Funny Money (10 page)

17

Sparky

V
alentine parked the Mercedes in the narrow alley beside Sparky Rhodes's house, then stood on his porch and rapped three times on Sparky's front door. Moments later he was standing inside the darkened foyer, looking down at the paralyzed cop in his wheelchair.

“I lost the Glock,” he explained.

Sparky scratched the day-old stubble on his chin. He wore a flannel bathrobe and had bread crumbs on his chest. Tucked into the belt of his robe was his trusty .38. Valentine could not remember ever seeing him without it.

“You want another gun?”

“Yes.”

“This one's gonna cost you,” Sparky informed him.

“I brought cash.”

“Good.” Sparky turned the wheelchair around and headed toward the kitchen. “Because I don't take credit cards anymore.”

His hoarse laughter filled the dreary house. He wheeled himself down the hall, zigzagging to avoid a pile of trash in his way. His wife had split after he'd been shot, and Valentine didn't think he'd had the place cleaned since.

They went into the kitchen. On the table sat the remains of lunch: a half-eaten baloney sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a long-necked bottle of Budweiser. Stopping at the table, Sparky took the sandwich and shoved it into his mouth, chewed a few times, then washed it down with beer.

“What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking of a .38,” Valentine said. “Something dependable. Like the gun you carry.”

Sparky drew the .38 from his robe and kissed the barrel. “Smith and Wesson makes a lot of guns, but none finer than this baby.” He then proceeded to tell Valentine about the time he'd shot a fourteen-year-old black kid breaking into his house. The district attorney had wanted to prosecute but eventually dropped charges. Because it was a black kid that had shot
him,
Sparky had seen the act as vindication.

“You understand what I'm saying?” Sparky said.

Valentine didn't. But he didn't say so.

“Can I see it?”

Sparky handed him the .38. Valentine examined it, then put the gun on the counter, out of Sparky's reach.

Sparky stared at him. “What the fuck you doing?”

“I have a question to ask you.”

The paralyzed ex-cop pursed his lips.

“Why'd you tell Frank Porter that you gave me a hot gun.”

“I didn't tell Porter nothing.”

“That's a lie,” Valentine said.

“Fuck it is.”

“Frank got grilled by two detectives this morning, and he coughed up that I was carrying an illegal piece. I didn't tell Frank, so it must have been you.”

Sparky started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut. Valentine leaned against the counter and waited him out. Behind Sparky's cow-brown eyes he could see the gears shifting. Sparky picked up his beer and polished it off.

“Well,” the paralyzed cop said, “it's like this.”

And then he threw the bottle at Valentine's head.

Valentine had just enough time to duck, the bottle hitting the cabinet behind him and shattering. Sparky spun around in his wheelchair and bolted for the hall. Stopping at the door leading to the basement, he jerked the door open and shot down the ramp. Valentine grabbed the .38 and ran after him.

He heard a cat scream, followed by Sparky letting out a scream of his own. Then a loud crash. Reaching the stairwell, he flipped on the basement light.

Sparky lay on his back, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. His wheelchair lay beside him, both wheels spinning. Clinging to his bathrobe was a terrified black cat.

Valentine ran down the stairs. The cat cowered in a corner, hissing.

“Sparky? You okay?”

He put his ear next to Sparky's mouth. The paralyzed cop's breathing was shallow. “I . . .”

“What?”

“I'm . . . sorry.”

“About what?”

“You know . . .”

“Tell me.”

“Doyle . . .”

Sparky's breathing grew faint and his eyes closed, and then he wasn't breathing at all.

“Oh, Jesus,” Valentine whispered.

         

Valentine tried to think.

The smart move was to run. That was what crooks did in tight situations.
Run.
That was his best option. Only he'd left his fingerprints all over the house.

Going back upstairs, he laid his overcoat and scarf on the kitchen table, got a dishrag from the sink, and went around the house rubbing down anything he might have touched. Then he did the same in the basement. Climbing up the ramp, he turned out the light and left the door ajar.

Finding the cat's bowl, he filled it with dry cat food, then filled another bowl with water and put it on the floor. Tomorrow, he would make an anonymous phone call to the police and ask them to let the cat out.

He started to open the front door as mail came through the slot. He went to the living room window and saw the mailman walk down the path. A woman in curlers was standing on the sidewalk. They started to chat. He took a seat by the door.

Then he played back what had happened.

And got nowhere.

It didn't make sense. He'd known Sparky a long time. All he'd wanted was a straight answer.

He kicked Sparky's mail with his foot. It scattered across the floor. Bills, flyers, and something from the IRS. He picked up the IRS letter by its corners and peered through the plastic window. The words
Final Notice
popped out.

The letter struck him as odd. Sparky was broke. So why was the IRS breathing down his neck?

He boiled water on the kitchen stove and steamed the envelope open, then used a fork to remove the letter. His eyes ran down the page. Sparky had made two ten-thousand-dollar deposits into his account, which his bank had reported to the IRS, as it was required by law to do. The IRS was now holding the money, and demanding an explanation of its origin.

Valentine put the letter down. Where the hell had Sparky gotten twenty grand?

He found a pair of rubber gloves beneath the sink, put them on, and searched the house. Sparky's bedroom was behind the kitchen, and he checked all the places the paralyzed cop could reach. On the bottom of the dirty clothes hamper he hit pay dirt and removed a shoe box wrapped in rubber bands.

The box was heavy. Opening the lid, he stared at the stacks of brand new hundred-dollar bills. He dumped them onto the bed. He used to be good at counting money at a glance and guessed the box contained thirty grand. He counted it just to be sure.

Thirty grand on the nose.

He sat down on the bed, his head spinning. Had Sparky made the money selling hot guns? It was the only logical answer he could think of. The phone on the night table rang and he nearly jumped out of his skin. On the fourth ring the answering machine picked up.

“I'm not here,” Sparky's recorded voice said gruffly. “Friends can leave a message. Everyone else, go to hell.”

“Sarge,” a woman's voice rang out. “You there? Pick up. I need to talk to you.”

The woman hung up. Valentine stared at the phone. Who the hell was Sarge?

He searched the other drawers in Sparky's dresser, and in the bottom one found a framed photograph taken during Desert Storm. Sparky stood in the back row with his regiment, looking sharp in his army uniform. Valentine stared at the other faces; half were men, the others women. There was too much sunlight to make anyone out. He took the photograph out of its frame and stared at the back, hoping to find the regiment's name or call numbers. It was blank.

He went to the front of the house and looked out the living room window. The mailman and next door neighbor were gone.

He got out of the house as fast as he could.

18

Honey

S
itting behind the wheel of the Mercedes, he peeled off the rubber gloves. Then he backed out of the alley next to Sparky's house. There were times when being in a flashy car wasn't good, and this was certainly one of them.

He drove for several miles, then parked next to a Wendy's and sat in the parking lot for several minutes, trying to gather his thoughts. Sparky's dying words were already starting to haunt him.
You know . . . Doyle . . .

He stuck his hand in his pocket and took out Sparky's trusted .38. He'd told Sparky he needed another gun, and now he had one.

He stuck the gun back in his pocket. Then he tried to make sense of what had happened. Fifty grand was a lot of dough. Selling hot guns couldn't be that lucrative. Even if it was, it didn't explain why Sparky had thrown the bottle at him. Nor the fear in Sparky's eyes. That was bothering him the most.

Going inside the restaurant, he bought coffee, then sat in his car and drank it. Soon his head was buzzing like a cheap TV. During his last checkup, his doctor had ordered him to cut out caffeine after 4
P.M
. He'd said sure and gone right on drinking coffee and diet Cokes, caffeine the one addiction he planned to take with him to his grave.

Doyle had been a caffeine junkie as well. And an ex-smoker. They'd been alike in a lot of ways. So much so that Valentine had known his partner inside out. And if Doyle had one flaw, it was his inability to keep a secret. If Sparky was talking to Doyle, and had told Doyle
anything
worth repeating, Doyle would have told someone. It was simply his nature.

He fished Doyle's cell phone out of his pocket. Powering it up, he retrieved Honey's number. He needed to talk to this woman, just to see what she knew.

He hit the Send button. On the third ring, a woman's sleepy voice answered.

“Is this Honey?”

The woman let out a gasp.

“Look, you don't know me, but my name is Tony Valentine, and I—”

“Tony?”
the woman said.

“Yes?”

“Oh my God, is that you?”

         

Liddy Flanagan met him at the front door of her house. She'd been lying in bed when he'd called—“No reason to get up,” she'd explained—and had thrown on jeans and a threadbare sweater and brushed out her hair. She looked like a ghost, her skin creamy white and translucent, showing every hidden vein. They went into the kitchen and she poured herself a cup of that morning's coffee and stuck it in the microwave.

“Honey was Doyle's nickname for me,” she said, sitting in the nook. “It came from his favorite song, Van Morrison's ‘Tupelo Honey.' When you called the other day and used that name, I cried for hours.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

He watched her drink the steaming brew. Even the smell of coffee put his brain in high gear, and he reached across the nook and touched her arm. “Liddy, why did you lie to me the other day?”

The question jolted her out of her lethargy.

“I didn't lie to you.”

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yes, you did. You said you found Doyle's notebook hidden under the bed. That wasn't true, was it?”

Liddy did not reply.

“You found it in the safe,” he went on, “where Doyle kept all his important documents, like his life insurance and his savings bonds.”

“Who told you about the safe?”

“I helped him install it, for Christ's sake.”

“Oh, God, how stupid of me.” Liddy ran her hands through her hair. A number of expressions battled for a place on her face. A smile won out. “I never should have thought I could pull a fast one on you.”

They shared a long silence. Then he said, “You gave me that notebook hoping I'd unravel this thing. Well, every time I turn a rock over, I discover another snake. Doyle must have told you something.”

“I'll tell you what Doyle told me,” she said, lowering her voice. “But please keep me and the boys out of it.”

He promised her he would.

“While Doyle was doing his investigation, he heard a story about another scam, one that involved a gang of employees. At first, he didn't believe it. Doyle had so many friends at The Bombay. But then he got a call from a phone operator who worked there. He told Doyle the scam was real.”

“Do you remember this phone operator's name?”

“Sparky Rhodes. He's in a wheelchair. He'd been in Desert Storm with several Bombay employees. He told Doyle the Desert Storm gang had decided to rip Archie Tanner off.”

“Why did Sparky call Doyle?”

“He told Doyle he was afraid they'd be caught, and he'd end up in prison. He said gimps don't last long behind bars.”

“What happened then?”

“Doyle went to Sparky's house. Sparky had secretly taped a meeting the employees had, and he played it for Doyle. The employees were angry because Archie Tanner had spent their pension money buying hotels in Florida. They talked about ripping off The Bombay.”

“How?”

“Slots.”

“And that's where the quotes in Doyle's notebook came from.”

“Yes.”

“What did Doyle do with the information?”

“He called the Division of Gaming Enforcement and the Casino Control Commission and spoke to the auditors. They checked into it and told Doyle The Bombay's slot take was normal. Doyle asked them to check the take again, and got the same answer. Then he contacted Detective Davis.”

“Why Davis?”

“Davis was handling the Funny Money investigation. You know, all the fake coins showing up around town.”

“So Doyle thought the cases were connected.”

“I guess.”

“What happened then?”

Liddy stared into the depths of her coffee cup. “Doyle was supposed to meet with Davis the night he got killed.”

“Did Doyle tell you anything else?”

“He said he wished he'd never taken the job.”

She went to the sink to wash her hands. She was moving in slow motion, the permanence of Doyle's death finally catching up with her. Valentine came up from behind, and put his hand gently on her shoulder.

“One more question.”

“What's that . . .”

“Was Frank Porter involved?”

He saw the corners of her mouth turn down. Then remembered that Frank was Sean's godfather.

“I don't know,” she said.

“Please don't lie to me, Liddy.”

Her shoulders tensed. “How do you know I'm lying?”

For as long as he could remember, Valentine had known when people were lying to him. It was a gift, yet also a curse.

“I just do.”

A tear did a slow crawl down her face. “Yes. Frank knew.”

He handed her a paper napkin from a basket on the counter and watched Liddy dab at her eyes. He struggled for something insightful to say to lessen her pain.

Nothing good came to mind.