“That’s all he seems to be afraid of.”
“What do you mean?”
“Skins was cheating, just like DeMarco’s cheating. But the governor is more interested in protecting the town’s interests than he is in protecting the integrity of his games.”
“Are you in trouble?”
There was always follow-up when a customer got escorted out of a casino, and it was usually negative.
“Probably,” he said.
“That’s terrible, Tony. Has that ever happened to you on a job before?”
Valentine shook his head. He’d been in the consulting racket for two years and never been treated like this before. It was a real low point. Gloria took his hand and gave it a squeeze. She was the one good thing that had come out of this job, and he supposed he could live with whatever happened.
Zack appeared. He’d slipped into the poker room and announced that Skins had lost over five million in chips to DeMarco on a bluff. On the very next hand, Skins had gone “all in,” shoved his remaining chips into the pot, and lost. He was now out of the tournament.
“Thanks for the update,” Gloria said.
They watched Zack walk away. Gloria squeezed his hand again. “See?” she asked.
“See what?” Valentine said.
“Every once in a while, the good guys dowin.”
Valentine wasn’t so sure. Skins’s loss had put DeMarco back in the leader’s spot. DeMarco was going to win the tournament and the damage would be done. He felt his cell phone vibrate and pulled it from his pocket. It was Bill.
“How much trouble am I in?” Valentine asked his friend.
It was rare for Bill to be at a loss for words. His friend coughed into the phone.
“I just got off the phone with the governor,” Bill said.
“He heard about what you just pulled with Skins Turner.”
“Was he angry?”
“Just a little. You’ve been barred from the tournament.”
34
“This had better be good,” Detective Joey Marconi said, driving south on Atlantic Avenue.
“Yeah,” Detective Eddie Davis said, sitting beside his partner. “You keep us waiting in the parking lot for an hour, this had better be realgood.”
Gerry Valentine sat in the backseat of Marconi’s car. He’d started reminiscing with Vinny Fountain inside Harold’s House of Pancakes and not only forgotten the time, but also the two detectives outside, neither of whom had slept in the past two days.
Marconi followed Vinny Fountain’s car on Atlantic Avenue. Vinny drove a souped-up Pontiac Firebird with racing stripes down both sides. Vinny had told Gerry that he could find out who’d made the gaffed Yankees cap found in Bally’s casino. Gerry had told Davis and Marconi, and the detectives had agreed to follow Vinny, but not without letting him know how pissed off they were.
“You have a good breakfast?” Davis asked.
“Just some coffee,” Gerry lied.
“How did you get that jelly stain on your chin?” Marconi wanted to know.
Gerry appraised his reflection in the window. The stain was on the point of his chin. Busted,he thought.
“It’s a birthmark,” Gerry said.
“You’re something else,” Marconi told him.
They drove to Margate City on the southernmost tip of the island. At Huntington Avenue, Vinny hung a left. Marconi followed him, and when Vinny parked on the street, Marconi pulled his vehicle directly behind him. It was a residential neighborhood of two-story shingled houses and small, well-kept yards. Across the street, a dog strained against its chain, barking at them.
“Any idea where we are?” Davis asked.
“This is where Vinny’s father lives,” Gerry said, checking the numbers on the doors. He’d known Vinny since junior high school and had come over here many times. The house looked smaller than he remembered, but so did most things on the island.
“Would you gentlemen mind staying here?” Gerry asked.
Davis and Marconi turned around and shot him wicked stares.
“Better not keep us waiting,” Marconi said, his lips hardly moving.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gerry said.
Vinny’s father, Angelo Fountain, was a professional tailor and ran his business out of the living room of his house, his customers getting fitted in front of a display case filled with black-and-white wedding pictures of Angelo and his late wife, Marie. In the case was also a sign: CHEAP CLOTHES ARE MADE, GARMENTS ARE BUILT.
The TV set was on when they came in, Jerry Springer reading off a card. Angelo was a small, delicate man, and balanced himself on the edge of the couch, a yellow tape measure hanging around his neck. He looked up in surprise.
“Get the hell out of my house,” he said.
Vinny stood in the foyer, unbuttoning his jacket. Gerry hung behind him.
“Didn’t you hear what I just told you?” his father asked.
“I’ve got a visitor with me,” his son said.
“Like that makes a difference? Who did you bring this time, John Gotti?”
“He’s dead, Pop.”
“Then I’m sure it’s someone just like him,” his father retorted. “Every time I turn around, the police are wanting to talk to me about you, or something you’ve done. My son, the professional crook.”
Gerry glanced at Vinny’s profile, wondering what effect this old man’s words were having on him. If the verbal assault bothered Vinny, he didn’t show it. Tugging his jacket off, Vinny tossed it on a chair and entered the living room.
“I brought an old friend with me,” Vinny said. “You remember Gerry Valentine, don’t you, Pop?”
Angelo Fountain had come to the United States on a boat from Italy, and had brought with him manners and class. He killed the TV with a remote, stood up, and graciously stuck out his hand. “Of course I remember. Tony Valentine’s boy.”
Gerry shook his hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“And you as well. Are you still running an illegal bookmaking operation?” Angelo Fountain asked.
There was an edge to his voice that made Gerry hesitate. He took out a business card, and handed it to the older man. “I gave up the rackets, Mr. Fountain. I’m working with my father now.”
Angelo Fountain removed his bifocals to study the card. In his late seventies, he wore a navy blue suit overlaid with a faint windowpane check. His spread-collar shirt was light blue, his necktie a soft red, as was his matching pocket foulard. He’d always dressed like a head of state, even though he rarely left the neighborhood.
“I thought your father retired,” Angelo said.
“He did,” Gerry said. “My mom passed away, and he went back to work as a consultant.”
“How long you work for him?”
“It’s going on six months.”
The older man’s face softened. “You like it?”
That was a loaded question if Gerry had ever heard one. His father could be a bear, and sometimes drove Gerry nuts. But it was an honest business, and he could tuck his daughter in at night knowing he wasn’t doing things she might someday be ashamed of.
“Love it,” Gerry said.
Angelo Fountain brewed a fresh pot of coffee and served his guests. Gerry had the foresight to ask him to make two extra cups, and took them outside to the two detectives parked by the curb.
“Service’s improving,” Marconi said.
Gerry grabbed the Yankees cap off the backseat. He hadn’t wanted to bring the cap into the house and just stick it under Mr. Fountain’s nose. Going back inside, he found Vinny and his father practically at blows.
“You’re a bum,” his father said.
“Says who?” Vinny replied.
“Every single person on this island.”
“I’ve never been convicted of a single crime,” his son protested.
“You and O.J. Simpson,” his father said.
Gerry made Vinny squinch over and sat down between father and son on the couch. They stopped arguing, with Angelo glaring at his son.
“Mr. Fountain, I need your help,” Gerry said, handing him the cap. “This baseball cap turned up during a case. Vinny thinks you might be able to tell me who stitched it.”
Angelo Fountain examined the receiver and LEDs sewn into the cap’s rim. His hands were small and fine-boned, the skin almost translucent. A minute passed. He was taking too long, and Gerry guessed it was someone he knew and didn’t want to snitch on. The locals were famous for closing ranks when it came to protecting one another.