Текст книги "Wild Card"

Автор книги: James Swain

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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.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” Valentine suggested.

Doyle drove south, and found a twenty-four hour Jack-in-the-Box in an area called Snake Alley. The food was garbage, but that was what you got at six-thirty in the morning. They drank coffee and shared a bag of greasy french fries. Valentine’s knees were aching from where he’d fallen. On top of that, he was in a lousy mood and didn’t want to take his bad attitude home to his wife and son. He said, “Heard any good jokes?”

Doyle put his coffee down. He had been cheering Valentine up since they were kids. “This traveling salesman knocks on the door of a house. The door opens, and a ten-year-old kid steps out holding a cigar and a can of beer. The salesman says, ‘Are your parents home?’ And the kid says, ‘What the hell do you think?’”

Valentine sipped his coffee and grinned. The radio on the dashboard crackled, and Marlene, the dispatcher on the graveyard shift said, “Pick up if you can hear my voice.”

“You up for it?”

“You’re the one who fell down.”

“I didn’t fall down, I tripped. There’s a difference.”

Doyle smiled. “Yeah, I’m up for it.”

Valentine answered the call. “Hey Marlene, what’s up?”

“Detectives Crowe and Brown are arresting an armed suspect at the Rainbow Arms apartment complex,” she said. “They’ve requested back-up. Can you help them?”

The Rainbow Arms was less than five minutes away. It had been a long, frustrating night; maybe assisting in a collar would make them both feel better. Doyle mouthed the word yes.

“Tell them we’ll be right there,” he said, grabbing the last french fry.

Atlantic City was the last stop on a railroad to nowhere. It was there because therehappened to be the shortest distance between Philadelphia and the sea. Once, there had been swanky hotels and nightclubs and a standard of living that was hard to beat. Then Las Vegas and Miami Beach had stolen the tourists away, and the island – all thirteen miles of it – had gone straight to hell, with crime so rampant that it had led the nation when Valentine joined the force in ‘64. The Rainbow Arms apartments were one of the island’s war zones. Doyle parked near the front entrance, and they got out.

Crowe and Brown stood beside one of the block’s few trees. The detectives were wearing bulky bulletproof vests and had twenty-gauge Remington shotguns cradled in their arms. They were not the friendliest pair, and wore grim looks.

“Hey,” Valentine said.

“What are you doing here?” Crowe snapped.

“We’re responding to your call.”

“You been in a fight? You look busted up.”

“And you look like you’re hunting elephants,” Valentine replied.

Doyle laughed under his breath. Another pair of detectives materialized behind Crowe and Brown. Their names were Freed and Mink, and they also wore bulletproof vests and carried shotguns. Crowe wagged a finger in Valentine’s face. “Listen, funny man. We’re going into that apartment house, and we’re coming out with a black motherfucker who shot at us earlier. If you’re not ready for action, get out of the way.”

Mink, who was black, looked away, his jaw tightening. Valentine stared at Crowe. “When did this happen?”

“Twenty minutes ago,” Crowe said. “You with us, or not?”

“We’re with you. Just give us a minute to suit up.”

“Make it fast,” Crowe said.

Valentine and Doyle got their gear from the trunk of their car, and suited up. Under his breath, Doyle said, “How did Freed and Mink get here so fast?”

Valentine was wondering that himself. Freed and Mink worked the same shift they did, and were also off-duty. “Beats me,” he said under his breath.

They formed two lines of three, with Crowe and Brown leading the charge. The Rainbow Arm’s front path was littered with broken beer bottles and debris. As they reached the stoop, the front door swung in, and the detectives froze. A little black boy emerged clutching a Fat Albert lunch box to his chest.

“Hey kid, get lost,” Crowe said.

The little boy’s eyes turned fearful.

Mink tried. “Son, go home,” he said gently.

The boy was dressed for school, but it was too early for school. Valentine felt a hot wire ignite his blood. It was a trap.

“Get away from the door,” he said loudly.

The other detectives did not move. They were seeing the frightened little boy, and not the threat. A spot appeared in the crotch of the boy’s pants.

“ Move,” Valentine barked at them.

A black man with dread locks appeared in the doorway behind the little boy. He was holding a UZI submachine gun and had a crazed look in his eyes. Using the boy as a shield, he aimed at the detectives’ legs and started firing. It was the Prince.

Chapter 2

Valentine’s shotgun flew into the air, and melted into a hedge. His hand screamed with pain, and he brought it up to his face. A bullet had gone through his palm as clean as a paper punch. Falling to his knees, he saw black pools appear before his eyes.

“Help me,” Doyle gasped.

Valentine twisted his head. Doyle lay a few feet away, his thigh shredded by a bullet. The other detectives were scattered around him. No one was moving. The Prince shoved the little boy into the building, then stepped outside, and began executing them.

He capped Crowe between the eyes, stepped over his body, and did the same to Brown, his movements calm and efficient, like he had ice cubes in his veins. Then, it was Mink’s turn. Mink had taken a bullet in the leg, and lay sprawled on his side. The Prince put the Uzi’s smoking barrel against his cheek. “I don’t like to kill brothers,” the pimp said, “but with you, I’m gonna make an exception.”

“Please, don’t,” Mink whispered.

Valentine always carried two guns. The snub-nosed .38 was beneath the vest, and out of reach. He drew the derringer strapped to his ankle, and pumped two bullets into the pimp’s stomach. The Prince staggered backward into the apartment and disappeared. Valentine rose on wobbly legs, and saw Freed do the same. Freed’s thigh was bleeding, and he found his shotgun on the ground, pumped it, and entered the apartment dragging his wounded leg.

“Wait for back-up,” Valentine said.

Freed ignored him, and went in.

Valentine knelt beside his partner. Taking a snot rag out of his pocket, he ripped it in half. With one piece he plugged Doyle’s wound, with the other, his own.

“My stomach,” Doyle moaned.

“You get shot in the stomach?”

“Fucking french fries.”

Valentine expected to hear sirens at any moment, then remembered where they were. He started to go to the car to call for an ambulance when Doyle grabbed his leg. His partner had a stricken look on his face, and Valentine knelt down beside him.

“Crowe lied to us,” Doyle said.

“What do you mean?”

“ Wewere chasing the Prince twenty minutes ago. He couldn’t have taken a shot at them.”

Doyle was right. Freed’s story was bullshit. Cops lied all the time, but not to each other. They had stepped into something.

The Uzi rang out inside the apartment. Valentine ripped away his vest so he could get at his .38., then stood up.

“Hang tough.”

“Be careful,” Doyle said.

The apartment’s doorway was wide open, and Valentine stuck his head through, and saw Freed lying motionless at the bottom of the stairwell with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Valentine guessed the Prince had been hiding at the top of the first floor stairwell when Freed had come in. Daylight was streaming into the building, and he could see that no one was hiding up there now.

He climbed the stairs with Doyle’s words ringing in his ears. The building had four floors, and at the top floor he paused to catch his breath. His left hand had gone numb, and he wondered how bad the damage was. The sound of someone inside an apartment throwing a deadbolt made him jump.

“Stay inside,” he called out.

“Yassah,” a woman’s voice said.

The Prince had left a trail of blood, and he followed the drops down a hallway to a corner apartment. Light flickered behind the peep hole. The Prince got off a round, but not before Valentine emptied his .38 into the door. He heard pounding footsteps and kicked the door down, then stepped into a dingy apartment with a radio playing in one of its rooms. It had a shotgun layout similar to the apartment he’d grown up in, and he went down a hallway to the kitchen. An open window led to a fire escape. He could hear the Prince on the roof.

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice said.

Spinning around, he discovered an elderly black man in a wheelchair. “Where did you come from?”

“I live here. I pray you’re the police.”

“That’s right. Why did you let the Prince into your apartment?”

The elderly man’s arm twitched, and the wheelchair came forward. “He’s my daughter’s boyfriend. She stupidly gave him a key.”

Through the open window they heard the violent whup-whupof a police helicopter hovering overhead, followed by several rapid bursts of the Prince’s Uzi. Valentine put his face to the window, and watched the helicopter fly away to safety. He turned back to the elderly man. “What’s your name?”

“Sampson.”

“Mr. Sampson, I need to reload my gun, only my hand is wounded. Can you —”

“Help you? Afraid not.”

Valentine let out an exasperated breath. Staying in the apartment with an empty gun was an invitation to disaster. Only he didn’t feel right leaving Sampson, either.

“Is there anyone here who can?”

“Just my grandson.”

“Please get him.”

Sampson sent his wheelchair into reverse and went down the hallway. Braking at a bedroom doorway, he said, “Bernard, come here ,” and a skinny tyke wearing Batman pajamas emerged. The resemblance to the old man was uncanny, right down to the mud brown eyes. Together, they entered the kitchen.

“This man needs our help,” Sampson said.

The boy gave him a hostile stare. “You a cop?”

“That’s right.”

“Screw you.”

Valentine motioned Bernard towards him. The boy held his ground, and Valentine said, “There’s a bad man on the roof. I need to stop him. Will you help me?”

“Prince isn’t bad,” Bernard said.

“Yes, he is. He just shot six policemen.”

“Bet none of them was black.”

The boy was maybe ten, and already had no use for white people. Valentine looked him in the eye. “One of the men wasblack. His name is Mink, and he has a son named Marcus. He goes to Atlantic City High with my son.”

“And Prince shot him?”

“That’s right.”

Valentine saw the gears shifting in Bernard’s head. He decided to take a chance, and handed the boy the .38., then explained how to open the chamber, and reload the weapon. Bernard stared at the gun like it was a bomb.

“Do it, Bernard,” Valentine said.

Bernard pursed his lips. “You ain’t lying to me?”

“No. Prince is bad.”

Sampson nudged the boy with his chair, and whispered to him.

“Okay,” Bernard said.

Valentine removed six bullets from his pocket and gave them to the boy. When Bernard was finished reloading the .38, Valentine made him and his grandfather go down the hall and hide in a bedroom. Then, Valentine went to the window leading to the fire escape, and started to climb out. Hearing footsteps on the metal stairs, he pulled himself inside and pressed his face to the window.

The Prince was coming down. For some reason, he’d taken off his shoes, and Valentine watched him materialize in pieces – first his dirty feet, then his blood-soaked pant legs, and finally his upper torso – while steadying the .38's barrel against the window. When their eyes met, Valentine shot him.

The Prince flew backwards onto the fire escape, the bullet entering an inch below his heart. He lay motionless on the steps, and Valentine climbed out the window and pried the Uzi from his grasp. The Prince’s eyes were fading, and Valentine leaned in close.

“Remember me? I was chasing you over at the casino.”

His eyelids flickered. “Sure. You… run fast.”

“What’s the deal with you and Crowe?”

“You dunno?”

Valentine shook his head.

“They sent Crowe and Freed to get their little book back,” the pimp said.

“What little book?”

“In my pocket.”

Valentine rifled the Prince’s pockets, found a wad of cash and put it back, then found a black address book, and thumbed through its pages. It contained the names, addresses and phone numbers of two dozen men. All were Italian and lived in the New York area. Next to each of their names were the dates they’d visited Atlantic City in the past eighteen months.

“Who are these guys?”

“Crowe and Brown work for them,” the pimp whispered.

“Mobsters?”

“Yeah…”

“What were they were doing?”

The Prince’s eyes shifted, and Valentine realized he was staring at something in the distance. Turning, Valentine saw the neon outline of Resorts in the distance, the garish colors fading in the early morning dawn. He looked back at the pimp.

“They got a scam going on?”

“Yeah…”

The Prince grasped Valentine’s sleeve. On his face was a look that Valentine had seen before; of a man about to die, wanting to come clean. In a hoarse whisper he said, “They’re stealing a million bucks a day.”

“What? How?”

“Got an arrangement…”

“Inside the casino?”

“Yeah…”

“With who?”

The Prince stared straight up at the sky. The sun had risen, and a ray of light rested on his face. Valentine waited for him to continue, then saw the life leave his eyes, and realized he was dead. Slipping the address book into his pocket, he closed the Prince’s eyelids with his fingertips, allowing him one final courtesy before his soul went to the place that cop-killers went. Then he climbed off the fire escape, and went outside to help his partner.

Chapter 3

“How’s the hand?” Banko asked.

Valentine held up his bandaged hand. “Almost healed.”

“You lead a charmed life.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, sergeant.”

“What would you call it?”

“I don’t know. You ever been shot?”

Banko shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Four weeks had passed since the shooting at the Rainbow Arms, and it was Valentine’s first day back at work. They were trying to have a civil conversation in Banko’s office, which was never easy. Banko was a round-faced, overweight, fifty-two-year-old cop who ran the precinct with an iron fist. The motto emblazoned on his coffee cup summed up his style to a T. It said FEEL FREE TO SHUT UP.

“Shot at,” Banko said defensively. “Never hit.”

“Then I’d say youlead a charmed life, sergeant.”

Banko snarled at him. It was how most of their conversations ended. Sensing he’d worn out his welcome, Valentine rose from his chair.

“Sit down,” his superior said.

Valentine’s ass hit the seat. He watched Banko pull open his desk drawer and remove an envelope marked EVIDENCE. From it Banko removed a stack of poker chips, and held them in his outstretched hand. “Ever see one of these before?”

He stared at the chips. Five reds, or what gamblers called nickels. He guessed they weren’t normal, and said, “I don’t know. What are they?”

Banko flipped the chips over on his palm. They weren’t chips at all, but a hollow brass cup painted to look like chips. Reaching into his desk, Banko removed four black hundred dollar chips, and handed all of it to Valentine. “It’s called a chip cup. A pit boss at Resorts found it on a blackjack table two days ago. We’re holding the dealer. The four hundred dollar chips were hidden inside the cup.”

Valentine loaded the four hundreds into the cup. They fit perfectly. He didn’t know much about casino games, and tried to guess how the stealing was taking place.

“I give up,” he finally said. “What’s the scam?”

Banko smiled triumphantly. The rift between them had started when another cop had asked Valentine if he thought Banko dyed his hair. Valentine said no, he just thought Banko was going prematurely orange. The remark had gotten back to Banko, and they had been at war ever since. The truth was, Valentine didn’t care that Banko didn’t like him. Banko had risen in the ranks by kissing ass. Valentine had never kissed an ass a day in his life.

“It’s simple,” Banko said. “I’m a crooked blackjack dealer, and you’re my partner. You sit at my table, and make a bet with the chip cup. You purposely make a bad bet, and lose. When I pick up your bet, I use it to cover another bet —”

“The four hundreds,” Valentine said.

“Correct. They disappear inside the cup. I put the cup in my tray, only it goes with the other red chips. The hundreds disappear.”

“Doesn’t the casino notice?”

“There’s no way for them tonotice,” Banko said. “That’s the bad part about the casino business. They can’t track how much inventory there is on the floor. It leaves them wide open to employee theft.”

Valentine turned the chip cup over on his palm. Instead of stealing the house’s money, the crooked dealer was stealing a player’s money, which the player had just lost. “What’s going to happen to the dealer?”

“He’s screwed,” Banko said. “He got caught in Reno pulling the same scam. Went to the federal pen to iron out a nickel. Did two and a half to parole.”

“What’s he facing here?”

“Seven-to-ten.”

“Who explained the scam to you?”

“Special Agent Bill Higgins of the Nevada Gaming Control Board’s investigation unit. We talked over the phone. The GCB is loaning him as an expert witness to help us prosecute the dealer.”

Valentine was surprised. After New Jersey voters legalized casino gambling, the state had decided not to talk to anyone who’d ever worked in the Nevada gaming industry. While never publicly stated, the message was clear: New Jersey didn’t want Nevada’s organized crime families invading their little town by the shore. A great idea, except the mob had been in Atlantic City for as long as Valentine could remember.

“I thought Nevada was having nothing to do with us,” Valentine said.

“They’re making an exception with this case.” The phone on Banko’s desk lit up. Ignoring it, he went on. “Higgins is flying into town. I want you to meet him, see if you can learn some pointers.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s full of himself. I’m sure you’ll get along fine.”

Valentine had always enjoyed a challenge, and decided that he’d like to meet Higgins. Then it dawned on him what his boss had just said.

“Am I working insideResorts now?”

Banko leaned back in his chair and nodded. “That’s right. I’m putting you in charge of our new Casino Investigation Division. You’ll work inside the casino with the surveillance department to stop the casino from being swindled. You’ll get to pick another detective to work with you.”

Valentine felt the blood drain from his head. Fifteen years of busting his hump catching thieves and pimps and murderers and now he was being taken off the street. It wasn’t a demotion, it was a kick in the teeth, and he realized that Banko had finally found a way to pay him back for the orange hair crack. “What if I don’t want the job?” he said.

“This is a promotion, Tony. More pay, better hours —”

“I don’t want a desk job. I want to be where the action is.”

“You’ll see plenty of action inside the casino.”

A copy of that day’s Camden Union Register lay face-up on the desk. Valentine stabbed his finger at the headline. ATLANTIC CITY KILLER STILL AT LARGE. POLICE BAFFLED. “You’ve got three women raped and murdered in three weeks, no leads, and every woman on the island walking around scared for her life. Come on sarge, let me have this one. You know this is right up my alley.”

“No,” Banko said.

“The killer’s got to be local. I’ll use my contacts to track him down, make the department look good. What do you say?”

“I already put in the paperwork. I have reasons for wanting you inside the casino, Tony. You start tomorrow.”

“What if I say no?”

Banko eyed him cooly. “That would be a bad career move.”

Instead of driving home from work that night, Valentine drove to the Atlantic City Hospital to see Doyle. He drove a Pinto, which necessitated driving with one eye in the mirror. Right after he’d purchased the car, he’d learned that it had a minor defect. If a Pinto got rear-ended by another car, it would explode in a fiery nova. As a joke, Doyle had a special bumper sticker made for him which said KABOOM!

Valentine found Doyle in the basement doing physical therapy for his leg. Doyle’s therapist was a nurse who his partner had nick-named Hilda-Who-Never-Smiled. Hilda wore her hair pulled back in a steel bun, and was reminiscent of a villainess from a James Bond movie. She was monitoring Doyle’s pulse while he pedaled a stationary bike.

“Guess what? I nearly got her to laugh,” Doyle said.

“No, you didn’t,” Hilda said without humor.

“Well, you were thinking of laughing.”

“You have no idea what I’m thinking. Keep pedaling.”

Doyle winked at him. Taking the bait, Valentine said, “I know this is none of my business, but are you Polish?”

Hilda shot him an icy stare. “You’re right. That’s none of your business.”

“I know this funny Polish joke.”

“Spare me.”

“Don’t I get a shot?”

“You want a shot? Bend over, I’ll give you a shot.”

“Come on. I want to see if I can make you laugh.”

Her face was mirthless, and reminded Valentine of an old European painting. She tossed her clipboard onto a table. “I will do no such thing,” she said, and walked out. Doyle climbed down off the bike and grabbed his crutches.

“Let’s get something to drink,” he said.

The hospital’s cafeteria served coffee so strong it could have woken up a dead man. Sitting at a corner table in the back of the room, Valentine removed the chip cup Banko had lent him, and explained the ingenious scam while his partner played with the device. “They caught the dealer, huh?” Doyle said.

“By accident,” Valentine said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know how you would catch a dealer using one. But I’m about to learn. I’m running the new Casino Investigation Division.”

“Banko’s taking you off the street?” Valentine nodded, and Doyle said, “But you’re the best detective on the force. You should fight it.”

Valentine shook his head. His partner had slid the cup back, and he put it into his pocket. “I talked it over with Lois, and she convinced me to take the job.”

“Not to second guess your wife, but why?”

He held up his bandaged hand. “She reminded me that I could have gotten killed last month. She also pointed out that I’ll be running my own show at Resorts.”

Doyle stared into the depths of his coffee. “Where does that leave us?”

“Well, like the Army poster says, I’m looking for a few good men. Actually, one good man. Banko said I could recruit a detective to work with me.”

Doyle lifted his gaze. “Afraid not.”

“You don’t want to work with me?”

“I got some bad news today. My leg is permanently messed up. Doctor said no more sparring in the gym, or playing handball. He doesn’t think I’ll be able to run again.”

“So, this will be perfect.”

“Don’t paint a silver lining on this, okay?”

“Come on, it will be fun. Hell, we’ll makeit fun.”

“You want a gimp working with you?”

Valentine leaned across the cafeteria table and squeezed his partner’s arm. They’d known each other since they were kids, and had been through thick and thin. “This isn’t about chasing pimps in the middle of the night. People who cheat casinos are clever. It’s like a chess match. We have to use our brains, and outwit them.”

“I was never good at chess, and neither were you.”

“Then we’ll learn.”

Doyle got his crutches from the floor and stood up. He took a few uncertain steps toward the door before glancing over his shoulder. “Let me think about it,” he said.

They took the elevator to Doyle’s room. On the bedside table in his room was a photo of him as a child in a baby carriage. Doyle’s father had run a bingo parlor on the Boardwalk, and at closing time stuffed the day’s receipts into Doyle’s carriage, and wheeled him to the Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel, where the money was put in a vault.

“Who’d think to rip off a baby?” his father was fond of saying.

Doyle changed into pajamas and climbed into bed. Valentine pulled up a chair and leaned on the metal arm. “I ran the names in the Prince’s address book through the system. They’re all soldiers in the New York mafia.”

Doyle played with the motor on his bed until he was comfortable. “You said the dates in the address book went back eighteen months. It occurred to me that Resorts opened eighteen months ago. These mobsters are working the casino, aren’t they?”