Two men entered the kitchen, and staggered towards her. The first was a baby-faced cop, the second a smaller man with a bloody face, who pressed a handgun to the cop’s side. Holding the Model 65 with both hands, Lois aimed at them.
“Stop,” she declared.
“Hello, Lois,” the man with the bloody face said.
“I said stop!”
The two men were inside the living room, and halted.
“Do you remember me?” the bloodied man asked. “My name’s Martin Hollis. Everyone calls me Farky. We met on the Boardwalk many years ago. I was in the Summer of Love show with you.”
Hollis wrapped his free arm around the cop’s neck, and pressed the handgun to his temple. “Put your gun down, or I’ll splatter his brains against your lovely dining room walls.”
“No,” Lois said.
“Do you want me to kill him?”
“He’s a cop. He knows the risks.”
The cop’s eyes went wide.
“I’m sorry,” Lois told him.
“God damn you, I said drop it,” Hollis screamed at her.
“No!”
“Very well.”
Raising his gun, Hollis pointed it at the ceiling, and let off a round.
Lois heard a loud thump on the second floor. She envisioned Gerry taking the bullet and nearly fainted. Hollis pressed the gun’s smoking barrel against the cop’s chin.
“Now, drop your gun,” Hollis said.
“Gerry,” she yelled upstairs, “are you all right?”
“What’s going on,” her son yelled back fearfully.
“What was that sound?”
“I heard a gunshot and dropped my guitar on the floor.”
“Stay in your room. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, mom.”
Hollis nodded at the ceiling. “He’s right above me. I can hear the pitter-patter of his little feet. I’ll shoot him through the floor. Do you want that?”
“ No!” Lois exclaimed.
“Then do as I say, and put your gun away.”
Lois started to cry. Tony had told her to never put the gun down when faced with certain danger. But what choice did she have? She slipped the Model 65 back into the china cabinet. As she moved away from the weapon, her husband entered through the back door, gasping for breath. In his hand was his beloved snub-nosed .38.
“Drop the gun, and put your hands in the air,” Tony said.
Hollis glanced over his shoulder, then turned to look at her. “I love you. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Lois said quietly.
Hollis shoved the young cop into the dining room, then spun around like a gunslinger. Her husband emptied the .38 into him, the bullets tearing through his sweatshirt. Hollis staggered back and stopped a few feet from where Lois stood. He made a face like he was dying. Then, he burst out laughing.
“Fooled you!” Hollis shouted.
He lifted his sweatshirt, and showed Lois the bulletproof vest he’d stolen from the police cruiser. He was a magician, and had tricked them.
“Now, it’s my turn,” Hollis said.
Hollis walked toward the kitchen aiming the weapon at her husband. Tony had run out of bullets, and was helpless. Their eyes met. He mouthed the words I love youto his wife.
Lois did not remember moving toward the china cabinet, or snatching up the Model 65, or the sickening sound it made as she emptied it into the back of Hollis’s head. All she remembered was Tony holding her in his arms a few moments later, and telling her that everything would be all right. Feeling safe was all she’d ever wanted, and she prayed that maybe this time, he was right.
Chapter 58
The hookers eating breakfast at Harold’s House of Pancakes gave Valentine a hero’s welcome the next morning, with plenty of kisses and hugs. He was blushing by the time he slipped into a booth, and a gum-chewing waitress took his order.
Fuller and Romero came in a few minutes later, and sat across from him. Through Banko, he’d learned that the two FBI agents were facing an official reprimand from their bosses for leaving Atlantic City while Hollis was still on the loose. They were both in hot water, and facing uncertain futures.
Normally, Valentine wouldn’t have cared. They had made their beds, and now they had to sleep in them. Only there was unfinished business that needed attending to, and he had decided that Fuller and Romero were the perfect pair to make things right.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Valentine said.
Fuller put his elbows on the table. “In case you haven’t heard, we’re screwed.”
“Come to mention it, I did hear that. This could change things.”
Fuller glanced at his partner, then back at him. “Change things how?”
“Make you look good.”
“How the hell are you going to do that?”
“When I got the job to police Resorts’ casino, I thought I was supposed to keep cheaters out. But then I found out something worse was going on. A skim was happening right in front of my nose. A hundred grand a day out the door.”
“Mafia?” Fuller said.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“It’s their speciality.”
“This may be their crown jewel. Resorts makes twenty million a month profit. Fifteen percent of that money is used for comps to lure high rollers. It’s the same formula used in Las Vegas, only we’re not Las Vegas. Las Vegas is in the desert. Atlantic City is a two hour drive for fifty million people. We don’t need to give away anything. Only the auditors don’t realize that.”
“So the mob is stealing comp money,” Romero said.
“That’s right.”
Fuller acted skeptical. “Where’s your proof?”
Valentine removed the Prince’s address book from his pocket along with the write-up of the skim which he’d planned to send to the newspaper. He slid both across the table. “The address book contains the names of the runners. The ringleader is a New York mobster named Vinny Acosta. Every day, a runner goes into the casino, and draws a credit line at the cage for a hundred grand. He plays for a while, then cashes the chips, and leaves with the money. The loss is shown on the books as paying for comps.”
Fuller took his time reading through his notes. Holding the page which described how the loss was being hidden by Resorts’ bookkeeping department, he said, “This reads like a big job.”
“It is,” Valentine said.
Fuller put his elbows on the table, and lowered his voice. “Let’s make sure we’re all on the same page. You want the FBI to set up a sting, tail these people, tap their phones, and put all the pieces of the puzzle together.”
“That’s right. Think you can handle it?”
“That’s what we do every day.”
“I know that.”
Fuller leaned closer. Romero leaned in as well.
“So what’s the catch,” Fuller said, sounding skeptical.
“I want you to do it my way,” Valentine said.
A couple of hookers took the table next to theirs, and the three men went outside to the parking lot to finish their conversation.
“My way,” Fuller said. “Isn’t that one of Sinatra’s songs?”
Fuller was trying to be funny, and maybe to an outsider it wasfunny. A bunch of Mafia goons had come to town, and stolen millions of dollars right in front of everyone’s noses. It sounded like a script for a movie, only the script included too many lives being destroyed. There was nothing funny about any of it.
“Here’s the deal,” Valentine said. “When you make your bust, you’re going to tell the media a story. You happened to be visiting the casino, and spotted Vinny Acosta. Knowing he was mafia, you put a tail on him, and discovered he was up to no good. Everything you learned from that point on came as a result of your own brilliant detective work. The Atlantic City police weren’t involved, and neither was I.”