Funny Money (16 page)

“Will we . . . be safe?”

No,
he thought,
but I'll sure know how to find you.
He went to the front door and opened it.

“Good-bye, Anna,” he said.

         

It was eleven-forty-five when Valentine walked into Gino's restaurant. His son had an appetite that wouldn't quit, and he was sharing a plate of fried calamari with his fiancée. Putting a gob of tentacles into his mouth, he said, “You want some?”

Valentine said no and pulled up a chair. The table was covered with empty plates and glasses. Hanging out in the supermarket had made him hungry, but now all he felt was numb.

“Something to drink? Coffee?”

Valentine said no. He felt Yolanda's hand on his wrist. He'd already learned she was good at reading thoughts. Their eyes met, and she said, “You okay . . . Dad?”

Valentine wasn't sure. He'd just discovered that everything didn't add up, and that was never okay.

The waitress brought the check. Gerry handed her the twenties his father had given him, then said, “Pop, do you mind helping out, here? I'm a little short.”

Leave it to his son to spend more than he had. Valentine took out his wallet and settled the bill.

27

What Is Sin?

V
alentine did not say a word during the drive back to the Blue Dolphin. He walked Gerry and Yolanda to their room, then took the precaution of doing a once-over around the motel. He didn't think the Mollo brothers were stupid enough to come calling in broad daylight, but he'd learned that it was never wise to second-guess Neanderthals.

“I need to go out for a few hours,” he said upon returning to their room. “Promise me you won't do anything stupid, like sneak off to The Bombay to play Funny Money.”

“It was my idea,” Yolanda said.

“And it wasn't stupid,” Gerry cut in. “Yolanda's sister won a brand new Suburban.”

“You know what the odds are of winning a car playing a slot machine?” Valentine asked him. “The same as being struck by lightning . . . twice.”

“It happens, Pop,” his son said indignantly.

Nothing made Valentine angrier than idiot's logic, especially when it came to gambling. Going to the dresser, he opened the top drawer, removed the Gideon's Bible, and presented it to his son.

“Promise me on this Bible that you won't go out.”

Gerry stared at him like he was crazy.

“Do it,” his father said.

         

It was twenty minutes after one when Valentine pulled the Mercedes into the empty parking lot at St. Mary's Cathedral and killed the engine.

Sitting in the car, he tried to remember the last time he'd stepped foot inside a church. He'd been raised a strict Catholic, going to Mass every Sunday, sometimes twice if his mother thought he needed to say a few more Hail Marys, but as he'd gotten older he'd abandoned the practice and eventually the church itself. He still believed in God and tried to live his life accordingly, but the faith he'd been raised in no longer worked for him. To be a good Catholic, you had to be a penitent or a supplicant, and he was neither. It was that simple.

Slipping into the confessional, he was surprised at how the cold little box had the ability to dredge up a ton of guilt, and he lowered his head in shame. Moments later the tiny window slid open.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”

“And how have you sinned, my son?” Father Tom asked.

Valentine took a deep breath. He'd decided not to tell Tom about Sparky's dying, simply because he believed he'd done nothing wrong. But there were plenty of other things weighing heavily on his mind, and he proceeded to tell the priest how he'd knocked down Kat, lied through his teeth to Coleman and Marconi, taken Archie Tanner's money for a job he was already planning to do—something which hadn't seemed a sin when he'd done it but sure did now—and had gone to the Croatians' apartment intending to pump a few bullets into Juraj Havelka.

“You've been busy,” the priest said.

Valentine stared at the confessional floor. “There's something else.”

“What's that?”

“I stepped on a guy's hand.”

Father Tom was a mouth breather, and his sharp intake of breath sounded like a small-caliber gun going off. “Please, explain.”

Valentine did, spelling out the scene with Big Tony at the motel as best he could.

“Surely you've hurt people before,” Father Tom said when he was done.

“I stepped over the line,” Valentine said.

“And which line is that?”

He fell silent. The line between what was truly good and truly evil was invisible, yet he'd always known where it was drawn. And he'd stepped over it in a big way.

“The guy was defenseless,” Valentine said.

“But he hurt your son and his fiancée.”

“I stooped to his level. Maybe lower.”

“Have you never done that before?”

He detected a hint of skepticism in Father Tom's voice. Like the sin he was describing was as common as the sun rising. Only Valentine didn't see it that way. He'd lived his life as purely as he could and hadn't inflicted pain unless it was justified.

“No.”

“Then I'm sure God will forgive you this time,” the priest said.

         

They stood on the front stoop, the wind whipping mercilessly at their faces. St. Mary's was located in a residential area off Route 9 in Swainton, the eighty-year-old church surrounded by apartment houses with Murphys and O'Sullivans stamped on the mailboxes. Black smoke billowed out of nearly every chimney. Across the way, two gangs of kids had joined forces to build a mammoth snowman.

“I need to talk to you about Doyle,” Valentine said.

“So the confession was just a way to get on my good side,” Father Tom said, smiling thinly. “Doyle and I talked often, but rarely about his work.”

“But you spoke a lot.”

“Yes.”

“Mind if I ask about a particular conversation?”

Father Tom's face turned sour. He'd been handsome once, with a ruddy Irish complexion and wavy blond hair, but with age he'd turned gaunt and his hairline had receded. Seeing something across the street he didn't approve of, he clapped his hands and let out a shout. The misbehaving kids scattered in a dozen directions.

“Sorry about that,” the priest said. “Which conversation between Doyle and myself are you referring to?”

“It was a conversation where Doyle blew up. He later wrote you a note and apologized about it.”

Father Tom hesitated. He had come outside without a coat, yet looked perfectly comfortable. All his life, Valentine had seen priests walk around in the winter in street clothes, like God had given them an extra layer of skin for joining up.

“Walk with me,” the priest said.

         

They took a stroll around the block. At an intersection they found the same hellions Father Tom had disciplined a few minutes earlier hurling snowballs at passing cars. The priest ran into the street and rounded them up while threatening to call their folks. It was fun to watch him work, and the troublemakers marched away with their heads lowered in shame.

Coming back, Father Tom said, “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“If there were more people like you, there would be fewer people like me.”

“Guilt is one of God's most powerful weapons,” the priest said. “Humankind's capacity for sin is nearly unlimited. Without guilt, we'd all run amok, don't you think?”

“Sometimes I think we do run amok,” Valentine said.

They were standing outside a bakery, the smell of pastries scenting the frigid air. The priest lowered his voice. “My brother was a good Catholic, loyal to his friends and family, subservient to his creator. Yet he was struggling with personal demons. I've never seen him so . . . apprehensive.”

“What happened?”

Father Tom had to think about it. “One day at lunch Doyle got a call on his cell phone. The caller said something, and my brother said,
‘What is sin?'
Then he got very angry. After he hung up, I said, ‘Doyle, don't tell me you don't know what sin is?' And Doyle said, ‘This is a different kind of sin, Tom.'

“I've thought about that conversation many times, but it never made sense. Perhaps you have an idea.”

Valentine shook his head. All Catholics knew about sin. There was mortal, venial, spiritual, carnal, and capital sin. But a different type of sin? He had no idea.

“Was his caller a man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“Did Doyle address him by name?”

Father Tom thought hard. “Bob? No, Barry. No, wait. Benny. It was Benny,” he decided.

“You're sure?”

“Positive. Doyle addressed him several times.”

The only Benny in town was Benny Roselli, a dumb-as-nails ex-cop who ran security at the Wild Wild West Casino. Why would Doyle be talking to Benny about religion?

They walked back to St. Mary's. A young couple stood by the church's front door, their faces flushed with excitement. Father Tom introduced them as the soon-to-be-married so-and-so. They looked so damn happy that Valentine found himself smiling.

“It's been good talking with you, Tony,” the priest said. “Let me know if you find anything.”

“I will,” Valentine promised him.

“And Tony . . .”

“Yes, Father Tom.”

“Try to stay out of trouble.”

The priest's eyes were twinkling, as if knowing what he was asking was impossible.

“And if you can't, come back and see me,” the priest said.

28

Benny

C
ountry-and-western music had never been Valentine's idea of a good time, and the occasions he'd been forced to listen had bordered on cruelty. How the Wild Wild West, Atlantic City's only musically themed gambling establishment, could play such god-awful music and still make money was one of the great wonders of New Jersey. The costumes the blackjack dealers and croupiers had to wear were particularly offensive. White cowboy boots and fringed miniskirts for the ladies, ten-gallon hats and string ties for the gents. It was a regular hoedown.

He was serenaded by Dwight Yoakam's nasal baritone while riding an elevator to the second floor where the surveillance control room was headquartered. It was three-fifteen. He'd called Benny Roselli from the car, told him he needed to talk. Benny had agreed, saying things were pretty slow.

“Howdy, pardner,” he said as Benny opened the surveillance control room's unmarked door.

“Up yours,” Benny replied.

Benny locked the door behind him. The room's light was muted, and Valentine waited for his eyes to adjust. Sitting at a row of desks were two dozen surveillance personnel. For eight hours a day, they stared at a wall of video monitors, the screens flickering with black-and-white images of the action taking place in the casino below.

Benny crossed the room and stepped onto a podium, which housed the room's master console. The console was a recent technological marvel and contained a giant screen divided into a matrix of multiple camera angles. Like a king sitting on his throne, Benny could simultaneously monitor his crew and watch the action downstairs.

There was no chair for Valentine to sit on, nor was one offered, so he leaned against the console.

“Believe it or not, I'm glad you called,” Benny said.

“Why's that?”

“Because we're getting ripped off, that's why.”

Benny touched a joystick on the console, and a white arrow shot across the screen. Then a picture appeared. It was a live shot of a blackjack table, six players, and a chatty dealer.

“The suspect is playing third base,” Benny said.

Third base was the last spot on the table. Surveillance cameras were not kind to hair pieces, and the suspect, a male in his early fifties, appeared to be wearing a skunk.

“I spotted him last week,” Benny said. “He won five grand, came back a day later, won five more. I'm positive he's hustling us.”

Valentine stared at the screen. Within a minute he'd made the scam, but he let several more pass before saying anything. Benny had lost his job as a New Jersey highway patrolman because he couldn't handle a radar gun. Benny knew he was stupid, but that didn't mean Valentine could rub his face in it.

“He's slipping the gitt,” Valentine said.

“Great,” Benny said. “Now tell me in fucking English.”

“The guy wearing the rug is palming a dozen prearranged cards. It's called a slug. He's using sleight of hand to slip the slug to the dealer when the dealer picks up the discards. Watch him.”

Benny stared intently at the screen. Then grimaced.

“So the dealer's involved?”

Valentine nodded. “Watch the dealer as he shuffles. He controls the slug during the shuffle, then marks its position in the deck by shuffling one card above it, and moving this card back a fraction of an inch. It's called an injog.”

“How's he do that?”

“Practice.”

“Up yours.”

They watched the dealer offer the cards to be cut. The guy wearing the rug cut at the injogged card, and brought the slug to the top. The dealer dealt the round.

“Look,” Valentine said, “The first, third, and sixth hands are blackjacks. All the others are losers.”

Benny's mouth dropped open. “You're telling me the dealer and
three
other players are involved?”

Valentine nodded. “The slug is stacked for three winners and three losers. This helps offset the money that's being stolen. Later, the dealer palms the slug out.”

“Let me ask you a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“What do you charge to be an expert witness?”

“A grand a day, plus expenses.”

Benny leaned back in his chair. In order to prosecute, he needed to give the DA enough evidence to make the charges stick. Since the scam was invisible to the cameras, an expert witness's testimony would be crucial to his case.

“How about a little barter,” he suggested.

“Such as?”

“Your testimony in return for whatever you want to ask me.”

“Deal,” Valentine said.

Benny picked up a house phone and called the floor. Twenty seconds later, a swarm of security in blue blazers descended upon the table. Cheating was a felony in New Jersey, and the gang did not go quietly. Before it was over, several chairs were broken, and a guard was sporting a welt on his lip that looked like a blood sausage.

“I changed my mind,” Valentine said as the hustlers were led away.

Benny shot him a murderous look. “That's not funny.”

“Sorry.”

“Your turn.”

“What is sin?” Valentine asked him.

Benny scratched his chin. “It's when people do things that in the eyes of God aren't right. Is that what you came up here to ask me?”

“I think the expression has another meaning.”

“Call the guys who run
Jeopardy!,”
Benny said. “Maybe they know.”

“You don't know what I'm talking about?”

“Sorry.”

Valentine lowered his voice. “Three, four weeks ago, you had a phone conversation with Doyle Flanagan. Doyle asked you
‘What is sin?'
This ringing any bells?”

Benny's face got serious in a hurry.

“Is this about Doyle's murder?”

“It sure is.”

The director of surveillance stood up, grabbing his overcoat off the chair. “Not in here,” he told Valentine.

         

They took a stairwell down to the first floor and went outside to a loading dock. The sun had burned away the clouds but it didn't feel any warmer. Delivery trucks came and went; food, linens, cutlery, liquor, all the basics to feed the monster. Beneath the bright sunlight Benny looked older than his years, his gray hair luminous, the lines in his face deep and hard. He fired up a butt and stood on the edge of the dock, looking down at a crew unloading a beer truck.

“You like Florida?”

“Can't beat the weather.”

Benny made Valentine hold up his hand and compared his own against it. His skin was zombie-white, Valentine's tan and healthy.

“My wife wants to buy a condo in St. Pete. That's near you, isn't it?”

“Twenty minutes. Why don't you?”

“Because it costs money.” Inhaling deeply on his cigarette, Benny struck a defiant pose, like the world owed him something. He was lucky he'd gotten as far as he had, but didn't see it that way.

“Why were you talking to Doyle?” Valentine asked.

“That's a good question.” Benny glanced nervously at two deliverymen who'd walked up, then lowered his voice. “I know you and Doyle were buddies. Doyle and I weren't tight, but I owed him a huge favor, something I won't get into. Anyway, Doyle calls about a month ago, tells me he needs help. I say sure.

“He wanted to know if the Wild Wild West had been ripped off by a European at blackjack. I said, yeah, we had, and I told him the dates and so on. We lost fifty grand to that bastard and I lost my bonus
and
got reamed out. Doyle asked if any other casinos had gotten ripped off, and I said, ‘Where you been, boy? Of course no one else got ripped off.' He didn't understand until I explained to him that every casino in Atlantic City is connected to a warning system to stop cheats. You familiar with this?”

“No.”

“It started about a year ago.”

“Must have been after I retired,” Valentine said.

“Right,” Benny said. “Time marches on, huh?”

“It sure does.”

“Anyway, all the casinos are connected by the Internet. If a casino thinks its been cheated, it spreads the word about the suspect or situation at lightning speed, before the suspect can rip off another casino. The computers let us send pictures of suspects taken directly off the surveillance cameras, plus descriptions of what went down. It's called S.I.N.”

“Sin?” Valentine said.

“No, no, that's what people on the outside call it. Casino people call it S.I.N., stands for Secure Internal Network.”

“And Doyle didn't know about S.I.N.”

“Not until I told him,” Benny said. “When Doyle said, ‘What is sin?' it told me he
really
didn't know what I was talking about.”

Benny tossed his dying cigarette over the loading dock, nearly beaning a worker below. He took out a fresh pack of Marlboros and fired one up. “Want one?”

Valentine started to reach for the pack, his lungs begging for another rush of nicotine. Then found the willpower to stop himself. “No thanks. Is The Bombay part of S.I.N.?”

“It sure is.”

“So they let the European play on purpose.”

“Someone
over there did,” Benny replied.

“You're positive about this.”

“Tony, look, I sent up a red flag. I even made the fucking van.”

“What van?”

“The van the European was driving,” Benny said. “I caught it on a surveillance camera that watches our parking lot. It was a real piece of junk. I sent that picture out along with pictures of him.”

Valentine found himself wishing he'd taken Benny up on his offer of a cigarette. Benny glanced at his watch.

“Gotta get back to the salt mines. Been nice catching up.”

They went back inside. Standing in the stairwell, Valentine took out a business card and handed it to him. Benny stared at the card, then him, not understanding.

“You want me to be an expert witness, right?”

“What if you're back in Florida?”

“Then I'll fly up.”

“Whose nickel?”

“Mine.”

“That's awful nice of you,” Benny said, pocketing the card.

“I gave you my word,” Valentine said, “didn't I?”

         

He drove away from the Wild Wild West trying to sort out everything Benny had told him. The Bombay had known about Juraj, yet still let him play. He could pass that off to a lot of things, but the one that seemed most logical was revenge. Archie Tanner's employees were mad at him, and letting a known cheat play was a great way to screw the boss. But that didn't explain the missing money. Doyle had said six million bucks had been stolen, and Porter had confirmed it. If the Croatians had only stolen a million, where was the rest?

There were a lot of possibilities. Archie was one. Casino owners skimmed money off the top all the time. Another was that someone else had stolen it. And the third was, he just didn't know.

A fire truck came down the street, its siren wailing. An ambulance accompanied it, then a screaming police cruiser. All three vehicles were headed south on Atlantic Avenue, toward motel row. Punching the accelerator, he followed them.