine turned to Little Hands and said, “You got your wish.”

“Mr. Underman called me,” he whimpered, a disturbed little man lurking beneath his tough-guy surface slowly emerging. “I went to Caesars and saw you leave. I took a chance you were on to Fontaine and I followed you here.”

“Anybody with you?”

Little Hands shook his head. “I work solo.”

The TV came back on. Same woman, new guy, real small, almost a midget except for his organ. Little Hands covered his face, screaming like he was being stuck with a knife.

“Jesus Christ,” Nick muttered. “What should we do?”

Valentine backed out of the room. As long as the porno was on, he didn't think Little Hands was a threat to anyone.

“Call 911,” Valentine said. “Let the cops deal with him.”

The longer Valentine was retired, the more he understood why people hated the police. All of the sterotypes were unfortunately true, especially the one about a cop never being there when you needed one. Nick, sitting in the back of the Caddy with Nola, dialed 911 on his cell phone for the third time.

“The dispatcher says every cop on duty is at Caesars,” Nick said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. “Some kind of riot.”

“Any idea how long it's going to take?”

Nick asked the dispatcher, then reported, “She says a half hour, maybe longer.”

“What happened?”

“She doesn't know.”

Valentine turned on the radio. The loudmouthed announcer was back, talking by phone to a reporter at Caesars. Loudmouth said, “Can you tell us what happened that led to the melee between corners?”

The other reporter said, “In round five, Holyfield got his act together and started to use his jab. He opened up a cut over the Animal's left eye. The Animal got frustrated and took a shot at Holyfield after the bell. Holyfield retaliated with a short uppercut. I was a few rows back and heard the punch land. The Animal had been warned for fouling, and I think the last one got Holyfield really angry.”

Loudmouth said, “Did the melee start then?”

The other reporter replied, “No, it happened when the Animal couldn't continue and the ref declared Holyfield the winner. Then the corners started to tango.”

Loudmouth said, “And the fight spilled into the crowd.” To which the other man said, “Like a brush fire.”

“Holyfield won,” Nick said gleefully. “We win!”

Valentine groaned. He'd torn up a ticket worth three grand. That would teach him to gamble.

Nick's cell phone rang. It was Wily. Nick listened intently, then killed the power.

“Wily's shitting in his pants,” the little Greek said. “He's got three big hitters doing a number on us, and he thinks one is Fontaine. I gotta get back to my casino.”

“We can't leave Little Hands,” Valentine said.

“Then do whatever you gotta do,” Nick said.

Valentine went back to 66-A and poked his head in the door. Little Hands was on the bed. The porno was still on and every moan of pleasure was driving him that much closer to insanity. Valentine silently shut the door. Then he had an idea.

His eyes swept the near-empty lot and settled on a bloodred Mustang with a souped-up engine, the bumpers adorned with stickers from Gold's Gym. He smashed the driver's window with a rock, then got in behind the wheel. The ashtray was filled with inhalers. This was definitely the right car.

Intent on disabling the engine, Valentine pulled the lever that popped the hood, then noticed a suitcase sitting on the passenger's seat. He popped the clasps and let out a whistle. It was full of the stuff dreams are made of.

Back in the Caddy, Valentine tossed Nick his fifty grand.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Nola didn't say much during the ride back to the Acropolis. Laying her head on Nick's lap, she cried softly most of the way, the perfect image of the damsel in distress. She was pretty in a way that none of Nick's other wives were pretty, her looks pure and clean. Valentine wanted to ask her which of the three guys beating the Acropolis was Fontaine, but he decided to wait until they got inside, where he could get her under a bright light and look into her eyes while she answered his questions.

Valentine pulled up to the Acropolis's entrance and a valet ran out to assist them. Nick made him get a wheelchair, and they rolled Nola inside.

The casino was jammed, the action at the tables out of control. Guys in T-shirts and rundown Nikes were betting like high rollers. Tens of thousands of dollars were flowing back and forth on every roll of the dice. It was pure madness, and every single player was involved.
Holyfield beat the odds,
the collective reasoning seemed to be saying,
so why can't we?

They took the service elevator to the surveillance control room, where a different brand of insanity was going on. Five men were working the master console, each talking frantically into a walkie-talkie in an effort to track the frantic play below.

They found Wily standing in front of the wall of monitors. He'd removed his tie and was nervously gulping coffee.

“Hey, boss,” he muttered.

“Who's ripping me off?” Nick demanded.

Wily pointed at a screen to his left. “Suspect number one. Australian named Martini. Was staying at the Mirage. He somehow got thirty hookers into his suite. He made them strip and do a lineup, three hundred apiece. The ones he liked, he asked to stay. Management tossed him.”

“And you took him in,” Nick said.

“His money's as green as anyone else's.”

Valentine stared at the black-and-white monitor. Martini had a shaved head and rings in each ear. He also had a big nose and an overbite. He was playing blackjack and winning big.

“How much we into him for?” Nick asked.

“Sixty grand.” Wily pointed at a screen to his right. “Suspect number two, Joey Joseph, calls himself the pizza king of L.A. He demanded we lift the table limit and then started beating us into the ground.”

Grimacing, Nick said, “How much?”

“He just hit a hundred grand,” Wily said. “He's a wild man. I tried to talk to him, and he told me to get lost.”

Valentine went and stared at Joey Joseph. The pizza king wore Coke-bottle glasses and a cheap wig. He had a cleft in his chin like Fontaine, and there was something familiar about the way he banged his fist on the table.