Funny Money (22 page)

“You know what bugs me, Archie?”

The casino owner was also sweating. He shook his head.

“You turned these people against you. Your employees weren't thieves when they started to work for you. You
made
them into thieves.”

Archie stared straight ahead. And said nothing.

Valentine approached the bridge that would take them over the Intercoastal waterway and back to the real world of fast food and normal-priced cars. On the middle of the bridge a red light began to flash. The traffic stopped in both directions.

He threw the rental into park, then watched the drawbridge go up. A yacht motored through, the ship's captain playfully tooting his horn. A loud
Bang!
made both men jump.

Valentine didn't move, his eyes fixed on the dime-size hole that had appeared in the BMW's windshield. He watched the glass crack in a thousand places, then realized what had happened.

Someone was shooting at them.

Dropping down, he stared at the white-haired geezers in the Jaguar in front of them. They looked harmless, and he glanced in his rearview mirror at two kids necking in a Jeep.

Where had the shot come from?

He felt a second bullet whiz by his ear. Spinning around, he saw where two black holes had appeared in the backseat. Then understood.

Brandi had another gun.

He had his door open when he felt Archie's hand touch his waistband.

“No!”

Holding the pearl-handled revolver with both hands, Archie fired through the backseat's upholstery, not stopping until the gun's chamber was empty. Valentine slapped his hands over his ears.

Then the bridge lowered and traffic started moving again.

39

The Squarest Guy
in Atlantic City

L
ong-term parking at West Palm Beach airport was deserted. Valentine parked under a halogen light, then pushed a button that popped the trunk. Then he and Archie got out and had a look.

Brandi lay on her back, her lifeless eyes staring into space. Six bullets had penetrated the trunk and riddled her body. As they stared, flies appeared and became stuck in puddles of blood that coagulated around their legs. Valentine waved them away and started to shut the trunk. Then he noticed the tiny revolver clutched in Brandi's right hand. A two-shot Derringer.

They walked over to a stand to wait for the shuttle that would take them to a terminal. During the ride over, a portion of the windshield had disintegrated, and he hoped it wouldn't be too long before airport security would be around to have a look.

“It was self-defense,” Archie said.

Valentine thought about the two-shot. Archie had probably bought it for her. Which meant he knew she was out of bullets.

“Bullshit,” he said.

Archie clutched his arm. “Listen to me, you stupid guinea fuck.
It was self-defense.
Say otherwise, and I'll make sure the district attorney presses charges against you for shooting up The Bombay.”

Valentine pulled his arm free. Porter had said that Brandi hadn't told anyone how Archie was skimming The Bombay. It was her trump card, and it had died with her.

A jet took off from a nearby runway. Then a tram came by, and they got on it.

         

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting on a runway in Archie's private Lear jet. Archie swore the pilot could be trusted—“He's worked for me for ten years”—but that hadn't stopped Valentine from searching the cockpit for weapons.

Soon they were airborne. Archie got up and fixed them drinks, his fingers dropping ice cubes on the floor. He handed Valentine a Diet Coke in a plastic cup, then took the seat directly across from him. Killing another human being did something even to the worst people, and his face had taken on a gallows pallor. Valentine sucked down his drink in one long swallow.

Twenty-five minutes later, Jacksonville came into view. North of the city, paper mills spewed pillars of soot, the smoke dotting the night sky in lazy exclamation points. Valentine got up and poured himself another soda. Then he took a cell phone off the minibar and tossed it to Archie.

“You need to call the New Jersey attorney general. Have him call a homicide detective named Davis. I've got a number where Davis is hiding out. Davis is the only policeman in Atlantic City he should call.”

“Davis is square?” Archie asked.

“He's square. Tell the attorney general to pass this message along. When the police raid your casino, Davis needs to watch where the employees run to. Wherever they run to, he needs to get to as quickly as he can.”

Archie made the call. The attorney general was in bed and barked his displeasure loudly enough so Valentine could hear. Archie gave him the full story. Hanging up, he said, “He's calling Davis right now.”

“Now you need to call the Palm Beach police and tell them about Brandi's body in the rental at the airport.”

Archie stared at the phone, then tossed it aside.

“Let her sit for a few hours.”

“Call them.”

“Forget it,” the casino owner said.

Valentine was too tired to argue. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes. He felt his body melt into the soft cushions.

He thought of Brandi's corpse in the trunk of the rental. It was a hot night in Palm Beach. A few hours would be ghastly. Suddenly his eyes snapped open. Then he undid his seat belt and stood up.

Maybe it was the fact that he'd slept so little over the past few days. Or just witnessed another life senselessly wasted. Or maybe it was the sad realization that he'd never pick up the phone and hear Doyle Flanagan's voice again . . .

Whatever it was, it put a crack in his inner resolution. Placing his hands around Archie's throat, he started to choke him, spilling Bloody Mary on the casino owner's ruffled shirt and tuxedo jacket. He tried to scream, and Valentine squeezed as hard as he could.

He had no idea killing someone could be so much fun.

40

Big Mac, Large Fries

B
runo, Davis's German shepherd, had been in K9 for ten years. Then they'd retired him. And because the police were senseless, he was supposed to be taken to the pound and put to sleep. It was what happened to a lot of K9 dogs.

Davis had been the one who'd taken Bruno on his final car ride. On the way, he'd gone to his house and put the dog inside the garage. Then he'd driven to the pound and explained to the man on duty how Bruno had escaped when he'd let him out to pee.

“Happens a lot with K9 dogs,” the man had said.

Which had made Davis feel better, knowing he wasn't the first cop who'd broken the rules to save an animal that had been more loyal than most of his partners. When he'd gotten home, Bruno had greeted him like there was no tomorrow, like he'd known the score.

Which was why finding the dog shot dead with a piece of pant leg in his mouth had snapped a chord in Davis. He would never own another dog like Bruno. It was that simple.

The attorney general's telephone call had come at a few minutes past eleven. Hanging up, Davis had gotten his Sig Sauer, then kissed his girlfriend good-bye. Getting in his car, he'd driven to his own house, which was only a few blocks from his girlfriend's. He'd pulled up behind Coleman and Marconi's unmarked Chevy and killed the engine.

Coleman and Marconi had been parked beneath a streetlight in front of Davis's house since eight, waiting for him to come home. Davis flashed his brights, then got out, holding the Sig Sauer loosely by his side.

Coleman and Marconi stepped out of the Chevy. They'd also drawn their weapons, the barrels pointed at the ground.

“Hey,” Marconi said, like nothing was wrong.

“Hey,” Davis replied.

They'd had a beer together once. Marconi had told him about getting bit in the face, and all the taunting at school. Davis had felt sorry for him and paid for their drinks.

“Which one of you shot my dog?” Davis asked.

The detectives stared at him.

“Say what?” Marconi said.

“You heard me.”

Coleman made a move. Davis shot him and Marconi before either man could get off a round. Something he'd practiced for years, but never figured he'd have to use. Or ever wanted to.

The detectives lay bleeding in the street. Lights went on up and down the block. Davis went over and disarmed them, then pulled back both mens' pant legs. A white bandage was taped to the side of Marconi's left ankle. A spot of blood had seeped through the dressing.

“Figures,” Davis said.

         

Valentine awoke as the jet started to land, his ears popping. He saw Archie sitting across from him, talking on a cell phone. Why was it only in dreams that he did the things he wanted to?

They landed at Bader Field, the snow-covered landscape a grim reminder of winter's presence. The jet taxied to the runway's end where three unmarked police cars waited.

As Archie stepped off the plane, a detective offered him a coat. Davis, dressed in blue jeans and a North Carolina University sweatshirt, approached with his credentials in hand. “We raided The Bombay twenty minutes ago and started arresting your employees. The TV reporters showed up not long after. I figured you'd want to speak to them first.”

“Couldn't you have arrested them at home,” Archie said, stamping his feet on the frozen ground. “Did you have to turn it into a fucking three-ring circus?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Tanner, but I'm not in public relations.”

“Don't get cute with me,” Archie said. “Where the hell is the attorney general, anyway? Did the governor send any of his people?
Where is everybody?”

Valentine glanced at the men sent out to meet Archie. All cops. The governor and the attorney general hadn't sent anyone because being associated with Archie was about as wise as shaking hands with a leper, a fact that everyone on the tarmac seemed to appreciate except Archie.

“I
made
the governor of this fucking state,” he spouted indignantly. “Did any of you know that? I bankrolled his last campaign and put him into office, the ungrateful rat bastard.”

There was not enough ground for the cops to stare at. Only Davis seemed unmoved by Archie's tirade, his broad shoulders holding firm against the punishing wind.

“I'm sure you did,” the detective allowed.

“You dissing me, detective?”

“Just telling you the way things are,” Davis replied. He pointed to the three cars parked beside the runway. “Let's go.”

         

Had Valentine not known better, he would have thought the president was in town. Hundreds of police sawhorses surrounded The Bombay, choking traffic for blocks. Behind the blockade, Atlantic City's finest were conducting the largest single bust in their history, with hundreds of handcuffed prisoners waiting in line to be carted off to jail.

The local media had set up camp, the talking heads basking in artificial light as they told their stories. Seeing Archie step out of a car, they converged like sharks, only to be repelled by Davis and the other detectives. Archie ducked into The Bombay with Valentine by his side.

The casino was a shambles, with chairs and gaming tables smashed to bits. Slot machines had been destroyed, roulette wheels cracked in half, the legs taken off craps tables and used to bash in the casino's expensive decorations. Instead of going quietly, Archie's employees had wrecked the joint.

A gang of dealers and pit bosses had barricaded themselves in the Hard Count room. The police had tried to talk them out, and when that hadn't worked, brought in a battering ram to knock down the door. Valentine watched the police do their thing. Had he missed something when he'd looked at the Hard Count room through Porter's computer? He tried to imagine what.

Then the door came down.

“Kill them,” Archie shouted.

The police nearly did just that. Using their billy clubs, they beat the dealers and pit bosses senseless.

When the employees were subdued, Valentine went into the room. The scales and coin-counting machines had been smashed. Buckets of coins had been dumped on the floor. He knelt down and picked up a handful. It was both Funny Money and the real stuff.

Then he noticed a sign on the wall. It read This Scale, Funny Money Only.
How simple,
he thought.

Then he heard someone say his name.

Davis stood in the doorway, grim-faced. Valentine followed him out of the Hard Count room. In the casino, the dealers and pit bosses had been handcuffed and were being led away in a line. Archie was with them, kicking his employees and cursing.

         

Outside, it had started to snow, the flakes swirling around Davis's Thunderbird in miniature cyclones. The detective drove away with his windshield wipers on their highest setting.

Valentine assumed they were going to the police station. Davis would want to sit him down in front of a tape recorder and explain what had happened so the prosecutors would be clear on exactly what crimes had been committed. It was a common procedure, something he did all the time.

Only the exit for the police station came and went. When Davis put on his indicator five miles later, Valentine didn't have a clue where they were headed.

The Thunderbird skidded down an icy road. Through the whirl of snow, Valentine saw a pair of familiar golden arches. It was the McDonald's where Doyle had bought the farm. A pair of police cruisers were parked in front, their bubbles acting like strobe lights in the storm.

“The manager called it in twenty minutes ago,” Davis explained. “He asked that we keep it quiet, seeing that Doyle got murdered here last week.”

Davis pulled into the lot and waved at one of the cops. The uniform walked over, blowing steam off his coffee. He had the face of a fifteen-year-old. Lowering his window, Davis said, “Tell me you didn't touch anything.”

“No, sir,” the uniform said. “We left it just like we found it.”

Davis edged the Thunderbird around back and parked. He removed a flashlight from the glove compartment and led Valentine across the lot to where Frank Porter's mini-Mercedes was parked.

The flashlight's beam found Porter sitting behind the wheel. On his lap sat a cardboard tray. In it, a Big Mac, large fries, and a thick shake. Still clutched in Frank's hand was the gun he'd eaten for dessert, the slug having passed through the back of his skull and painted the rear window. The burger was half-eaten, and Valentine wondered what had caused Frank to lose his appetite and decide to end things. What sudden insight had made him wake up and realize the horrible things he'd done?

He went to the bushes and threw up.

“Jesus!” Davis exclaimed.

“What?” he gasped.

“He
moved.”

Valentine took the flashlight from Davis's hand. Opening the driver's door, he shone the beam onto the dead man's face. Porter had fallen onto the wheel and appeared to be grinning. Valentine closed his eyes with his fingertips. The flashlight caught a piece of paper sticking out of Porter's pocket.

“Go ahead,” Davis said.

Valentine held the paper so they could both read it.

To Whoever finds this note:

Please tell my friends that I know what I did was wrong. I just didn't know how to stop it.

F. P.                  

Valentine put the note back into Porter's pocket. Then whispered in his friend's ear.

“You stupid bastard,” he said.