Funny Money (11 page)

19

Money Plays

G
oing back to his motel, Valentine flopped down on the bed with his clothes on and pulled out his cell phone. From memory he punched in Joe Cortez's number at the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

There were days that would always stay in his memory. His first great Christmas. Kissing Lois for the first time. Seeing Gerry take his first real step. Special days that would remain fresh, no matter when he thought of them.

For Valentine, one of those special days had occurred because of Joe.

It had happened like this. In 1982 he'd been assigned to work the high rollers room at the old Resorts International casino. A Japanese billionaire named Toki Mizo had been playing blackjack, and asked the house to raise the stakes to a half-million dollars a hand. The dealer, an imported French guy in a pointy-collar tux, had objected.

“But, sir, it is unheard of,” the dealer said.

Mizo slapped the table angrily. He was down four million bucks and hadn't broken a sweat. A handful of casino employees hovered around him, tending to his every whim. Mizo glanced across the room at Valentine, who was leaning against the wall. Mizo knew he was a cop—high rollers always drew heat—and motioned him over to the table.

“Hey, Mr. Policeman, what do you think?”

Valentine shrugged his shoulders. “None of my business.”

“Come on,” he said. “You been around.”

That Valentine had. And seen a lot of blackjack played. Playing one-on-one against the dealer like Mizo was doing was a dangerous proposition. A player could go broke in the time it took to smoke a cigarette.

“Well,” Valentine said, “you know what they say.”

“What's that?”

“Money plays.”

Mizo had to think about it. Then he smiled. “And that's what makes the world go round, my money.”

“It sure as hell isn't
my
money making the world go round,” Valentine said.

Mizo burst out laughing. So did everyone else in the room. Even the dealer let out a snort. The casino's general manager slipped under the red rope that separated the Worthy Few from the Unwashed Mob, and whispered in the dealer's ear.

“A half-million dollars it is,” the dealer announced.

Valentine went back to leaning against the wall. A cocktail waitress appeared, testing her strength with a tray of drinks. She'd served him a Coke.

Valentine sipped the drink. By the time the glass was empty, Mizo was down twenty-six million dollars.

It would go down as the single biggest loss in casino history. Out in Las Vegas, where Mizo had been lured from, it had pissed off everybody. And, it had made Valentine's reputation, the expression
money plays
becoming a slogan in one of the city's advertising campaigns.

“I remember that little bastard,” Special Agent Joe Cortez of the INS said. “That was a fine piece of police work you did tracking him down.”

“Couldn't have done it without you,” Valentine said.

“No,” Cortez said, “you couldn't have.”

Where the story had gotten interesting was when Mizo had tried to blow town and not pay off his marker. On a hunch, Valentine had called Joe and found out which airports had direct flights to Japan. The earliest was out of Philadelphia on JAL, and he'd driven there and convinced the local cops to let him board. He'd found Mizo hiding in a john.

“I need your help,” Valentine said now.

Cortez worked in Newark on the third floor of a brick building with old-fashioned fire escapes and an American flag hanging out front. He said, “For you, anything.”

“I'm trying to track down a gang of European blackjack cheats. My guess is, they're here on some type of special visas. I was hoping you could help me finger them.”

“Tony, two hundred thousand foreigners visit New Jersey each year,” Cortez said. “That's a tall order.”

Valentine told Joe what he knew: three guys, one woman, well educated, late thirties. He'd thought a lot about their accents and said, “My guess is they're from Yugoslavia, that part of the world.”

“I don't think Yugoslavia is a country anymore.”

“Shows you where I've been.”

“Well, that winnows it down. You said they were blackjack cheats?”

“That's right.”

“Well educated?”

“Very. One of them listens to Vivaldi.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“The woman is beautiful. Like a young Audrey Hepburn.”

“How are they cheating?”

“I honestly don't know. They've got a system, and I'm beginning to think it's mathematical.”

“They must be good if they've got you stumped. Think they might be here on teaching visas?”

“There's a thought.”

He listened to Cortez's stubby fingers pry information from the INS's super-computer located in the basement of his office. Joe cleared his throat and Valentine sensed he'd found something.

“I looked through all the foreigners in New York and New Jersey staying here on teaching visas,” he said. “There's 647 names. I looked to see if any were in groups, and narrowed the list down to 360. Now I need to sort through them.”

“How much time do you think it will take?”

“That's hard to say. I may have to work on it at home tonight.”

“I really appreciate this, Joe.”

“What are pals for,” Joe said.

         

Valentine's eyes snapped open to the sound of the telephone ringing.

He'd fallen asleep fully dressed. It had grown dark outside his motel room. He heard his stomach growl. Had he eaten today? He honestly didn't remember. He looked at his watch. Three hours had passed since he'd spoken to Joe. He picked up the phone.

“There you are,” Mabel said by way of greeting. “You
must
start leaving your cell phone on.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because people are looking for you.”

“That's no reason to leave it on.”

“Stop being obtuse,” his neighbor said.

He sat up too quickly and the room started to spin. He touched the bump on the back of his head and saw stars.

“Who's looking for me?”

“Your son. He called this morning. He said the Mollo brothers are chasing him all over New York. He begged me to ask you to reconsider lending him fifty grand.”

Valentine laughed into the phone. He was feeling better already. “So how's your day going?”

“The afternoon was quiet. I started reading one of the books on cheating I found in your library. I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“What's a monkey's paw?”

“It's the furry thing at the end of a monkey's leg. They use it to peel bananas.”

“Very funny. I mean in casino cheating.”

“It's a mechanical device that cheaters stick up the coin tray of a slot machine,” he explained. “It has a light on the end which activates the slot machine into paying out even when the reels aren't lined up correctly.”

“The book said casinos lose millions to monkey's paws.”

“At least,” he said.

“Speaking of paws,” Mabel said. “I went to the pound and saw a wonderful dog, very affectionate, only it has a black tongue. I don't know why, but it gave me the willies. The lady in charge said the dog was half Chow, half who-knows-what. You know anything about the breed?”

As far as Valentine was concerned, dogs were dogs. Until they started walking on their hind legs and talking, he didn't care who their parents were. “No.”

“I looked it up on the Internet. Bred to protect the royal family in Japan. I've got two days to make a decision. Either he comes home with me, or off to doggie heaven.”

He sensed that Mabel had made up her mind and just wanted some reassurance. And since it had been his idea, he figured he ought to be giving it to her. But part of him wanted to see the dog first, feel its vibes. They were animals, capable of equal amounts of good and evil, and he didn't want one in Mabel's house until he felt sure it wouldn't turn on her.

“Why don't you wait until I get home,” he said.

“Is your job done?”

“No, but I'm leaving tomorrow anyway.”

For a moment he thought he'd been disconnected.

“You're leaving in the middle of a job?” she asked.

He took the bottle of Advil off the night table and unscrewed it. Once Joe fingered the European, he planned on turning the information over to Detective Davis and getting out of Atlantic City. Seeing Sparky Rhodes die had convinced him that it was time to pull up stakes.

“That's right,” he said.

There was another pause. He popped four Advil into his mouth and swallowed them dry.

“Do you know what that Greek slimeball Nick Nicocropolis said about you?” his neighbor asked.

“No.”

“He said you were the world's champion grifter catcher.”

“I'm touched,” Valentine said.

“Tony.”

“Yes, Mabel.”

“World champions don't quit.”

He found himself too stunned to reply.

“There's the other line,” his neighbor said. “Ta ta.”

20

The Mollo Brothers

V
alentine decided he was hungry.

Going outside, he spied Davis's Thunderbird parked in front of the motel. Then he saw Davis in the motel office. He was talking to the manager and looked pissed off. Valentine got into the Mercedes and turned the engine on. On the Big Band station Jerry Vale, the poor man's Sinatra, was singing “Why Do Fools Fall in Love?”
That was easy,
Valentine thought.
Because they were fools.

Davis came out, saw him, and pointed an accusing finger. He was dressed in jeans and a black gunslinger's jacket and looked cool. Valentine envied anyone who could look cool on thirty-eight grand a year. Moments later, the detective was sitting beside him.

“There's a warrant out for your arrest,” Davis said.

Valentine swallowed hard. Sparky's .38 was in his pocket. If Davis arrested him, he'd do a search, and Valentine would do jail time. He could not imagine any worse nightmare.

“I regularly look through each day's arrest warrants,” the detective said. “Lady named Kat Berman says you knocked her down last night. Says she has witnesses. This ringing any bells?”

Valentine nodded.

“I'd suggest you go talk to her and get things straightened out. Okay?”

Valentine felt the air trapped in his lungs escape. The detective was letting him go. He didn't think he had a better friend in Atlantic City.

“I'll get right on it,” he said.

         

He drove to the Body Slam School of Professional Wrestling and parked by the front door. There were no groupies tonight, and he stood before the storefront window and watched a pair of well-proportioned men working on their choreography.
What a sorry way to make a buck,
he thought.

In the back, Kat was chatting with another lady wrestler. She'd brushed her hair out, and he was surprised by the effect it had on him. He put his hand on the door handle, then stopped. What, exactly, was he going to tell her?
Sorry about last night, would you mind dropping charges?
Or maybe he should be a little less direct.
How's the schnoz? Hope I didn't break it!

He backed away from the door. Apologies had never been his strong suit. He was going to have to write something down and memorize it. Otherwise, she'd see right through him.

He drove up Atlantic Avenue and parked in front of his favorite pizzeria. When it came to being creative, he'd always worked better on a full stomach. Mario was closing as he went in, but was not above sticking two slices with anchovies and mushrooms in the oven and pouring him a Mister PiBB.

“I remember you,” the pizza maker said. “You retired, went down to Florida.”

“That's right. Paying the bills without me?”

“I can't complain.”

“You had two boys, right? How they doing?”

“Both in college,” he said proudly.

Valentine flipped through Mario's family album while the pizza maker took the slices from the oven and sprinkled both with oregano. Mario had borrowed from a loan shark to open his business, then paid off the debt at 50 percent interest, which said a lot about his pies.

“Your wife used to call in the orders,” Mario said. “Louise, right?”

“Lois.”

“How she doing?”

He bit into a slice. “My wife died a year and a half ago.”

“I'm sorry for you,” Mario said.

“Thanks,” Valentine said. It was strange: After Lois had died, he'd dropped twenty pounds. Now he was talking about it with a mouth full of food.

“How's the pizza?”

“You still make the best sauce. You have a piece of paper and a pen I can borrow? I need to compose something.”

Mario handed him a napkin and a pen. “You writing to a lady?”

“Yeah. An apology.”

“You say something nasty to her?”

“I bloodied her nose. Now she's pressing charges. What do you think I should say?”

Mario scratched the iron stubble on his chin. “That's a tough one. Wait. I got it. You like this. ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm-a so sad, I smacked you.' ”

He went back to closing his store, Valentine to his apology. He had a few lines written down when he felt an icy chill on his neck. Another customer had come in, and he glanced at the back counter mirror. A figure was standing behind him, glaring. Valentine slowly turned around.

It was his teacher.

         

“You something else, Tony boy.”

Valentine sat in the bucket seat of Yun's ancient Toyota Corolla, trying to figure out what he'd done to make Yun so mad. His teacher spun the wheel and he was thrown against his door.

“One of my students calls, says you beat Kat up,” Yun said. “That doesn't sound like you. I think maybe something else going on. So I park down the street from the Body Slam School. Then I see you pull up. You got a date with her, huh?”

“I wanted to talk to her.”

“You saw her tits, huh? Pretty nice, huh?”

“This has nothing to do with her tits.”

“Watch out. Next, you making babies.”

“Oh, for the love of Christ,” Valentine swore.

Yun drove around for a while. Once, after a tournament in which he'd lost to an inferior opponent, Yun had driven around until the monotony had nearly sent him over the edge.

“You want my opinion?” his teacher said.

“Do I have a choice?”

“You really horny. Stay away from her, if you know what's good for you.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

There were only so many roads in Atlantic City, and soon they were driving past motel row. The Drake, Valentine's first motel, came into view. A black 531 BMW was parked in front. It looked like Gerry's car. A guy that was not his son was standing with his foot on the rear bumper. A big guy, his weight making the car sag.

“Pull over,” Valentine said.

Yun turned down a side street and parked. At the street's end was the beach; beyond it, the churning ocean. Valentine started to get out.

“You going to explain?” Yun said.

“That's my son's car. The guy standing on the bumper is hood Big Tony Mollo. My son owes him fifty thousand bucks. Big Tony has come to collect.”

“This is some son you got.”

“He's the
only
son I've got,” Valentine said.

“Maybe we should talk to this hood together,” Yun suggested.

“You up to it?”

“I manage.”

Hands in pockets, Valentine strolled up motel row. He wondered why Big Tony had come to the Drake, then remembered that he hadn't told Gerry he'd switched motels. He stopped a few feet from his son's car. Big Tony stared right through him.
Grow old,
Valentine thought,
and you grow invisible.

Big Tony pushed himself off the bumper. About six-four and three hundred pounds, a body nurtured on garlic meatballs and lasagna and lots of grappa.

“You Gerry's old man?”

“No,” Valentine said, “we just look alike.”

“Very funny.”

Big Tony slapped the roof of the BMW. Two guys hopped out. They appeared to be your typical Italian miscreants. One tall and very skinny, the other smaller and slightly retarded, his hair in a fifties pompadour. The family resemblance was scary.

“These are my brothers,” Big Tony said. “Joey, and Little Tony. This is Gerry's old man. Guys, show Mr. Valentine what his son's been doing for the past few hours.”

Joey produced a key ring and popped the trunk. Lying in back were his son and a woman Valentine assumed was Yolanda. Their mouths were covered with duct tape. Joey slammed the trunk hard.

“You're lucky I didn't kill them,” Big Tony said.

“Over a marker?” Valentine said.

“I got arrested because of you,” Big Tony said.

“You never been arrested before?”

“You know what happened to me in that fucking jail?”

Valentine gave it some thought. “You got buggered.”

“What?”

“Raped, sodomized, made to give up your manhood. Am I getting warm?”

“I'm going to mutilate you,” Big Tony said.

Yun had appeared by Valentine's side. His teacher had removed his overcoat and wore a baggy sweater and loose-fitting trousers. His forehead was glistening, and Valentine realized he'd been doing his warm-up. Yun walked up to Big Tony. It wasn't going to be fair, but who ever said life was?

“See if you can hit me,” his teacher said.

Big Tony eyed him. “Say what?”

Yun jabbed him in the stomach. Big Tony winced.

“Come on, fat boy. Hit me.”

Big Tony obliged him and threw a haymaker that started by his knee. Blocking the punch, Yun grabbed Big Tony's arm and flipped him onto the icy ground. He twisted Big Tony's arm until the big man yelped
Uncle.

Valentine had been watching Joey, who appeared to be the more dangerous of the two brothers. Seeing Joey slip his hand into his leather jacket, Valentine stepped forward and popped him on the nose. As Joey crumpled, a strange-looking weapon clattered to the ground. Valentine picked it up. It was an old-fashioned zip gun, the barrel taped to a wood handle. He pointed the weapon at Little Tony.

“Uncle, uncle,” Little Tony chorused.

Valentine walked over to where Big Tony lay on the ground.

“Promise you'll leave my son alone?”

“Okay.”

“Say it.”

“I promise to leave Gerry alone.”

Yun let him go. Big Tony sat up and rubbed his arm. Valentine went over to where Joey lay and removed the BMW's keys from his pocket.

And though it was a cold, miserable night and Valentine's head was throbbing, seeing Gerry climb out of the trunk safe and sound made it all worthwhile. Yolanda was okay, too, a happy ending if there ever was one.

Eating dinner in a restaurant a short while later, Gerry thanked his father as only he knew how.

“For the love of Christ,”
his son said belligerently.
“What took you so long?”