Funny Money (17 page)

29

Epiphany

T
he Mollo brothers had set Gerry's BMW on fire.

His knucklehead son had not bothered to move his car off Atlantic Avenue like his father had told him. So the Mollos had stuck a gas-soaked rag in the tank and lit a match. A fire truck was hosing the BMW down when Valentine got to the scene, the air thick with black smoke.

“No, I didn't actually see them,” his son was telling the uniform writing up the report. “We were inside, watching TV.”

“Did anyone see them?” the uniform wanted to know.

Gerry glanced at the Blue Dolphin's manager, who stood nearby, shivering without his coat. The manager looked at the ground, then off in the distance.

“No,” his son said.

“I can't help you, then,” the cop said. “Your insurance should cover this, if that's any consolation.”

“I don't have insurance,” Gerry replied.

Back inside their motel room, it was all Valentine could do to not strangle his son. Gerry was a gambler—horses, sports, cards—but when it came to intelligent gambling, like having insurance, he was out to lunch.

“They're gonna kill us,” Gerry said, sitting on the bed. He looked up at his father. “Aren't they?”

Yolanda sat beside him, stroking his hair. “No, they're not.”

Valentine sat on the bed and put his hand on Gerry's knee. “How would you two kids like to take a trip? Go away for a while, until this thing blows over?”

His son and fiancée looked up at him expectantly.

“You're serious?” his son said.

Valentine nodded. Yolanda squealed with delight and hugged his son. Gerry was not so sure, and kept looking at his father.

“On me,” Valentine reassured him.

Outside, the last of the emergency vehicles peeled away, leaving an eerie silence. For a brief moment no one spoke.

“I hear Mexico's great this time of year,” his son said.

“I had someplace else in mind,” Valentine said.

“Where's that?”

“Croatia.”

         

If there was one thing that impressed Valentine about living in the modern world, it was what you could do over the telephone with a credit card. Just about any service could be arranged, any item bought, any mountain moved.

In less than ten minutes he'd reserved two business class tickets to Zagreb, Croatia, on TWA. Why this made him giddy, he had no earthly idea, and he went outside to share his good news. His son and Yolanda were standing by the covered pool, kissing. She was the greatest girl in the world, he'd decided.

“Here's the deal,” he said when they came up for air. “Your flight's at eleven tonight out of Newark with a stopover in Paris. TWA has a special lounge for business class, so you can hang out there until the flight leaves, have a drink, or something to eat.”

“You really want us to go to Croatia?” his son said.

“Just for a few days. I need you to check something out. Then you can go wherever you want: Italy, Spain—you name it.” Valentine slapped his hand against his forehead. “For the love of Christ. It just occurred to me, you're both going to need passports to get out of the country.”

“Got 'em,” his son replied.

Valentine lifted an eyebrow.

“If you didn't help us out, Yolanda and I were planning to go to Mexico.”

“Haven't I
always
helped you out?”

His son hemmed and hawed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

And then Gerry surprised him. He put his arms around his father and hugged him like a son hugs his old man. Valentine hugged him back, his eyes tightly shut. His relationship with Gerry had been like a record stuck on skip for twenty years. Now, finally, the music was starting to play through.

“So what do you want us to do in Croatia?”

Digging into his pocket, Valentine removed the crumbled Western Union receipt he'd palmed out of Anna's backpack in front of her nose, and handed it to him.

“You'll be flying into a town called Zagreb. I want you to look up the name on that receipt without drawing attention to yourself. Find out who that person is. I have a feeling it's a local crime boss, so be
careful.”

“So what do you want me to do once I find this guy?”

“Call me.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“You gonna leave your cell phone on?”

“Yeah, I'll leave it on.”

To his fiancée, Gerry said, “My father just stepped out of a cave, and you were there to see it happen.”

“Wise ass,” Valentine said.

         

Valentine drove them to Newark Airport. He pulled into short-term parking and they got out and exchanged good-byes. Digging into the pocket of her jeans, Yolanda removed a silver coin and handed it to him. Valentine stared at the piece of Funny Money in his hand. “You want me to play this for you?”

“Please.”

“Any particular machine?”

She thought about it, then shook her head. “You decide.”

That wasn't going to be easy. The last time he'd walked through The Bombay's casino, he'd needed instructions to find his way around. “And if I win the Suburban?”

“I'll let you drive it on Sundays,” she said.

God, he liked this girl. Extracting his ATM card from his wallet, he handed it to her and said, “The PIN number is 4273. The account has twenty grand in it. Take what you need.”

“Number 4273,” she repeated, putting the card in her purse. Then said, “What are you going to do for money?”

He showed her the wad of cash in his wallet. Gerry, who'd been standing idly by her side, could not hide his indignation.

“Why did you give the card to her?”

“Come on,” Valentine said. “You think I was born yesterday?”

         

The drive back to Atlantic City was long and boring, and he glued his eyes to the endless stretch of highway. Each year, thirty-seven million visitors made similar journeys, hoping to have a little fun, maybe catch a dream. Personally, he didn't see the attraction, but his perspective was different. He could remember when the Jersey shore hadn't needed the lure of false promises to pay its bills. He caught himself yawning and got off at the next exit.

Circle K had the best coffee for the money; ask any retired person. Paying with the change in his pocket, he got back into the car. Soon the coffee was gone and he was wide awake.

He took out his cell phone. He hadn't talked to Mabel all day. He started to punch in the numbers, then realized his phone wasn't turned on. Gerry was right about one thing. He did not embrace all the technological crap being shoved down people's throats. With the Internet came a flood of porn. With cell phones, more traffic wrecks. And laptop computers were great. Now, no one talked on airplanes. He turned the phone on, and a few moments later it began to ring. He had a feeling it was his son, and answered it.

“I changed my mind,” Yolanda said.

“Which machine?”

“The one near the front entrance. That's where my sister won the car. Play that machine.”

Valentine tried to envision where that particular machine was. And couldn't. He found himself remembering back two days ago, when he'd been standing in The Bombay with Porter directing him through his baseball cap.

“Give me a landmark,” he said.

“There are only twelve Funny Money machines,” Yolanda said. “It's by the front entrance. You can't miss it.”

“Who told you there were only twelve?”

“The hostess. Gerry asked her if she knew which Funny Money machine had paid my sister's jackpot last month. And the hostess said, ‘Well, there are only twelve, so it shouldn't be hard to find.' ”

Valentine took a deep breath. All his life he'd been having epiphanies, and they always began with his asking himself a question. And the question he asked himself now was,
why weren't the Funny Money machines all situated together, with a big neon sign hanging over them?
That was how most promotions in casinos worked.

And the answer that came back was simple. So simple that it explained all the gnawing questions he'd been asking himself since counting the receipts in Anna's knapsack. The Funny Money machines weren't all together because it wouldn't have allowed the employees to rearrange the casino and secretly funnel money out. That was where the missing five million had gone.

“I'll make sure I put it in that machine,” he said.

30

Hard Count,
Soft Count

I
was wrong,” he told Davis an hour later.

Valentine had looked everywhere for a restaurant besides the IHOP to meet Davis, and he'd come up short. It was the only decent place for miles that hadn't been closed down by the casinos' $5.99 all-you-can-eat buffets.

It was Davis's day off, and he'd arrived unshaven and out of sorts. Dottie served them Belgian waffles with sausages on the side. When she was gone, the detective said, “About what?”

Ignoring the advice of every doctor he'd seen in the past ten years, Valentine smothered the waffles in maple syrup and dug in. “The Croatians aren't the only people ripping off The Bombay. A group of employees are robbing Archie as well.”

“You have proof?”

Dottie was lurking behind the counter with her antenna out. Valentine lowered his voice. “No.”

“Then how can you be certain?”

“I just am.”

“Is this your fabled grift sense?”

“Yes.”

“So, what do you want from me?”

“I need you to help me make the scam,” Valentine said.

Davis started to answer, then spotted Dottie. He leaned forward so their faces were less than a foot apart. “What are you talking about,
help you make the scam?”

“I need you to create a diversion inside The Bombay.”

Davis gave him a wild look. “What are you suggesting I do? Light a smoke bomb? Or fire my gun a few times? That should get them running, don't you think?”

“Nothing that drastic,” Valentine said, trying to calm him down. “Just get a few security guards riled up.”

“I'm a cop. This isn't the fucking movies. People know me.”

“Put on a hat and glasses. It just has to last a couple of minutes. Maybe you can bring a few friends along.”

“You mean, scary-looking friends.”

“That's up to you.”

Dottie came over to ask how their food was. Gossip was no doubt her great addiction, and it was a minute before she left. Davis devoured his food like he hadn't eaten in days. When he was done, he slid out of the booth and started to walk away. Then came back and tossed a five dollar bill on the table.

“Give me one good reason why I should help you,” he said.

Valentine had to think about it.

“Because you're a swell guy,” he said.

         

Valentine slipped into Frank Porter's office in The Bombay's surveillance control room an hour later and shut the door. The office walls were illuminated by grainy, black-and-white video monitors, the light so poor that for a moment he did not see Porter sitting at his desk, munching on a bagel.

“Hey,” Porter said.

“Hey,” he replied, pulling up a chair.

The room's temperature was a cool sixty-five degrees because of the delicate electronics, and Porter wore a baggy cardigan sweater beneath a blue blazer. Valentine knew the sweater well: He'd given it to Frank on his fiftieth birthday.

“I thought you weren't talking to me,” Porter said.

“I'm leaving town. I wanted to say good-bye.”

“You're not sore?”

“I'll get over it.”

Porter's eyes briefly left the monitors. Like most people in casino security, he constantly played with angle and magnification with his joystick to avoid falling asleep.

“Thanks, Tony,” he said. “Want to hear a joke?”

“You got any Diet Coke?” Valentine asked.

“Do I have any Diet Coke? You got me addicted to the stuff.” He took a bottle from the mini-refrigerator behind his desk and filled two plastic cups, the carbonated bubbles overflowing onto the blotter. They clinked cups, and he said, “This woman dies and they have a funeral. As they're taking the casket out, it gets bumped against a wall. They hear a groan. The woman's still alive. She lives another ten years. Then she dies. They have another funeral. As they're taking the casket out, the husband says, ‘Watch out for that fucking wall!' ”

Valentine felt a bead of sweat run down his spine. He hadn't taken off his overcoat, the .38 resting in his jacket pocket with the safety off. He felt Frank staring at him.

“Ha, ha,” he said.

“I'm going to close with that joke,” Porter said.

“It's a good one.”

“Thanks. When's your flight?”

“Couple of hours.”

“Back to sunny Florida, huh?”

Valentine heard it in his voice: Porter wanted him to leave.

“Got to cash those Social Security checks,” Valentine said.

The tension melted from Porter's face. The office door banged open. A member of Porter's surveillance crew stuck his head in. “We got a problem in the blackjack pit. Table 17.”

Then the man slammed the door.

Porter tapped a series of commands on his keyboard. Table 17 came up on every video monitor in the room. Three sharply dressed African-American males were arguing with a female blackjack dealer. Fiddling with his joystick, Porter got in tight on the man doing most of the talking. It was Davis, wearing a black bowler and designer shades. Picking up the house phone, he called downstairs. “You got this under control?”

Porter did not like the answer he got. Fights were bad for business, and it was his job to diffuse any harmful situations before they got out of control. Standing, he grabbed a walkie-talkie off the desk. “I'll be right back.”

At the door he stopped and gave Valentine a hard look. “Tony?”

Valentine turned in his seat. “What, Frank?”

“You are leaving town, aren't you?”

His cheery tone was gone. Valentine stared into his friend's face. “What kind of question is that?”

“Answer me.”

“Delta Flight 1711.”

The hard look vanished. “You want a ride to the airport?”

“That would be great,” Valentine said.

         

Porter left. Valentine went to the door and opened it an inch. Outside, Porter was talking to one of his crew, a bald-headed guy with a sinister Fu Manchu. The guy nodded, agreeing with whatever Porter was telling him. Valentine shut the door and tossed his cup into the trash. Then slipped his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the .38. Fu Manchu entered the office.

“How you doing?”

“Not too bad,” Valentine said.

“Frank asked me to give you a tour of the casino.”

“You don't say.”

Fu Manchu smiled. “I do.”

Valentine drew the .38 and pointed it at Fu Manchu's chest. With his other hand he pointed at the closet. “Let's start the tour in there.”

Trembling, Fu Manchu entered the closet. Valentine shut the door behind him, then tilted a chair against the handle. Then he sat down in front of Porter's computer.

He tapped the Shift key and the screen came to life. On it was a matrix that contained different feeds from surveillance cameras around the casino, allowing Porter to simultaneously watch the action at the blackjack tables, roulette, Pai Gow, craps, and the slot and video poker machines. It also let him watch as the money was taken from the games, and counted in two special areas, called the Hard Count and Soft Count rooms.

Over the years, Valentine had investigated many employee casino scams, and one thing was always the same. The gangs had figured out clever ways to sneak money through the Hard and Soft Count rooms, then out of the casino. He did not believe The Bombay gang was any different.

Moving the cursor across the screen, he double-clicked the mouse, and the Soft Count Room filled the screen. Two middle-aged women were on duty. For eight hours a day, they counted bills. When their shift was over, they would be frisked by a Division of Gaming Enforcement agent. If the agent didn't like something, he might make them strip. Valentine used the joystick to look around the room. Everything appeared normal.

Returning to the matrix, he found the feed for the Hard Count room, and double-clicked the mouse. It was here that coins were weighed and wrapped. In the room's center sat a table that held a giant scale. Beside the scale was a coin-wrapping machine.

Everything in the Hard Count room looked normal, except for a second table propped against the wall. He fiddled with the joystick. On this table sat a smaller scale. He made the camera get close. What the hell was that for? Overflow?

He leaned back in Porter's chair. Was The Bombay gang taking buckets of coins taken from slot machines, dumping them onto the smaller scale, then spiriting the coins out of the casino?

He decided it wasn't possible. Every slot machine in The Bombay was video taped 24/7. These tapes were reviewed by teams of Division of Gaming Enforcement agents. The DGE counted how many buckets of coins were taken from each machine, and compared it to how many were dumped on the scale. If the numbers didn't match up, people got arrested.

Which meant he still had no idea what was going on.

He was getting disgusted with himself. He was better than this. Did losing his best friend and all the other nonsense in his life have something to do with his inability to think straight? Taking the bottle of Diet Coke from Porter's fridge, he unscrewed the top and swigged it.

“You still here?” Fu Manchu yelled from the closet.

Valentine tossed the bottle at the door. Then he tapped a command into the keyboard, and the matrix for the blackjack pit appeared on the screen. Porter was at Table 17, talking furiously to a dozen security guards. Davis and his pals were gone.

The guards dispersed. Using the joystick, Valentine followed them across the casino floor. Each guard appeared to be running toward an elevator, or one of the fire exits.

Valentine tapped in another command. Table 17 reappeared. Porter was still there. In his hand was a walkie-talkie. He raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth.

The phone on the desk started to ring.

Valentine hesitated, then picked it up.

“Tony?”

“Hey, Frank,” he said.

“You fucking bastard,” Porter screamed at him.

“What's wrong?”

Frank's face was twisted in fear. Which meant the secret to the missing five million was on his computer, and Valentine had failed to find it.

“You're a dead man,” Porter said.