Grift Sense (6 page)

“Because the harder you hit them, the more English you get out of them.”

The chubby lieutenant's name was Pete Longo, and he was a scumbag. Instead of interrogating Nola properly, he'd chosen to haul in her boyfriend and use him to blackmail her. It was the dirtiest trick in the book and the type of thing that had given the Metro Las Vegas Police Department its sordid reputation.

“That's not funny,” Higgins said testily. “Maybe I should sign you up for the cultural diversity class my department's conducting.”

“Fuck cultural diversity,” Longo said. He lit up a cigarette and blew smoke in their direction. He didn't appreciate Higgins's bringing another detective to the interrogation, even though Valentine was retired, and he was intent on showing his displeasure.

“Your humor is offensive,” Higgins said.

Longo inhaled pleasurably on his cigarette. “I'm thinking of dropping charges.”

“Like hell you are,” Higgins snapped.

“You told me this morning she was innocent,” Longo said.

“That was this morning,” Higgins replied.

“Let me get this straight,” the lieutenant said. “This morning you said the GCB wasn't interested in prosecuting Nola Briggs. Now you're telling me to hold her. I don't get it.”

“I changed my mind,” Higgins said. “You got a problem with that?”

Longo chuckled. “You're like that song. Should I stay or should I go? Make up your mind.”

“I just did.”

“But I don't want to press charges,” Longo said stubbornly. “Your case sucks.”

Higgins stood up and stuck his face within inches of the chubby lieutenant's. “Stop jerking me around, Pete. I'm telling you to treat this like any other case of cheating. I'll go directly to the judge if I have to.”

Longo's face turned into one big sneer. In a measured tone, he said, “It's your call, Bill, but let me tell you something. I'm sick and tired of having the likes of Nick Nicocropolis telling us who we should and shouldn't arrest. It's bad enough my people spend their time dealing with crimes the casinos are causing, and not on the street fighting the drug dealers and street gangs that have migrated from L.A. during the past decade. The fact that this case is bullshit doesn't seem to bother you. Well, it bothers me. But, like I said, it's your call, my friend.”

What a nice speech,
Valentine thought. Longo had probably been waiting a long time to get on his soapbox and use it. The problem was, he had no right giving lectures. Judging by the size of his enormous gut, the lieutenant wasn't spending any more time chasing drug dealers than he had to.

“I'm glad we agree on something,” Higgins said.

“Your case
sucks.”
Longo jabbed his thumb at the sobbing lovebirds next door. “It doesn't add up. She rips off the Acropolis, but does she run? No, she goes home, fixes a sub, and watches the Cartoon Network. Am I the only one seeing an incongruity here?”

The blood had risen behind Higgins's tan, giving his face a dark, menacing quality. This was about to turn into a first-class pissing contest, and Valentine found himself wishing he'd checked into his hotel and turned on a ball game or, better yet, taken a nap. Smothering a yawn, he stared at Nola Briggs, who was still crying her heart out. She was really pretty, the kind of girl that got the little mouse on the treadmill going. He glanced at the clock hanging over them; her boyfriend had come into the room more than ten minutes earlier.

Fishing two shiny pennies from his pocket, Valentine tossed them to the floor. Longo looked at him like he wanted to bite his head off.
“What?”
the detective snarled.

“I want to say something.”

“So say it.”

“I just had an epiphany,” Valentine announced.

“A
what?
” Longo said.

“A vision; a moment of truth.”

“And you just had one,” the lieutenant snarled.

“That's correct.”

“Well, please share your epiphany with us.”

“Nola is guilty as sin,” he said.

Longo threw his arms in the air. “How can you know that, sitting there?”

Valentine got up and went to the mirror, eyeing Nola through the tinted glass. She was still bawling like a kid who'd lost her lunch money. He pointed at her.

“This isn't how innocent people act,” he explained. “Look at the predicament she's in. Anyone else would be screaming for a lawyer. Not her. She just sits there, knowing we're watching, proclaiming her innocence.
Who cares what we think?
Telling the police she's innocent won't change her situation one bit. She's trying to convert us. Innocent people never do that.”

Truth was the great elixir. The anger disappeared from Higgins's and Longo's faces.

“For argument's sake, let's say you're right,” Longo said, the rancor gone from his voice. “You think the tapes are enough to convict her?”

“Probably not,” Valentine said.

“Then I have to drop charges.”

“Not right away. If I were you, I'd ask a judge to post a reasonable bail. Let her walk and put a tail on her. Fontaine will eventually show his face.”

“You seem pretty certain about this,” Longo said.

“I'd bet my reputation on it,” Valentine replied.

Longo scratched the top of his balding crown. Officers of the law could be led to water but never made to drink. The lieutenant glanced at Higgins and said, “You agree?”

“If Tony says she's guilty, she's guilty,” Higgins said. “I think it's a darn good idea.”

Longo snorted contemptuously. “Two minutes ago, you were telling me to hold her. I hope you know what you're doing.”

Higgins slapped Longo on the arm. The blow did not make a friendly sound. “I do. I want her watched twenty-four hours a day. Anything suspicious, call me. Think you can handle that between drug busts?”

Longo's face reddened; he knew Higgins was going to make him regret his little speech for a long time.

“Sure thing,” the chubby lieutenant said.

6

T
he Acropolis was just as Valentine remembered it—an old-fashioned gambling joint with a silly motif that had endeared itself to enough old-timers to keep it afloat. It had nothing to recommend it over the new kids on the block except lots of character, and that didn't count for much these days.

It was after three when he checked in and found two messages awaiting him at the front desk. He read the first while riding the elevator to the fourth floor, his nose twitching at the fifty-year-old bellman's repugnant cologne. It was from Wily, and his chicken scratch had not improved. From what he could make out, the pit boss wanted him to touch base once he'd gotten settled, and he had left his pager number.

The elevator doors parted and he followed the bellman down a twisting hallway with as many turns as a carnival fun house. His room was adjacent to the service elevators, and as the bellman unlocked the door, Valentine peered over his shoulder into a depressingly dark space with as much charm as a cave.

Valentine parted the blinds as the bellman described the amenities. He had a wonderful view of a gray concrete wall.

“Where's the toilet?” he inquired.

“You're in it,” the bellman replied.

“What are you, a comedian?”

“Right,” the bellman said. “I carry bags for exercise.”

He was funny in a pathetic way, so Valentine tossed him a five-dollar bill. The bellman stuffed it into his vest without a hint of gratitude. After chaining the door, Valentine peeled off his clothes and took a shower.

There was a special ugly to Las Vegas, and his bathroom was a monument to it. Neon blue walls clashed with a urine-colored sink and john, the moldy shower curtain a map of ancient Greece. After a few minutes, the hot water ran out and he found himself dancing under the bone-chilling spray. Getting out, he heard the phone.

He took his time getting dressed. Being retired had its privileges; not hurrying was certainly one of them. When he went into the bedroom, the message light on the phone on the bedside table was blinking like a beacon on a stormy night. He sat down on the rock-hard bed and dialed voice mail. An automated voice greeted him and soon he was listening to his message.

“Hi, Tony. It's Mabel. Glad to see you made it in one piece! I know how you hate flying. Listen—Gerry came by earlier, and he was hopping mad when I told him you'd flown the coop. I guess he had a big weekend planned with his father. . . . Anyway, to make a long story short, I'm going to the ball game with your son this afternoon. He was going to scalp the tickets, and I said hey, I'm great company. So we're going. I hope you don't mind.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Valentine muttered. Gerry and Mabel on a date. The thought made him shudder.

“I like your son, I really do,” she went on, as if anticipating his reaction. “I know he's put you through a lot of grief, but I just can't be mean to him. I hope you understand.”

“Not really,” he said.

“Anyway, the real reason I called is, I'm going to scrap the ‘die broke' ad. You were right—it doesn't work. I mean, it's clever, but so are most five-year-olds. The good news is, I've come up with something really funny. By the time you get this message, I'll have faxed it to the hotel, so if you don't mind, I'd like you to take a look at it and give me a call. I'll be waiting by the phone. Ta ta.”

Valentine hung up remembering the time he'd tried to take Gerry to see the Yankees in the play-offs only to have his son say no and go off with his dope-smoking friends. It had been some of the bitterest rejection he'd ever tasted. What goes around comes around, he supposed.

He felt the room tremble as the service elevator docked next door. Two Mexican chambermaids got out, chattering loudly as they pushed a squeaky laundry cart down the hall. He could hear every syllable. The phone rang again.

“Mr. Valentine, this is Roxanne at the front desk,” a friendly female voice said. “I have a fax for you.”

“I'll be right down,” he said. “And Roxanne, I need to be put into a new room.”

“New room?” She sounded offended. “What's wrong with the room you're in?”

He lowered his voice. “I found a body under the bed.”

“A body?”

“Yeah. I think it's Jimmy Hoffa.”

“Well,” she said, her fingers tapping a computer keyboard, “let me see what I can do.”

On the long walk back to the elevator Valentine took stock of the carpet's muted orange and red checkerboard design. He'd read several studies conducted by casinos to quantify the effects of really bad carpet. The goal was to find out which patterns were so upsetting to the human eye that it actually coaxed a customer into looking up from the floor and into the eyes of a dealer or gleaming slot machine. The idea was to trigger impulse play. No one had ever determined if it really worked.

On the way down, he remembered the second message in his pocket, and he unfolded the fax that had been given to him when he'd checked in.

Valentine,

You old fuck.

Take some advice from a friend and stay retired.

No job is worth dying over, is it, pal?

“What the hell,” he said aloud.

The elevator doors parted, but Valentine did not get out. Over the years, he'd been threatened by several hustlers, and a couple had actually tried to do him harm. The doors closed and the elevator rose on its own accord.

Soon he was back on the fourth floor. He punched the Lobby button and again descended, then read the fax again. Whoever had sent it knew him well enough to know he was retired. Had Bill's snitch told everyone in town he was visiting? Or had someone he'd once busted in Atlantic City spotted him at the airport and overheard his curbside conversation with Bill? Whatever the answer, he was going to have to stay on his toes or risk going home in cargo instead of first class.

To reach the front desk, Valentine had to pass through the casino, and he stopped briefly to get the lay of the land. The casino floor was designed like a hub of a wheel, with the gaming tables and slots in the center of the wheel, and all other destinations flowing from that center. A person couldn't get anywhere inside the Acropolis without passing through the wheel, and, it was hoped, dropping a few dollars. Twenty-five years earlier, every casino in Las Vegas had been designed this way. He suspected that today, the number was less than a handful.

Roxanne awaited him at the front desk. She was a vivacious gum-chewing redhead with muted brown eyes, his favorite kind of girl. She pegged him right away and said, “I thought Jimmy Hoffa was buried in Giants Stadium.”

“That's Walt Disney,” he said.

“I thought Walt Disney was being kept in a refrigerator down in Orlando.”

“That's Adolf Hitler.”

She slid the fax across the marble counter.

“You're a real piece of work, you know that?”

Valentine grinned. “Where're you from?”

“I was raised in New Jersey. I came out here five years ago.”

“I'm a Jersey kid, too. You mind the heat here?”

“It's okay so long as you don't wear any clothes.”

Valentine's eyes grew wide and she grinned. He sensed that she was enjoying this as much as he was. How many years separated them? At least thirty. It was nice to see he could still ignite a spark, however brief.

“You in for a convention?” she asked.

“I'm doing some work for the casino.”

“You don't say.”

“Listen, I need to ask you a favor. If my son calls, could you tell him I checked out?”

Roxanne raised an eyebrow. Her pleasant tone vanished. “You don't talk to your own son?”

“No,” he said, “and neither should you.”

“And why's that? He murder someone?”

“It's nothing like that.”

“If he didn't murder someone, why can't you get over it?”

It was Jersey logic if he'd ever heard it. There would be no winning with this young lady, so he retreated from the front desk. Frowning, she went to wait on another customer, casting him an evil eye as he hurried away.

He slipped into the lobby bar for some privacy. It was called Nick's Place and was cozy dark. The bartender stood behind his empty bar polishing a highball glass. He looked about Valentine's age, rail thin and silver-haired, and did not get annoyed when Valentine ordered a glass of water with a twist of lemon.

“Sparkling or Evian?” he inquired politely.

“Tap, if you have it.”

The bartender treated it like any other drink, setting the glass on a coaster and sliding it toward him. It was the first classy thing Valentine had seen anyone in the Acropolis do, so he tipped the man two bucks.

He unfolded Mabel's fax on the bar. Why had Roxanne assumed that he should be civil to Gerry? What gave her that right? Sipping his drink, he perused Mabel's latest assault on the funny bone.

Tired of the same old grind?

Enroll today in Grandma Mabel's school for begging. Become a pro. Special classes for TV evangelists and career politicians. Learn the pitch and never work again.

Mabel Struck

President Emeritus

813/PAN-HAND

Valentine grit his teeth. What was Mabel doing? This wasn't funny at all. The ad had
Gerry
written all over it. In the smoky mirror behind the bar, he saw a meaty-faced palooka sauntering toward him. He was too soft-looking to be a mobster. As he slid onto the adjacent stool, Valentine said, “You must be Wily.”

“That's me,” the pit boss said, rapping his knuckles on the bar. “Roxanne said I might find you in here.”

“She's some girl.”

Wily ordered a bourbon and water. Under his breath, he said, “She's got a thing for older guys, if you hadn't noticed.”

“Now that you mention it,” Valentine said, “I was wondering what she was doing in my room.”

Wily guffawed like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard.

“I'll use that one,” the pit boss said.

His drink came. Valentine told him about being picked up by Bill Higgins at the airport and seeing Nola interrogated. Then he explained his theory of why he believed Nola was involved in the scam. Behind Wily's muddy cow eyes, he saw a flicker of something resembling intelligence.

“Sammy Mann said the same thing,” Wily said. “He thinks she's guilty as hell. To tell you the truth, I didn't spot it right away, and I know this girl very well.”

“Sammy Mann's living out here?” Valentine said, the threatening fax still in his thoughts.

“Sammy Mann is head of the casino's surveillance. He's my boss.”

Valentine nearly spit water through his nose.

“He got religion,” Wily explained. “He's one of us.”

“Did he tell you I busted him once?”

“Sure did. Said he beat the rap.”

“My ass, he beat the rap. He'd still be in prison if he hadn't paid off the judge.”

That really got Wily laughing. “Sammy bribed a judge? Oh boy, that's really good.”

Their talk drifted back to work. Wily pounded the bourbons in an attempt to keep up with Valentine's need to quench an insatiable thirst he'd had since stepping off the plane. Soon the pit boss's face resembled a big red blister.

“Sammy thinks this weasel Fontaine set Nola up,” Wily said, his tongue thickened by the booze. “Sammy thinks it was all a smoke screen. He thinks Fontaine had something else in mind.”

“Like what?”

“A big score.”

“Fifty grand is a big score.”

“Not anymore,” Wily said, eyeing something floating in his drink. He fished it out with a spoon. “Of all the joints in town, he picked ours. There has to be a reason.”

“And you want me to find out what that is.”

“And him, if you can.”

“That's a tall order.”

“If it's any help, we think he's still in town.”

“Bill Higgins tell you that?”

“Uh-huh.”

According to a billboard Valentine had seen at the airport, the population of the Las Vegas metropolitan region was hovering at just over one million. As big cities went, that wasn't very big at all. With Nola out of jail and the police watching her, Fontaine was sure to show up sooner or later, and Longo's men would nab him. It was a no-brainer.

“Double my fee if he gets caught?”

Wily was too polluted to think it through. Normally, Valentine didn't take advantage of drunks, but this one had comped him the worst fucking room in the house. Raised a Catholic, he believed in making amends, the sooner the better.

“Sounds good to me,” the pit boss declared.