Текст книги "Wild Card"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter 43

The phone call from Nucky Balducci came early the next morning.

“We need to talk,” the old gangster said.

Valentine was sitting at his kitchen table, finishing his usual breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. The funeral of Marcus Mink had drained him, and he’d slept poorly. Talking to Nucky was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

“About what?” he asked.

“Your health,” Nucky replied.

Thirty minutes later, Valentine parked in front of Nucky’s house and killed the Pinto’s sputtering engine. Any day now, he expected the car to catch on fire and die, and found himself hoping it would be soon. Walking up the brick path, he stared at Nucky’s palatial digs. He remembered how impressed he’d been twenty years ago while picking Zelda up for the school dance. She lives in a mansion,he remembered thinking. The fact that Nucky was a mobster hadn’t bothered him at the time. He’d been sixteen, and the size of the house was all that had mattered.

Knocking on the front door, he heard a noise and glanced up. Zelda was watching from a second-story window and clasped her hands together in joy.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said under his breath.

The front door opened, and Nucky ushered him in. The old gangster wore black pants and a black sweater, his traditional colors. It made his bald head look bigger, not that anyone in town had the courage to tell him. Hearing the pounding of feet, Valentine saw Zelda coming down the staircase wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe and pink slippers.

“Tony!” she exclaimed.

He had always felt sorry for Zelda. Deep down, she was a sweet kid, but bore the horrible misfortune of looking exactly like her father. As she bounded across the foyer, he realized she was going to hug him. He let her.

“Hey, Zelda,” he said, kissing the top of her forehead.

“It’s not time for our twentieth high school reunion, is it?” she asked.

Valentine wasn’t sure what time zone Zelda occupied since she’d flipped her wig. The reunion had happened last summer, but he saw no reason to tell her.

“Not yet,” he replied.

“Good. I’m holding you to the first dance.”

I’ll wear steel-toed shoes, he thought. “Great,” he said.

“What’s your favorite Elvis Presley song?”

“Why?”

“Come on, just tell me.”

“A Big Hunk ‘O Love,” he said.

“Oh, you’re such a boy! A Big Hunk ‘O Love it is.”

She flew back upstairs. Nucky escorted him into the den, and shut the slider behind them. “You should really come around more often,” he said.

Valentine let the remark pass. From upstairs he heard horrendously loud music being played on a stereo, accompanied by Zelda’s awful rendition of A Big Hunk of Love. “I got something I thought you’d want to see,” Nucky said.

Nucky crossed the den to the bar, and opened a small refrigerator in the corner. From the freezer section he removed a large plastic bag, which brought around the bar and handed to his guest. It contained a gaping, frozen mackerel.

“That showed up on my doorstep this morning, wrapped in newspaper,” Nucky explained. “Then I got a phone call. Guy says, ‘You need to take a walk on the beach.’ He gives me an address. So I sent a couple of my men.”

“What did they find?”

“Luther. About a hundred yards from Resorts.”

“Drowned?”

“Uh-huh. Luther was strong – you ever see him play for the Giants? Guy was a monster in his prime. Must of taken four, five men to hold him down.” Nucky stared into space. “He was always good with Zelda, you know? Used to bring her little gifts and food.”

“You tell her?”

“No. Can’t risk it. She’s too fragile.”

Luther had been like family to Nucky, and Valentine realized how upset the old gangster was. “Who do you think killed him?”

Nucky filled his chest with air, then exhaled slowly. “The family.”

“Why? You piss them off?”

“Yeah. They told me to pressure you.”

“This is about me?”

“Sure is. They don’t like all the things you’re doing at the casino. It’s making them nervous, so they told me to put the squeeze on you.”

“And you said no, and they killed Luther.”

“That’s right.”

Upstairs, Zelda had launched into Hound Dog,and was rocking the house. Valentine tried to make sense of what Nucky was telling him. If his work at Resorts was scaring the family, then the family had a stake in the casino. Only he and Doyle scrutinized the casino’s financials every day: Resorts was making more money than the three largest casinos in Las Vegas combined,and every penny could be accounted for.

“Who are they?” Valentine asked.

“I can’t tell you that,” Nucky replied.

The dead mackerel had started to melt, and he followed Nucky into the kitchen and tossed it into the rubbish. Nucky offered him a glass of lemonade. Valentine took a glass of water instead, and drank it in one long swallow. Then he put his hand on Nucky’s shoulder. The old gangster was pushing seventy and was still hard as a rock.

“Vinny Acosta is running things, isn’t he?” he said.

“That’s right,” Nucky said.

“Can’t have two bosses in town, can we?”

“I’d worry about your own problems, I was you.”

“Your problems and my problems are the same.”

Nucky was working on a pink lemonade. He held the glass to his lips and stared out the window onto his spacious back yard. There was a swimming pool and a bocce court and a big piece of cement from the old 500 Club that contained hand prints and signatures from all the famous celebrities who’d ever worked there. The club had been Atlantic City’s last good time until burning to the ground six years ago.

“You got something in mind?” Nucky asked.

“Yes.”

“Spit it out.”

“Tell me how Vinny Acosta is ripping off Resorts’ casino. I want to nail this son-of-a-bitch, and I think you do as well.”

Nucky put his glass down and laughed under his breath.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just because things go bad doesn’t mean I turn into a giant rat. I took an oath when I joined the mob. Sealed it in my blood. I’ll never go back on my word.”

“Then send me down the right path. Come on, Nucky. For both our sakes.”

Nucky poured the rest of his lemonade into the sink. “You want to talk to someone who knows about the scam? Go talk to your father.”

“ My father?”

“That’s right. He knows what’s going on.”

“You told him?”

“He figured it out himself. He’s a smart guy, Tony. You need to make peace with him.”

Every time he got together with Nucky, his old man came up. The problems between them were none of Nucky’s business, not that he could convince Nucky of that. Upstairs, the stereo had gotten stuck on Elvis singing Don’t be Cruel,and so had Zelda, her voice husky and raw. Living with her had to be hell, yet it was obvious that Nucky loved her. It made Valentine think of his relationship with his father. Did he still love him? Somewhere, deep down in his soul, he imagined that he did.

They went to the foyer. The old gangster offered his hand, and Valentine shook it.

“I protected you for as long as I could,” Nucky said.

“Thank you. Say goodbye to Zelda for me.”

Nucky patted him on the shoulder and opened the door. Buttoning up his coat, Valentine ventured outside into the cold.

Chapter 44

Valentine drove until he found a gas station with a payphone, dropped a dime and called the surveillance control room at Resorts. Fossil answered, and Valentine asked him to find Doyle. Thirty seconds later, Doyle picked up the line.

“I’m out for the morning,” Valentine said. “Cover for me.”

“Sure thing. Something wrong?”

“I need to find my father, and have a talk.”

“Good luck,” his best friend said.

Valentine got back in the Pinto and drove north on Pacific Avenue. The island’s proximity to the ocean made it a magnet for storms, and a freezing rain began to pelt his windshield. The storm was intense, and soon water was flowing on the curbs. Fearful of stalling out, he straddled the double line.

The island had three flop houses, all situated on its north end. They were all the same: Unwashed men, many drunks or drug addicts or simply insane, slept on narrow cots in large, dormitory-style rooms. It was ugly, yet he’d come to understand the comfort the houses offered, the men having nowhere else to go.

By ten o’clock, he’d visited each of the flop houses, and come up empty. There were only so many places his father could be. Driving to the Boardwalk, he parked on the south end. The streets were deserted, the rain keeping everyone indoors. Getting out, he popped the trunk, and removed his police-issue rain slicker. He fitted the slicker on, then walked to the Boardwalk and headed north, the Resorts’ sign in the distance illuminating the otherwise dreary day.

Chained pushcarts sat outside the casino’s back doors. Valentine stuck his head into each one. In the last, an old man was snoring beneath a blanket. Lifting the blanket, Valentine found his father sleeping soundly with an empty bottle of Old Grand Dad cradled in his arms. He remembered taking a sip as a kid. It had been like licking a six-volt battery.

“Hey, Pop,” he said.

His father didn’t respond. Valentine took the bottle away, then pulled him out of the pushcart. His father didn’t weigh much anymore, and Valentine threw him over his shoulder like a fireman, and headed down the Boardwalk to his car. His father continued to snore, his sleeping undeterred.

He took his father to a flophouse named The Majesty. It was no better than the others, except the owner went to AA, and did not allow alcohol or bad language. He gave the owner ten bucks, then found an empty cot in the back of the room, and gently laid his father on it. There was a furnace here, and it was warm.

He touched his father’s shoulder. His father’s eyelids flickered, and then he was awake. A look of recognition spread across his weather-beaten face.

“You go to hell,” his father said.

After his father stopped cursing him, Valentine talked him into drinking a cup of coffee with him. They sat at a pocked table in the empty dining room. Instead of pictures hanging on the walls, there were food stains. A naked bulb dangled above their heads. In the kitchen, a radio played.

“I want us to come to an understanding,” Valentine said.

“Apologize for beating me up on New Year’s,” his father rasped.

“You were hurting Mom. You got what was coming to you.”

His father’s eyes narrowed like a caged animal’s. He’d been handsome once, only years of alcohol abuse had ravaged his face, and now he looked like the torture victims Valentine sometimes saw in the newspaper. It was hard to believe this was the same man who’d bounced him on his knee, and told him bedtime stories.

“You were out there in the garage, pumping weights, building yourself up,” his father said accusingly. “You picked the one night you knew I’d be soused. You planned it.”

“Peace, Pop. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Then say you’re sorry. Say it!”

Valentine rose from the table. His pant legs were soaking wet, and he heard his shoes squish. “I should apologize for saving my mother from another beating? That’s not going to happen.”

His father scrunched his face up. “Nucky sent you, didn’t he? He told you how Vinny Acosta beat me up, and now you feel guilty.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t? Well, I’ll spell it out for you. Vinny Acosta wanted to getto you. Either with a bribe, or a girl. So he tried to squeeze me. Know what I told him?”

“No.”

“ Nothing,” his father declared hoarsely.

Valentine looked into his father’s eyes and realized he was telling the truth. He sank into his seat and saw his father smile.

He had won this round.

“Vinny Acosta is after you,” his father said, leaning over the table. His breath reeked of whiskey, and reminded Valentine of every bad night they’d ever spent together. “You better arrest him before he hurts you, or your family. He’s a fucking animal.”

“I wish I could,” Valentine said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know what he’s doing.”

His father slapped the table with his palm. “Well, I do! Vinny’s running a skim. I saw them on every construction job I ever worked on. The contract called for six inches of cement, we poured three. The contract said brass pipes, we used steel. What we promised and what the customer got was always different.”

“And the boss pocketed the difference.”

“That’s right. Vinny’s skim ain’t no different.”

“You’re positive about this, Pop.”

“I’d bet the clothes on my body.” His father’s smile grew waxy. He’d drunk a fifth a day for as long as Valentine could remember, and sometimes looked drunk even when he wasn’t. His father said, “A month ago, I snuck into Resorts and spotted Charley Polite, the bellman. I said, ‘Charley, it’s freezing outside, gimme one of those free rooms I keep hearing about.’ Charley says, ‘Sorry, Dom, but there ain’t no free rooms here.’ So I say, ‘What about for high-rollers?’ And Charley says, ‘High-rollers pay too. Nothing’s free.’”

His father smiled triumphantly and again slapped the table. “Nothing’s free. That’s Vinny’s skim. You get it?”

Valentine looked at him sadly. Vinny Acosta wasn’t murdering people over free rooms at Resorts’ casino. His father didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

“That’s not what he’s doing,” he said.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t, Pop. Trust me.”

His father’s lips curled into a confrontational snarl. “Yes, it is, you stupid shit.”

“Don’t swear at me, Pop.”

His father angrily balled his hands into fists. “You strut around town like a rooster, and you’re still dumb as dirt. Aren’t you ever going to smarten up?”

Valentine heard the challenge in his voice. Next, his father would be standing and swinging his arms, challenging him to a fist-fight. Rising from the table, he removed a wool cap from his pocket, and stuck it on his head.

“Good bye, Pop.”

“You go to hell,” his father said.

It was the way all their conversations ended. Valentine decided to take a stab at changing the pattern. “I’ve got to get back to work. How about you coming over for dinner sometime? Lois still makes a mean pot roast.”

“Not until you apologize to me.”

“I’m sorry, Pop, but I’m not going to do that.”

“Then why did you come? What the hell do you want?”

Valentine stood with his hands in his pockets, and struggled with the words. They shared twenty years of hatred, yet it hadn’t always been that way. His old man had taught him so many things that he could never deny that he would always be his son.

“I wanted to tell you that I still love you. I always have, and I always will.”

His father didn’t move, his eyes simmering with rage. Maybe someday it will sink in,Valentine thought. He walked out of the dining room, and did not look back.

Chapter 45

He drove away from the flophouse shaking his head. His old man thought the mafia was stealing free rooms. So much for the power of alcohol.

The storm had not let up. Sitting at a light, he listened to the oddly soothing sound of the windshield wipers beating back the rain. A car in his rearview mirror caught his eye. A white Ford Fairlane, idling a block behind him. As the light changed and he pulled away, so did the Fairlane. The image of Luther lying dead on the beach flashed through his mind. He drew his .38 and lay it across his lap.

The Fairlane followed him into the casino’s employee parking. The Pinto didn’t have much pep left in it, and he had to floor it to put any room between himself and the other car. He circled the lot and came to an open area. He slammed his foot on the break, and felt the rear wheels lock. As he turned the wheel, he released the brake, and the Pinto did a smooth one-eighty. He punched the gas, and headed straight toward the Fairlane. The driver of the Fairlane bailed, and hit his brakes hard. As the car came to a screeching stop, Valentine jumped out of the Pinto holding the .38 with both hands.

The Fairlane flashed its lights, and the driver’s window lowered. Valentine walked over to the vehicle. Sitting behind the wheel was Mike Hatch, a detective on the force, and a guy he’d known since grade school. Hatch was shaking in fear.

“Why are you following me?” Valentine asked.

“Who said I was following you?”

“I did.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“You’re a lousy liar. Out with it.”

“Banko’s orders,” Hatch said.

Valentine put his gun away, knowing he was screwed.

Banko’s office seemed unusually cold. Sitting in a chair that faced his superior’s desk, Valentine saw why: The window behind the desk was cracked open, and winter had invaded the room.

“You’re damn right I had you followed,” Banko said, standing behind his desk. Hatch stood against the wall, avoiding Valentine’s stare. “You’re an officer of the law. You start acting weird, its casts a bad light on the entire department.”

Weird. It was a better description than crazy, and Valentine felt himself relax. Picking up the pad on his desk, Banko read aloud. “Three mornings ago, you walked out of the station house with a prostitute, went to her car, and were seen handcuffing her. You drove with her to another prostitute’s apartment, where you spent —” He glanced at Hatch, and the detective held up three fingers “ – thirty minutes inside. You got to work around noon. Two days ago, you went to the Rainbow Arms, then went and visited a psychiatrist. Again, you got to work about noon. Today, you visited Nucky Balducci, then were seen taking a homeless man to a flop house.” Banko looked at the clock on his desk. It was nearly noon, and his eyes fell on Valentine’s face. “Your job is to police Resorts’ casino. How can you be doing that when you’re on the street?”

“I can explain,” Valentine said.

Banko dropped the pad, and leaned on the desk with his fists. “You can explain disobeying my orders? That’s not an explanation I care to hear. You’re acting weird, Tony, and I don’t like it one bit. It’s making me nervous.”

Valentine struggled for something intelligent to say. Banko pointed at the door, and Hatch walked out. “I’m suspending you, with pay,” Banko said when Hatch was gone. “I want you to see a shrink, and get these issues ironed out. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have let you return to the force so quickly after the shooting at the Rainbow Arms.”

“You think I’m crazy?”

“No, just someone who needs help.”

Banko went to the door, and held it open. Valentine pushed himself out of his chair, thinking of Vinny Acosta and the person behind the voice and all the other people in town who wanted him out of the way. They’d gotten their wish, and he realized he had no one to blame but himself.

That night, sitting on the couch in Valentine’s living room, Doyle tried to make light of what had happened. “It’s no big deal. You see a shrink, talk about how your mother had you in diapers until you were eighteen, and get a clean bill of health in a couple of weeks. People expect cops to have emotional problems. It comes with the territory.”

“You think I have emotional issues?”

“No, no. It’s just what people expect, that’s all.”

Doyle and Liddy had brought dinner over to cheer him up. Liddy’s famous Irish stew, mashed potatoes, mixed green salad, and vanilla ice cream. By the time they’d started eating dessert, Valentine had started feeling like his old self.

In the kitchen, Liddy and Lois were dividing up the leftovers; then it would be their turn to clean the dishes. Valentine glanced at his partner. The job affected everyone differently. For Doyle, it showed in his face. His boyish exuberance was still there, only now it was masked by flecks of gray hair and worry lines.

Valentine felt his body melt into the cushions. The meal was taking its time settling in his stomach. The phone rang. Upstairs, he heard Gerry bound down the hall to answer it. “Hey Pop it’s for you,” his son called out.

He glanced at his watch. A quarter of ten. No one called this late except pesky salesmen. He pushed himself off the couch, went to the head of the stairs.

“Tell whoever it is to call back,” he said.

Gerry appeared at the head of the stairs. He’d stopped sleeping in his PJs a few weeks ago, and wore his skivvies. “It’s Mrs. Mink. She wants to talk to you.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No, but she sounds upset. I just think she’s crying.”

Valentine glance at Doyle, and saw his partner bounce off the couch. “I’ll take it in the kitchen,” he told his son.

In the kitchen he found Liddy and Lois standing at the counter, popping lids on Tupperware containers. The phone hung from the wall, and had a long extension cord. Picking it up, he heard Gerry hang up, then said, “Gloria, this is Tony. Is everything okay?”

Gloria Mink sobbed into phone. “ No!”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s got a gun.”

“Who’s got a gun?”

Lois and Liddy’s heads snapped.

“My husband,” Gloria said, her voice cracking. “He started drinking whiskey this afternoon. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. Then he started breaking dishes and pictures and other things. Then he went and got the gun.”

“Where is he now?”

“In his study. He told me to leave the house. He’s going to hurt himself. He blames himself for what happened. Please help me. Please.”

“Did you call 911?”

“No.”

“Gloria —”

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “Please come over and talk to him. You’re the only one who will understand. Please, Tony. Before he shoots himself.”

The Minks lived on the south end in a split-level ranch house. The area had an unusual reputation; it was predominantly lower income, yet had consistently produced the island’s best athletes. Gloria was at the door when they arrived, and had pulled herself together. As they went in, she grabbed Valentine’s sleeve and looked into his eyes.

“I tried,” she whispered.

At the funeral Valentine remembered thinking how the loss of her son had robbed her of her beauty. Now, something else was being taken away.

“Where is he?”

“In the study. Please bring him back.”

“I’ll try,” Valentine said.

Doyle remained with Gloria in the living room while Valentine crossed the house. He’d been to the Mink’s house several times for Sunday afternoon football parties, and remembered the study being right off the kitchen, the rooms separated by a swinging wooden door. He found the door, and tapped on it with his knuckles.

“Go away,” a voice said drunkenly from the other side.

“It’s Tony Valentine. Can I come in?”

“Get out of my god damn house,” Mink shouted through the door.

Valentine decided to take a chance, and pushed the door open with his toe, and stuck his head through. Mink sat behind a desk on the other side of the room, and looked drunker than a sailor on a Saturday night.

“Hey, buddy,” Valentine said.

“Don’t buddy me,” Mink snapped.

“You mad at me?”

“Go away. Now.”

“Come on. Let me in.”

Mink grunted drunkenly. Valentine took it as a yes, and entered the study. He saw Mink put his hands onto the desk, and ball them into fists. Both of his hands were caked in dried blood. An empty whiskey bottle sat on the blotter; beside it, an automatic pistol. Valentine held his palms out so Mink could see he was not carrying a weapon.

“I need to talk to you,” Valentine said.

“Really? And for the past few months, I thought you were avoiding me.”

“Can I sit down?”

“Go ahead.”

Valentine took a chair from the wall and pulled it up to the desk. Next to the chair were the display cases Mink had built to house Marcus’s impressive collection of football trophies. Mink had smashed the glass in each case.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Valentine said.

“You said that at the funeral. Do you have any idea why my son is dead?”

Mink’s head sagged forward, and he looked like he might pass out. Valentine reached across the desk, took the revolver, and placed it on the floor between his feet. Mink stared at the spot where the revolver had been.

“No. Why don’t you tell me?”

Mink continued to stare at the spot. “Marcus knew,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“A few weeks ago, I told Gloria what really happened at the Rainbow Arms that night. Marcus was supposed to be at basketball practice, but he came home early, and overhead us talking. My son knewI was dirty. Do you know what that means?”

Valentine swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “No.”

“ I had no traction with the boy. I couldn’t control him.”

“What did Marcus hear?”

Mink banged his blood-stained hand on the desk. “ That his father went along for the ride. That his father wanted to be one of the boys. That his father was weak.”

“Is that what happened?”

Mink took a deep breath and nodded.

“You didn’t take any money?”

“That was to come later on.”

Mink’s eyes shifted to a high school portrait of Marcus hanging behind the gridiron trophies inside the shattered display case. Marcus had been blessed with his mother’s good looks and his father’s winning smile. Tears welled up in Mink’s face and he wiped them away with his palm.

“Last week, I came home from work, and there was a motorbike sitting in the driveway. Gloria and I tried to take it away from him. Marcus said if we took the bike, he’d tell his friends at school he knew I was dirty. So I let him keep it.” Mink shook his head and began to cry. “I made a mistake, and the Lord has taken away my most precious thing.”

Valentine let a long moment pass. “What happened at the Rainbow Arms? I’ve never fully understood it.”

Mink stared at his hands. The dried blood had turned them a color that no man should have to bear. “The Prince knew the mob was inside Resorts, and that Crowe, Brown and Mickey Wright were on the take. The Prince tried to get a piece of the action, and was turned away. He had one of his whores sleep with a hood named Vinny Acosta. She rolled him, and took his address book. Crowe and Brown were sent to get it back.”

“Why is the address book so important?”

“Acosta is skimming the casino,” Mink said. “He’s got casino employees converting free rooms and comps into cash, then using runners to take the cash out. The address book contains the names of the runners.”

Valentine could not believe what Mink was saying. His father had been right.

“How much cash?” he heard himself ask.

“A hundred grand a day.”

“Vinny Acosta is stealing three point six million dollars a year?”

Mink laughed hoarsely. “Try thirty-sixmillion.”

The number was so large, it didn’t seem possible.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Mink said.

“How are they getting the cash out?”

“Each runner gets a hundred thousand dollar line of credit from the casino. The runner gambles for a few hours, but only bets a little money. Then the runner converts the chips into cash, and walks out the door with it. The people on the inside show the money going towards comps.”

Valentine thought of the dozens of cheaters he’d busted in the past few months. All combined, he didn’t think they’d stolen as much as Vinny Acosta was stealing every day.

“Guess what my take was,” Mink said.

“I don’t have any idea.”

“Five hundred bucks a week. And look what it bought me. A life of penance, and shame.”

The rage had seeped out of Mink’s voice, his spirit shattered by what he’d done. The moment of horror had passed, and Valentine came around the desk and offered Mink his hand. “Come on,” he said.

Mink rose on wobbly legs. He put his hand on Valentine’s arm for balance, then said, “Are you going to arrest me?”

Valentine shook his head. Mink had suffered enough for what he’d done.

They walked into the kitchen. It was the kind of kitchen you hardly saw anymore – an expanse of rubbed down linoleum, an old gas range, and a refrigerator with rounded corners. The sink was on porcelain legs, and Valentine stood beside it while Mink washed the blood from his hands. Gloria and Doyle appeared, and Gloria went to her husband and embraced him. Mink rested his head against his wife’s bosom. Gloria whispered in his ear, and Mink said, ‘I’m sorry,’ several times in reply.

Valentine looked at Doyle and saw his partner nod. They had done what they could, and walked out of the house to their car.