Wild Card
James Swain
Copyright © 2010 by James Swain
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Edition: September 2010
For Nancy J. Barbara and Israel Hirsch, whose memories fill this book
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
Author Note
I can never guess
What tomorrow brings
I don’t hear the song
That the mermaid sings —
I don’t care. For I find
It’s enough for me
Just once in a while
To believe I see
Past the dealer’s guard…
That
Next
Card.
Nick the Greek
November, 1979
November, 1979
Chapter 1
“Wake up.”
Detective Tony Valentine of the Atlantic City Police Department blinked awake. Doyle Flanagan, his partner and best friend, was pointing at the binoculars lying in his lap. Embarrassed, Valentine handed them over.
“You spot him?” Valentine asked, smothering a yawn.
“I’m not sure.” Doyle lifted the binoculars to his eyes.
It was six A.M., and they were sitting in a pushcart chained to the Boardwalk’s metal railing. During the summer, pushcart men dragged tourists up and down the Boardwalk, two bucks a ride. It was a custom that dated back to the turn of the century, when Atlantic City had been the country’s most famous resort town.
Fifty yards from where they sat was a neon-lit monstrosity called Resorts Atlantic City. Resorts was New Jersey’s first foray into legalized gambling, and already generating more money than all the other businesses on the island combined.
“Got him,” Doyle said. “He’s coming out the front doors.”
Valentine followed the direction of Doyle’s finger, and spied the bouncing dread-locks of a notorious pimp named Prince D. Smith. Recently, the Prince had spread his wings, and his girls were now working Resorts hotel. The Prince was also a wanted felon, and they had planned to arrest him inside the hotel lobby, only to have their superior squash the idea.
“The governor doesn’t want any bad publicity inside Resorts,” Captain Banko had told them. “Arrest the Prince when he’s outside. That’s an order.”
So they’d taken to hiding in a pushcart. Climbing out, they shook the life into their legs, and jogged to the casino. They were dressed identically: faded blue jeans, baggy sweatshirts, and New York Yankees baseball caps. That was where the similarities ended. Doyle was five-nine, thin and wiry, his face dusted with freckles, with a mane of red hair that made him look as Irish as Pattie’s pig. Valentine was four inches taller, broad-shouldered and weighed two hundred pounds, with jet-black hair and coloring that betrayed his Sicilian heritage.
The crowd leaving the casino was moving to its own rhythm. Resorts was a spruced-up pile of bricks in a crumbling city — “A shit house with carpet,” proclaimed a dirty-mouthed comic the opening night — yet no one seemed to care. People came here to gamble, and every night since Resorts had opened, thousands had packed its floors.
Doyle attempted to push his way through the crowd. Stymied, he flashed his badge. “Police,” he announced loudly.
Pimps had better hearing that most dogs. The Prince’s head snapped. Seeing them, he started to run. Valentine drew a snub-nosed.38 from his pocket holster.
“ Out of the way!” he exclaimed.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and the two detectives ran past the fountain in front of the casino. The Prince had gotten a good jump on them, and was already a block away. He had a long, relaxed gait, and did not seem concerned that he was being pursued.
“I’m right behind you,” Doyle said.
Valentine hadn’t lost a foot race in years. He picked up the pace, and saw the Prince jump into a pink Cadillac with a Rolls Royce grill. The Caddy pulled away from the curb just as Valentine caught up.
“I’m going to get you!” he declared.
The driver’s window came down, and the Prince flipped him the bird. It made his blood boil and he continued to run, not seeing the monster pothole in the middle of the street.
Valentine didn’t know which hurt more; not catching the Prince, or falling down and tearing out the knees of his jeans. They were his favorite pair, and he sat in an unmarked car with his partner, cursing his luck.
“Maybe the department will reimburse you,” Doyle said.
“Maybe the moon will fall out of the sky,” Valentine replied.
“Look on the bright side. Our shift just ended.”
“Let’s get something to eat. My treat.”
They drove to the Howard Johnson’s on the north end of the island. There were plenty of good places to eat in Atlantic City —the White House Sub Shop, Angelo’s Tavern, Tony’s Baltimore Grille — but Hojo’s coffee was always fresh. Pulling into the lot, they both stared at an Out of Businesssign made to look like a funeral notice hanging in the window. Through the window Valentine saw that the restaurant’s trademark ice cream churn was gone. No more twenty-eight flavors,he thought.
“Guess they couldn’t compete with Resorts’ $1.99 buffet,” Doyle said.
“Guess not.”
Resorts had the cheapest food in town, and was driving the local restaurants out of business. The politicians had said that legalized gambling would be a boom to Atlantic City. So far, the only boom had been inside the casino.