Funny Money (5 page)

8

Davis

V
alentine pulled into an empty space at the Atlantic City Metro Police headquarters lot and killed the Mercedes engine. He hated to admit it, but the car was growing on him. It was built like a tank and clung to the road like a piece of gum. He liked safe, always had, and the car was the epitome of that. He locked the Glock in the glove compartment, then took Doyle's notebook off the passenger seat.

Walking through the front door of police headquarters, he passed through a metal detector, then entered an L-shaped room with plastic benches screwed into the walls. Forlorn-looking people sat in groups, talking among themselves. A teenager with a crying baby, her mother, and grandmother; a family of Chinese; a blind man, his guide dog, and doting wife.

On the far side of the room, a familiar face sat behind bullet-proof glass. Alice Torkalowski held up a finger, then said good-bye to someone on the phone.

“That was a great story you told at the funeral,” she said.

“Thanks.” He hadn't seen Alice at the funeral, but she was only four-four and got missed a lot. “How you been?”

“Up for retirement next June. Don't know if I should take the plunge or not. You liking it?”

Valentine shook his head. “I'm working again.”

“That bad?”

“I didn't count anymore,” he said, knowing that of all the people in the station house, Alice would understand this statement, having lived in the shadows of others all her life. “I opened up a consulting business.”

“Let me guess. You're making more money than before,” she said, cracking her gum.

“That wouldn't be too hard. Is Detective Davis around?”

Alice punched a button on the console of her phone, then put the receiver to her ear. “Hey, Shaft, Mr. Tony Valentine in the lobby to see you. Shake a leg.”

“Shaft?” Valentine said.

Alice smiled. “That's what I call him. He looks just like the actor who played Shaft. Real snappy dresser. Handsome, too.”

“You mean Samuel L. Jackson?”

“No,” she said, “the first Shaft. What's his name . . .”

Valentine couldn't remember the actor's name either. Alice's phone lit up. She started punching in buttons and answered the first line.
Take care,
she mouthed.

He sat on a bench and waited for Davis to come out. Alice had been around a long time. So long that she knew the score. So, when a stylishly dressed African-American appeared in the lobby a minute later, he tried to treat him like anyone else, knowing damn well that only a handful of blacks had ever risen to the rank of detective in Atlantic City.

“The
Tony Valentine?” Davis asked.

Valentine smiled, instantly liking him. “That's me.”

“Ed Davis. My friends call me Eddie. I'm guessing you're here about Doyle Flanagan.”

“I am.” He'd been carrying Doyle's notebook beneath his armpit and handed it over. “Doyle's wife found this. I thought you'd want to have a look.”

Over coffee in the cafeteria, Davis browsed through Doyle's notes. Looking up, he said, “You read this, I suppose.”

“No, I sealed it with Scotch tape and ran over here. Of course I read it.”

Davis's eyebrows rose an inch. “Any idea what this stuff means?”

A cop Valentine knew passed by, and they shook hands. When he was gone, Valentine said, “I was hoping you'd tell me. Your cell number's on the first page.”

Davis dropped the notebook on the linoleum table. “You conducting an investigation of your own?”

“Archie Tanner hired me.”

Davis smiled. “Must be nice, working for yourself.”

Valentine's consulting work paid well, only talking about it made him uncomfortable. He finished his coffee in silence. Davis drummed his fingertips on the table.

“Let me guess,” the detective said. “Five hundred a day, plus expenses.”

Valentine crumpled the Styro cup in his hand. “I was hoping we could share information. If you're not interested, I'll get out of your hair.”

“A grand,” Davis said. “You make a grand a day, don't you? Man, what a life.”

Valentine found his attitude toward the detective changing. What he made was none of Davis's business. He stood up to leave. Davis rose as well.

“You mind my asking you a question?” the detective asked.

“What's that?”

“I heard a story that you once caught a blackjack dealer cheating, only you were standing with your back to him. That true?”

Valentine nodded that it was.

“You got eyes in the back of your head?”

“What do you think?”

Davis scratched his chin. “Then how could you see what he was doing?”

“I didn't.”

“Come again?”

“I didn't see anything,” Valentine told him. “My eyes were closed.”

“Your eyes were closed?” Davis crossed his arms, clearly perplexed.

“I heard it,” Valentine said.

“Heard what?”

“He was dealing a deuce.”

“What's that?”

“He was dealing seconds.”

“The second card from the top?”

Valentine nodded. “A second deal makes a tiny click when it comes off the deck. Even the best card mechanic can't hide it. Whenever I suspect a dealer of dealing seconds, I stand next to his table, close my eyes, and listen.”

Davis smiled. It had obviously been bugging him. He stuck his hand out. Valentine shook it. It was a common trick in police work to wait until the end of a conversation to ask a loaded question, and Valentine took a chance.

“So what was Doyle talking to you about, anyway?”

Davis nearly fell for it, then caught the words as they started to come out of his mouth.

“None of your business,” he replied.

         

Valentine turned up his collar while walking through the parking lot. Eighteen months in Florida and his blood had already thinned out. Hearing footsteps, he turned to see a guy that bore a striking resemblance to Gerry walking behind him. The guy's clothes were old and dirty, and Valentine watched him walk out of the lot and down the street, hands shoved in his pockets.

Sitting behind the Mercedes' wheel, Valentine felt a wave of guilt sweep over him. Why was he trying to solve everyone else's problems while ignoring Gerry? He needed to help his son, no matter how angry his boy made him.

Then he had an idea.

AT&T had a great service that let him get a phone number from anywhere in the country for fifty cents. A minute later he was laying it on thick to a police sergeant at the police precinct near his son's bar in Brooklyn.

“. . . and the next thing I know, some hood named Big Tony Mollo has taken over my bar and is running things.”

“And this Big Tony is no relation, nor in your employment,” the sergeant said skeptically.

“No, sir,” Valentine replied.

“What is your son's relation to Big Tony?”

“The same as his father's.”

“Your son doesn't know him?”

“No, sir,” Valentine lied.

“Why do you think Big Tony took it upon himself to take over your bar?”

“Beats me.”

“You said you were a retired cop?”

Valentine gave him his credentials. He heard the sergeant's fingers tapping away on a computer keyboard, checking him out.

“Here you are,” the sergeant said. “Thirty years on the force. Two citations for bravery. I'm impressed.”

“Just doing the good Lord's work,” Valentine said.

The sergeant reeled off the name of every cop he'd ever known in Atlantic City. Finally he said a name Valentine knew. They traded stories. Satisfied, the sergeant said, “Okay, Tony, so what would you like done with this unwanted visitor on your property.”

“Get rid of him.”

“You don't want us to press charges?”

“Only if he resists. I have no gripe with this guy.”

“That's very decent of you, Tony,” the sergeant said.

“I'm getting soft in my old age,” Valentine confessed.

9

Honey

A
ccording to the scuttle at Doyle's funeral, the bomb that had killed him was pretty fancy. A quarter pound of cyclotrimethylene trinitramine, commonly called RDX, attached to a mercury switch. A trucker inside the McDonald's had likened the explosion to overheating a bag of popcorn in a microwave, with pieces of car flying in every direction.

Because Doyle's cell phone had briefly stayed on, Valentine had assumed it had landed behind a bush or beneath a car. He'd also assumed a cop on the scene would find the phone, and a check would have been run to see whom Doyle was talking to. That would have led to the police's contacting him and grilling him to find out what he and Doyle had been talking about.

Only none of this had happened.

Leaving Atlantic City Metro Police headquarters, he drove to the McDonald's where his partner had died, just to see if the police had forgotten to look someplace obvious.

He parked behind the restaurant. Hard as it was for him to spend money, he was starting to understand how people got attached to these cars. Smooth ride, great seats, an unreal sound system. He needed new wheels. Why not a Mercedes?

He took a walk around the property. It sat on a small parcel of land. There was a handful of trees, the rest of the landscape lunar. He decided he wanted to get on a higher elevation. Going inside, he found a pimply kid mopping floors and stuck a sawbuck in his hand. His name badge said
Harold.
Valentine whispered in Harold's ear what he wanted.

Harold met him behind the restaurant, ladder in hand. Propping the ladder against the wall, he pointed at his watch. “Sixty seconds. Just like we agreed.”

“Right.”

“The clock's ticking.”

Valentine scampered up the ladder. He walked around the roof edge, and to his surprise, saw a cell phone sitting near an air vent. Picking it up, he rubbed its cold blue steel against his pant leg. The explosion had blown its cover off, but otherwise it appeared intact.

A flicker of silver caught his eye. Out of the snow he plucked a silver dollar–size coin. It looked real, only instead of Eisenhower's profile it was stamped with Archie Tanner's grinning mug. Funny Money.

“Hurry up,” Harold called.

He climbed down the ladder. Reaching the bottom, he shoved the items he'd found on the roof into his pocket.

“What did you find?” Harold asked.

“None of your business.”

“You're not going to split what you found?”

“Why should I?”

“I thought we were partners,” the boy said with righteous indignation.

Valentine looked at him scornfully. Harold had carrot red hair and enough rings on his face to hang a shower curtain. A sullen-faced manager came around the corner.

“Harold? What the hell's going on?”

Harold spelled it out to him. Traitor. Walking over to the Mercedes, Valentine got in and drove away.

         

When you threw in tax and the extra battery the cute salesgirl at the AT&T store talked him into buying, the charger for Doyle's cell phone set Valentine back fifty bucks. It was ridiculous: People were spending a small fortune to do something that only cost a quarter. It was like the four dollar coffee at Starbucks, and ten dollars to see a first-run movie. Someday, everyone would be a millionaire, and a burger would cost a grand.

Sitting in his motel room, he plugged the charger into the wall and Doyle's cell phone lit up in his hand. The salesgirl had thrown in an instruction manual, and he taught himself how to access the phone's memory bank and scrolled through it. It contained six names.

Guy. Sean. Home. Tom. Tony. Honey.

Valentine stared at the last name. Who was Honey? Doyle had never mentioned her. That wasn't like him. Then he had an unsettling thought. Was Doyle seeing someone on the side?

The idea seemed absurd. When it came to women, Doyle was like him: a square. They'd both married their high school sweethearts, both stayed loyal through thick and thin. Only the evidence was staring him in the face.

He pulled a Diet Coke out of a paper bag and popped it. Whoever this woman was, he needed to talk to her. Chances were, she knew something. That was the real reason guys had girlfriends. You could get sex just about anywhere these days. But finding someone to talk to, that was tough.

He retrieved Honey's number and hit Send. After three rings a woman's groggy voice said, “Yes?”

It was nearly two in the afternoon. What kind of woman slept this late? Then he had a bad thought. What if it was someone he knew? Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said, “Is this Honey?”

The woman caught her breath.

“I'm a friend of Doyle's,” he said.

The phone went dead in his hand. He finished his Diet Coke, wondering how many more unpleasant items he was going to discover about his old pal.

Something in his bones told him Gerry was trying to call him. Taking out his own cell phone, he dialed into voice mail and found a lone message awaiting him.

“Pop, do you have any idea what you've done?” his son said. “The cops raided the bar and arrested Big Tony. They told him
you'd
sent them!
How could you do this to me?

“Now Big Tony's brothers are looking for me! Goddamn it, Pop, I'm a dead man. Do you understand?
A dead man!
This is the last time I ever ask you for help.
The last time!”

He erased the message. You try to help out, he thought, and look where it gets you. The door to his room banged open. A Mexican chambermaid pushing a vacuum came in. Plugging the vacuum into the wall, she started cleaning.

“Come back later!” he yelled over the vacuum's roar.

She smiled sweetly, not understanding a word.

“Later,” he yelled, pointing at his watch.

She pointed at his cell phone. He looked down; it was all lit up. Crossing the room, he unplugged her.

“Later,” he said. “Please.”

He chained the door behind her, waited a minute, then dialed into voice mail. It was Frank Porter.

“Call me,” Porter said.

Valentine called him.

“Guess who just waltzed into The Bombay,” Porter said.

It sounded like the opening line of a joke.

“Jimmy Hoffa?”

“The European. He's already won five grand.”

Valentine felt his heart start to race. The Bombay was on the north side of town, a good ten-minute drive from his motel.

“I'll be there in five.”

“Meet you by the front door,” Porter said.