“Anything notdestroyed?”
“They spared the breakfast table,” D’Amato said.
Valentine found Lois sitting at the breakfast table, her face buried in her hands. He touched her shoulder, and she jumped up and stuck her head against his chest and began to sob. They had never had much money, and she treasured the few things of value they had. “I brought Gerry home from school, and found the place like this,” she said. “He was so upset, I sent him next door. They destroyed his record collection and his phonograph.”
“You think it was other kids?”
“I don’t think kids would use knives to rip out the stuffing in the mattresses in our beds, do you?”
Valentine blinked. In the living room he’d seen where the burglars had kicked a wall in, and the significance of the act hadn’t registered. Holding his wife’s shoulders, he said, “No one was hurt. We can always replace this stuff. Remember that.”
Lois looked up into his face.
“With what money?” she said.
They heard the back door open. D’Amato’s partner stepped into the kitchen. Valentine had seen him down at the station house before. His name was Dolce, and he had a friendly face and an easy-going manner. Seeing them, Dolce took his hat off.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Dolce said.
Valentine mumbled the word thanks.
“I walked the property and had a talk with your neighbors on both sides,” Dolce said. “No one appears to have seen anything.”
“How about in the alleyway behind the house?”
“Nothing,” Dolce said.
“So these burglars waltzed in during the middle of the afternoon, destroyed my house, and no one saw a thing,” Valentine said.
“One of your neighbors was in the basement doing laundry. The other is sick, and was sleeping.”
Valentine lived on a busy street. Someone had seen something. Only no one was coming forward. It confirmed his suspicions, and he said, “Do you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?”
“I’ll be with my partner if you need me,” Dolce said.
Valentine took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with cold water, and handed it to his wife. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”
Lois held the glass with trembling hands and took a long swallow. “Is that what you tell people who’ve been burglarized?”
“No. I tell them I’m going to find the people who did it, and make them pay.”
“You have to know who they are first.”
“I know who did this,” he said.
Lois put the glass onto the table. “You do?”
“Yes. Now promise me you won’t repeat that to these officers.”
A look of uncertainty crept into her face. “Okay,” she said.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He went to the kitchen door and opened it. Stepping outside, he shut the door behind him. The weather had turned bitter, yet he did not feel the cold, nor hear the howling wind, the bam bam bamof his heart blocking it out. He hurried across the backyard, tripping over Gerry’s outdoor toys — stuff he and Lois planned to give away once they accepted that Gerry was no longer a little boy — and stopped at the fence.
In the corner of his yard sat an ugly concrete bird bath. The previous owner had left it because it was too heavy to move. He stared at the spot in the ground where he’d buried the Prince’s address book, and, just a few nights ago, the surveillance tape from Resorts. The ground around the bird bath was undisturbed. He felt his heart beat return to normal, and turned back toward the house. He had to deal with this right now, or he had to walk away. There was simply no other choice.
He crossed the yard and saw Lois step onto the back porch.
“I want to know who did this to us,” she said.
“Nucky Balducci,” he replied.
Chapter 22
Every town in the state of New Jersey had at least one fancy restaurant that was run by the mob. Hoodlums had to eat somewhere.
The restaurant in Atlantic City which bore this distinction was called Lou Sonken’s. Although the cuisine was northern Italian, the interior resembled a French bordello, with naked statuary and red carpeted walls hung with paintings of plump nudes. No cop Valentine knew had ever eaten there.
He parked in a vacant lot across the street, then jogged over in the shadows, trying to avoid the valets, most of them were thugs just out of prison who needed work. He slipped inside the front door, and was spotted by the maitre d’, a weasel in an ill-fitting tux. As he tried to enter the restaurant, the maitre d’ blocked his way.
“I’m sorry, but we’re booked solid,” the maitre d’ said.
“Go back to your little stand,” Valentine said.
“But —”
“Or I’ll arrest you.”
The maitre d’ retreated, and Valentine walked down a foyer covered with photos of Lou Sonken shaking hands with every mafia kingpin who’d ever stepped foot in Atlantic City. Entering the restaurant, his eyes canvassed the dimly lit room. Nucky Balducci’s bald head popped up like a buoy in a sea of slime. He sat at a corner table, inhaling a plate of clam linguine. Luther sat beside him, gnawing on a pork chop. As Valentine approached, Luther rose up in his chair. Valentine put his hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder, and drove him into his seat.
“One word out of you, and I’ll cuff you,” Valentine said.
Luther’s mouth clamped shut. Nucky continued to twirl linguini on his fork. “Why don’t you pull up a chair, and join us,” the old gangster said.
Valentine borrowed a chair from a nearby table without asking the diners if they minded. As he sat down, his legs hit the table, disturbing the two men’s drinks. Luther reached out and stilled both glasses.
“How you been?” Nucky asked.
“Shitty.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Valentine took out his wallet, and dropped it on the table so his detective’s badge was showing. Nucky glanced at it.
“You here on business, huh?”
“You’re psychic.”
“Want something to eat?”
“No. Do you know my partner, Doyle Flanagan?”
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Doyle says he could stop all the break-ins and burglaries in this town by putting four guys in jail. Four guys do all the jobs.”
“No kidding,” Nucky said.
“Doyle says it’s easy to tell which burglar is which. One always drinks a beer and leaves the empty. Another’s into lady’s underwear. The third pisses on bathroom floors. I won’t tell you what the fourth does, too disgusting. Problem is, we never have enough evidence to put them away.”
Nucky put his fork down. “What does this have to do with me?”
The rest of the diners had started to file out of the restaurant. Valentine glanced up at the smokey mirror hanging behind Nucky’s shaved head. In its reflection, Lou Sonken and two big waiters stood in the doorway, waiting for Nucky to call them in. Valentine turned around in his chair. “Get back in your cages,” he told them.
Lou and his apes did not move.
“Do as he says,” Nucky ordered them.
The three men went away. Nucky leaned into the table and dropped his voice.
“Explain yourself, will you, Tony? The suspense is killing me.”
“My house got broken into this afternoon. The guy who did it wasn’t one of those four guys. And he was looking for something.”
“You think I know?”
“You run this town, don’t you?”
Nucky balled up his napkin and tossed it onto his bowel of unfinished pasta. “You’re not wearing a wire, are you?”
Valentine rose an inch out of his chair.
“Okay, calm down. Luther, take a powder, will you?”
The bodyguard excused himself from the table. When he was gone, Nucky explained the situation. “You’ve been seen around town with a couple of feds.”
“So?”
“People are getting nervous.”