“Think you’re up for the job, detective?” she asked.
Valentine nodded and said, “Yes ma’am.”
“Then it’s yours,” she said.
Chapter 38
“Your tip led to the biggest bust here in ten years,” Bill Higgins said over the phone that night. His voice was slightly raised, and he sounded happy. “A group of employees at the Stardust had rigged the scales used to weigh coins from the slot machines. They were stealing thirty-five grand a day in quarters. It was going on right in front of our noses.”
Valentine smiled into the receiver. “You nail the whole gang?”
“Every last one of them. Tell your snitch I owe him a drink.”
Valentine stood at his kitchen sink drying dishes. Before dinner, he’d told Lois about his new responsibilities, and she’d acted like it was the best news she’d ever heard. Now, Bill was telling him he’d help nail a bunch of wise guys three thousand miles away. It didn’t get any better than this.
“How would you like to do some consulting work for me?” Valentine asked. “I’m paying two hundred bucks a day, plus expenses.”
“Air fare, too?”
“Of course.”
“What’s your time table?” Higgins asked.
Valentine glanced at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. The date was January 5th. In three months, Atlantic City’s second casino would open on the spot where the Marlborough-Blenheim hotel had stood, and he had a feeling that every hustler on the east coast was going to be there.
“As soon as you can.”
“I’m in a bind right now,” Higgins said. “There’s a gang of blackjack cheaters that’s taking us to the cleaners.”
“What are they doing?”
“I don’t know. I’ve watched the tape a dozen times. My gut tells me they’re using a computer, only there’s no evidence of one. They’ve taken five different casinos for two hundred grand apiece.”
Valentine whistled through his teeth. “You want me to look at the tape? Maybe a fresh pair of eyes would do some good.”
A few months ago, Bill would have probably laughed at him. He didn’t now.
“That would be great,” his friend said.
Valentine climbed into bed with Lois at ten o’clock. It had been a long day and he was dead-tired, yet he felt better than he had in weeks. Ever since the shooting at the Rainbow Arms, his life had seemed off-kilter. Now, finally, things were getting back on track. He kissed his wife goodnight and turned out the lights.
He was drifting off to sleep when a low, mournful wail got his attention. Cracking an eye, he stared at the luminous clock on the bedside table. 10:35 The wind was blowing hard outside, and it magnified the unhappy sounds coming from his backyard.
“Is that Max?” his wife asked sleepily.
“Yeah, he sounds hungry. Think I’d better go feed him.”
“Scratch his head for me.”
“I’ll do that.”
He put on his bathrobe and slippers and padded downstairs to his kitchen, stopping on the way to glance out the front window at the police cruiser sitting across the street. In it were two uniforms named Robinson and Schiffmiller. They patrolled Margate, and often parked on his street to drink coffee. Going to the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, and removed a package of ground chuck. It was the cheapest grade of meat the grocery carried, and he removed a handful and shaped it into a ball, then threw the deadbolt on the back door and went outside.
The cold knifed through his bathrobe as he crossed his snow-covered backyard. There was a gibbous moon, and he spotted Max, his neighbor’s hundred-pound German Shepherd, sitting by his dog house. The dog protected every house on the street, and Valentine showed his appreciation by occasionally tossing meat over the fence.
A wicket fence separated their backyards. He tossed the burger ball over, and saw Max leap on it. His tail wagged ferociously as he devoured the meat.
“ If it isn’t Tony Valentine, my hero.”
Valentine momentarily stopped feeling the cold. The voice had come from behind him, and he spun around to stare at his moon-lit backyard. It was empty save for him, Gerry’s toys, and the bird bath. He ducked into the alley that ran behind the house, and looked up and down it. Empty as well.
“ I’ll bet you still haven’t figured out why I hate you.”
Valentine walked into the center of his yard. There was no one but himself there.
“ Answer me, fuck face!”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
A menacing laugh filled the air. “ I’m right behind you.”
He slowly spun around, his breath fogging the air. There was no one in the yard.
“ Over here.”
The voice was coming at him from different directions.
“ No, here.”
A low, mournful wail filled the air. It was the sound that had woken him from his sleep. He looked over the fence at Max, and saw him eating the hamburger. The wailing wasn’t coming from the dog. A feeling he was not used to swept over him. Cold hard fear. Standing outside in his bathrobe, no gun, his wife and son asleep inside, could he have possibly planned it any worse than this? He didn’t think so.
He took off at a dead run for his house.
Valentine stood inside his kitchen, shivering from the cold. He wanted to run out the front door, and see if Robinson and Schiffmiller were still parked in front of his house. He wanted to ask them to take the car down his alley, and see if they could find the person that was scaring the living daylights out of him. Only he didn’t. He didn’t want to leave his house, even if it was just for a minute.
He was afraid.
Then his prayers were answered, and he saw a cruiser drive down the alley behind his property. The interior light was on, Robinson and Schiffmiller sat in the front seats. They were having a look around, just like they did every night, keeping the neighborhood safe.
The cruiser passed his house and kept on going. Valentine felt a rock drop in the pit of his stomach. There was no one hiding in the alley. He had imagined the voice. His mind was playing tricks on him.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, he buried his head in his hands.
Chapter 39
Early the next morning, Vinny Acosta drove his black Cadillac Seville through Ventnor. It was the ritziest neighborhood on the island, the blocks choked with towering mansions, and as he maneuvered down the well-kept streets, he imagined himself living in one of these majestic houses one day.
His lieutenant rode shotgun beside him. His name was Frankie “BB” Lorenzo. BB had the address of where they were going on a slip of paper, but knew not to say anything unless Vinny asked him. BB was good that way. He always knew his place.
“So what’s the fucking address?” Vinny barked.
“Number 224.” BB pointed a hairy finger at a mansion on the corner. “That one.”
“Did I ask you which house? Did I?”
“No, sir.”
“I can read fucking mailboxes, ass hole.”
Vinny slowed the Caddy to a crawl. 224 was a white three-story Dutch Colonial with crisp orange canvas awnings with white fringe, and a garage big enough for a small airplane. He parked in the gravel driveway and killed the engine.
“Stay here,” Vinny said.
“What if he wakes up?” BB asked.
Vinny glanced over his shoulder into the backseat. Dominic Valentine lay sprawled across the upholstery. His eyes were swollen, his lips puffy and red. For an old drunk, he was a tough son-of-a-bitch, and Vinny had taken the skin off his knuckles beating him up.
“Read a nursery rhyme to him,” Vinny said.
Vinny saw the curtains on a window rustle as he walked up the path. The front door opened, and Nucky Balducci filled the space. He was dressed in black, like he was going to a funeral. Vinny said, “We need to talk.”