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Authors: James Swain

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BOOK: Funny Money
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31

911

H
anging up on Porter, Valentine called Archie Tanner's office. He expected the conversation to be brief. He was going to tell Archie to call the cops. Archie could have any employee arrested for suspicion of stealing, regardless of whether he had evidence. The state gave him this power, along with every other casino owner in Atlantic City.

“I'm sorry,” the receptionist said, “but Mr. Tanner is in Florida.”

“Is Brandi there?”

“She's at home, sick.”

“Who's in charge?”

“Frank Porter,” the receptionist said.

He hung up. He guessed he had a minute before one of Porter's men reached the third floor and shot him. Picking up the phone, he dialed 911. “There's a fire at The Bombay,” he told the operator.

He marched into the surveillance control room. The employees were gone. He opened the door to the hall and stuck his head out. Empty. He walked down the hall to a fire alarm and punched out the glass. A whooping alarm drowned out all sound.

He followed the red Exit signs to a stairwell. Stepping onto the landing, he heard someone coming up the stairs. Taking the .38 from his pocket, he aimed at the landing and pulled the trigger. He heard the same pair of feet run down the stairs.

He fired two more times as he descended to the first floor. He wondered how he was going to feel if he shot an innocent person. Then it occurred to him that everyone who
wasn't
guilty was probably standing outside, waiting for the fire trucks.

The first floor landing was deserted. He opened the door and peered into the casino. Several pit bosses had remained at their stations. He thought of the fifty grand in Sparky's bank account and shoe box. Fifty into five million was a hundred employees. He couldn't trust anybody.

Soon, firefighters were streaming into the casino. He waited until one happened by. Opening the door, he shoved the .38 in the firefighter's face. “Get in here.”

The firefighter obliged him. He was an Irish guy with freckles and flaming hair, and didn't seem terribly upset. Like he'd experienced worse than a .38 shoved in his face.

Valentine sent him up the stairs in his underwear. Then tried his uniform on over his own clothes. It fit. He saw the fireman standing at the top of the stairs, shaking his head.

The casino floor was pandemonium. Valentine passed several firefighters without drawing suspicion. He headed for the nearest exit, his heart racing out of control.

         

He drove to an all-night grocery and parked between two delivery trucks. Inside, he bought cigarettes and fired one up once he was back in the car. Filling his lungs with smoke, he felt himself start to calm down.

Man, that tasted good.

So good, that he smoked two more before taking out his cell phone and dialing Davis's number. The detective answered on the first ring.

“An arrest warrant's been issued for you. You're considered armed and dangerous. Did you really stick a gun in the fireman's face and make him take off his clothes? What were you thinking?”

“Porter's men were trying to kill me,” Valentine said.

“You made the scam?”

“No.”

“Do you know any more than you did before?”

“No.”

“I want you to turn yourself in,” Davis said.

“What?”

“You're out of control.”

“I am?”

“You're suffering from dementia, Tony. Running around town knocking women down and carrying a hot gun. Do you think that's normal behavior? For Christ's sake, you introduced me as Richard Roundtree yesterday.”

Valentine watched two police cruisers pass by. When they were gone, he blew out a monster cloud of smoke. “I'm not nuts.”

“It's your only defense,” the detective said.

Davis was right. It was the one defense that would probably keep him out of prison. But if he pleaded insanity, there would be a price. He'd have to close his business and spend the rest of his days doing . . . nothing.

“Good-bye, Eddie,” he said.

         

His cell phone rang when there were three cigarettes left in his pack. He stared at the face. Caller Unknown. Answering it was a risk—cell companies could trace any phone in seconds—but he did so anyway, hoping it was Mabel or his son, wanting desperately to hear a friendly voice.

“Mr. Valentine?”

His prayers were answered. It was Brandi.

“I'm on the other line with Archie,” she said. “He heard what you did at The Bombay tonight. He wants to know what happened.”

Valentine put one of the last cigarettes in his mouth but didn't light it up. He chose his words carefully. “Tell Archie a gang of employees is ripping him off. Frank Porter is one of the ringleaders. I was trying to nail them. They got wise, and tried to kill me.”

Brandi put him on hold, then came back. “Archie wants to know why you ran from the police.”

“Because there are police involved.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Yes,” he lied.

She put him on hold again, then came back. “Archie said not to worry. He's taking his private jet home tonight. He wants you to come to my apartment and lay low until he arrives. He says he'll get everything straightened out.”

Her tone was businesslike. He liked that. She gave him her address, and he realized he knew exactly where she lived.

“I'll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

         

Brandi lived in the Reserve, a pricey high-rise condominium overlooking the ocean. Ten years before, Valentine and his wife had looked at a one-bedroom and found they couldn't afford to pay the monthly maintenance fee, let alone the mortgage.

He drove to a movie theater several blocks away and parked behind the brick building. He got out of the car and stripped out of the fireman's uniform.

He hiked up Arctic Avenue, the stiff ocean breeze fighting his every step. It felt ten degrees colder than the last time he'd been outside, and he wondered if his body was trying to tell him something.

A block before the condo, he ducked into an alley. At its end was a fire escape, which he climbed to the roof. Back when he was in uniform, he'd climbed this building many times while chasing suspects, the view the best around.

Standing on the roof brought back a flood of memories. He stared up and down the street. None of the original businesses were open anymore. Gone was the baker and the shoemaker and the pet shop. Not good businesses to run in a casino town.

The building he stood on had once housed a sausage factory. Two chimneys stuck out of the roof like buck teeth. Standing in their shadows, he stared across the street at Brandi's condo. Through the front doors he could see into the lobby. The night guard sat at a desk, reading the paper. There was no one else around.

The guard got up to stretch. He was in his thirties, square-faced with curly hair. Night guards were usually old geezers like him. The guy was too young for this kind of drudgery. Taking out his cell phone, he dialed 911 and made his second false report of the night.

Having nothing better to do, he timed the fire trucks. They reached the condo in six minutes flat. That was why people loved firemen. Because they knew how to hurry.

Three trucks and a pair of ambulances crowded the front entrance. The night guard came outside, followed by a half dozen cops who'd been hiding in a back room.

He stared at the condo's glass walls, trying to guess which unit Brandi occupied. And wondered why a woman who had everything money could buy would get involved in something like this. It was one more piece of the puzzle that didn't fit.

He thought he saw her looking down from the top floor. The penthouse. He dialed her number.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Brandi?”

“Mr. Valentine?”

“Nice try,” he said.

32

The Man in the
Purple Suit

T
he Armory's parking lot was full, the faithful braving the weather to drink beer and watch wrestling. Valentine squeezed the Mercedes between two sorry-looking pickup trucks. It was nine-ten. Kat went on in twenty minutes.

He sat for a while and felt the car grow cold. The question was, would Kat help him? Although he wasn't well versed in the ways of modern love, he knew that an invitation from a woman was a big thing, and Kat
had
asked him to come see her wrestle. She liked him. If he played his cards right, he was sure he could end up sleeping on her couch tonight.

The ticket taker would not take his money. “Show started an hour ago,” he said. “Have fun.”

Valentine went inside and bought a bucket of popcorn. The Armory had always been a bastion of male aggression, and he was having trouble imagining Kat doing battle within its walls. Pushing open the double doors, he was greeted by a roar.

The auditorium was packed, the mostly male audience yelling itself hoarse. Up in the ring, a man in orange tights was being pinned by a cartoon character wearing a hockey mask. Valentine found a vacant seat in the last row and fell into it, his feet slipping on spilled beer.

The wrestlers were both giants. Orange tights' girlfriend, a slinky miss in a red gown, entered the ring holding a folding chair. Soon her boyfriend's opponent was lying facedown on the canvas. The crowd stomped its feet and cheered.

Hockey mask staggered to his feet. Orange tights offered his hand, being a gentleman about the whole thing. The blue-haired woman sitting beside Valentine did not approve.

“Cold-cock the motherfucker,” she screamed.

Hockey mask obliged and threw a punch at his opponent, missing by a country mile. Popcorn flew into the ring. He tried again, and got a little closer. More popcorn. The third time, it almost looked real, and a collective cheer filled the auditorium.

Somehow, the contest ended with everyone being friends. If someone had told Valentine the script had been written by a ten-year-old kid, he wouldn't have been surprised.

The old woman with the dirty mouth pulled out a program. Valentine said, “Who's on next?”

“Vixen!”

“She good?”

“As mean as a junkyard dog.”

“Who's she fighting?”

“A big-titted slut named Judo Queen. Doesn't stand a chance.”

“Who said Judo Queen's a slut?”

The old woman drew back in her seat. “No offense, mister. You related or something?”

Valentine started to reply, then heard cheers. Kat was coming down an aisle on the opposite side of the auditorium. She slipped through the ropes and began dancing around. She looked great, her mane of hair flowing seductively down her back, her lips painted red. The sacred crane was nowhere to be seen.
Atta
girl, he thought.

Vixen came next, drawing boos. She was accompanied by her manager, a massive guy wearing a purple suit. He looked like a grape, and Valentine laughed so hard it made his stomach hurt. By the time Vixen reached the ring, other people in the crowd were laughing as well.

“What's so funny?” the old woman asked.

“The guy in the purple suit.”

“Fits pretty good, if you ask me.”

Vixen disrobed. About five-ten, done up in leather, a cat-o'-nine-tails strapped to her waist. Not a girl you'd bring home to Mom. She strutted around the ring, getting the crowd to shout her name.
Vix-en! Vix-en!

The referee slipped through the ropes. Right away, Valentine saw a problem. He was about five feet tall and a hundred pounds soaking wet. A snack for either one of these ladies. And Vixen had trouble written all over her.

A bell rang and the women started to tango. There was lots of pushing and foot stomping but no real fighting until Vixen grabbed Kat's hair and started yanking. Kat let out a yell, then put Vixen down on the canvas with a perfectly executed hip throw.

“Kick her in the face!” the old woman yelled.

“You're all heart,” Valentine said.

Vixen got up slowly, mouthing off to Kat. They circled one another, the distance between them growing smaller. Vixen got her hands in Kat's hair, and Kat emitted a scream that sounded real.

The crowd stood. Valentine found himself standing with them. The old woman strode past him into the aisle.

“Make that bitch pay, Vixen. Make her pay!”

Kat and Vixen rolled around, kicking and screaming until Kat ended up on top, holding Vixen in a hammerlock. Valentine found himself yelling his head off. As the midget referee started to count Vixen out, he joined him.

“Three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .”

Then all hell broke loose.

Vixen's manager jumped into the ring. Grabbing Kat by the hair, he yanked her up, allowing Vixen to escape. He jerked Kat up and down. Then Vixen started slapping her face.

Kat was crying. Blood appeared beneath her nostril. Valentine ran down the aisle toward the ring. As he slipped through the ropes, the referee ran over.

“You're not allowed up here,” the referee said.

“So what's the grape doing?”

“He's her manager.”

“Well I'm Judo Queen's manager. Feel better?”

“It's just a job,” the referee said defensively.

“Yeah, and you stink at it.”

Valentine walked up to Vixen's manager and socked him on the jaw. The grape hit the canvas, dropping Kat. Valentine tried to break her fall, then heard a scream. Vixen landed on his back and dug her long fingernails into his arms.

He wasn't keen on fighting women but didn't see that he had much choice. Shifting his weight, he flipped her over his back. She hit the canvas like a bag of cement.

He helped Kat to her feet. The midget referee raised her arm into the air. The crowd was close to rioting they were having such a good time.

“How's your nose?” he shouted over the din.

“It's fine,” she said. “Haven't you ever seen food dye before?”

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

“You are one flaming asshole,” she informed him.

         

As it turned out, Kat and Vixen—whose real name was Gladys LaFong—were as tight as sisters. They had daughters in middle school together, and liked to share vegetarian recipes they found on the Internet. Gladys had been in the wrestling racket for five years. The grape, her husband, was Donny LaFong, the same Donny LaFong who'd played football for the Jets and fumbled the ball on a crucial play in the Super Bowl, putting him in the Hall of Shame with many other sports notables. In person, he was a hell of a nice guy, as Valentine found out when he tried to apologize.

“No problemo,” Donny said, pressing an ice pack to his swollen jaw. “They don't call it the hurt business for nothing.”

“I really feel bad,” Valentine said, glancing over to the corner of the dressing room where Kat and Gladys were huddled. “I really messed your act up, huh?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so,” Donny said, picking up a can of Bud with his free hand. “You want a cold one?”

“No, thanks. Is there someone I could call, explain what happened?”

“That's not how it works in the rassling business,” Donny explained.

“What do you mean?”

Donny killed his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “They call you. The promoters. They pull the strings. It's their show, and we're the hired clowns.”

“I'm really sorry,” Valentine said for the fifth time.

“Don't worry about it.”

Valentine put his hand on the big man's shoulder. “I was in the end zone when you ran that fumble in for a touchdown against Miami in the playoffs.”

Donny flashed him his best aw-shucks smile.

“Thanks for remembering,” he said.

Gladys and Kat were not nearly as forgiving. They sat with Donny's purple jacket spread between them, trying to stitch up the popped shoulders. Neither woman looked up when he came over. Valentine cleared his throat. “Hey, look, if there's any way I can repair what I did . . . please tell me.”

Gladys refused to acknowledge him. Without makeup she was a plain-looking, freckle-faced woman in her late thirties with an honest face and a soft Virginia twang. Kat said, “No, Tony, there isn't anything you can do.”

“Maybe I could call the promoter, explain what happened.”

Kat pulled him out of the dressing room into the tunnel. The night's final match was wrapping up, and the crowd's cheers rocked the building. Pinching his arm, she said, “Do you have any idea the trouble you've caused? We're not allowed to improvise, Tony, it's in our goddamned contracts.”

He swallowed hard. “I thought you were getting hurt. The way Donny was bouncing you around. I don't know . . . I just had to do something. I'm really sorry.”

“Somehow, that doesn't make me feel any better,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because it's a pattern with you. Remember the night we met? You climbed into the ring and knocked me down. Okay, maybe I deserved it, but it still didn't make it right. You can't just go jumping into things and beat people up.”

He started to reply, then stopped. He'd been knocking people down for most of his life, and had a sneaking suspicion that it was too late for him to stop.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“I think you've run out of those.”

He kicked at the floor. “I need a favor.”

She crossed her arms. “What's that?”

“Can I sleep on your couch tonight?”

Her hand slapped his face, the sound as loud as a popping balloon. He saw tears in her eyes. Storming into the dressing room, she slammed the door behind her.

         

Valentine wiped freshly fallen snow off the Mercedes' windshield before climbing in. Sticking the key in the ignition, he played with the radio and finally found Sinatra singing “That's Life” on a jazz show on the public station. He jacked up the volume. The song ended sooner than he would have hoped.

Sinatra had a way of making the world a lot clearer, and it occurred to Valentine that he'd run out of options. Taking out his cell phone, he turned the power on. He needed to call a couple of attorneys and get one to take his case. With an attorney's help, he'd work out his story, then call Davis and negotiate his surrender. He was going to have to go on the defensive, his life about to become a living hell. He decided to call Mabel, desperately needing a friendly voice to talk to.

“Oh, Tony, I'm so glad it's you,” his neighbor said.

“What's wrong?”

“I've got a woman named Lin Lin on the other line.”

“Is this about Yun?”

“Yes. Three thugs abducted him. The thugs told Lin Lin to get ahold of you.”

Valentine leaned his forehead on the cold steering wheel. “Did she say where they were taking him?”

“To a dojo, whatever that is. They told Lin Lin if she calls the police, they'll kill him.”

“Tell Lin Lin I'm going to the dojo right now.”

Mabel put him on hold. The parking lot was a zoo, with everyone trying to leave at once. Throwing the Mercedes into reverse, he backed out of the space, then threw the car into drive. With his hand stuck against the horn, he made his way to the front of the line. His neighbor returned.

“This has been an awful day,” she said.

“What's wrong?”

“Cujo attacked me.”

“You got the dog?”

“Yes. While I was fixing dinner, he tried to take a pork chop out of my hand. I hit him with a skillet right in the kisser and he started going at my ankles so I jumped up on the table so he couldn't get at me.”

“Where are you now?”

“I'm still standing on the table.”

“Why didn't you call the cops?”

“I did. There's a disturbance at the Seminole Indian reservation in Tampa. The operator said I would have to wait.”

“Maybe you should call a neighbor,” he suggested.

“Aren't you Mr. Helpful,” she said, and hung up.

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