shooter threw the dice too fast and yelled for the Japanese gambler to watch out. The Japanese gambler pulled back, never letting go of his cash. Instead, he looked at the craps dealer running the game. The banker nodded, accepting his bet. Valentine felt a smile cross his face. The scam was as old as the hills. The Japanese gambler had a hidden fold in the bills. The big money was folded in half, giving him two bets. If the shooter won the Field Bet, the Japanese gambler would drop all of his money on the layout. If the shooter lost, the big money was palmed in the Japanese gambler’s left hand, while the visible bills were dropped to the table with his right hand. When Bill came out of the study, Valentine killed the tape.
“That your granddaughter in those pictures on your desk?” Bill asked.
“That’s her. Her name’s Lois.”
“She’s a real beauty.” Bill parked himself on the couch and cleared his throat. “I just had a conference call with the Strip’s major owners. They want to offer you a deal.”
“I hope you told them to go to hell.”
“It’s a good deal.”
“Not interested.”
Bill frowned. It was rare for him to show emotion, and Valentine guessed it hadn’t been a pleasant conversation. “Let me guess. They threatened to fire you if I didn’t play ball.”
Bill nodded solemnly.
“Think they’ll do it?”
“Of course they’ll do it.”
“When you up for retirement?” Valentine asked.
“Next year.”
“Getting fired would kind of spoil that, huh?”
“Just a little.”
Valentine tossed the remote on the table beside his recliner. He missed, and it hit the floor and shattered, the batteries rolling under the couch. It was a well-known fact that the Mafia had been run out of Las Vegas years ago. What wasn’t well known was that the men who’d replaced them were just as ruthless; only, they had MBAs from Harvard Business School.
“Let’s hear their deal,” Valentine said.
5
W
Valentine jammed the brake pedal to avoid a barefoot man in ragged jeans picking his way between cars. It was late afternoon, and the single lane of traffic crawling along Key West’s famous Duval Street had halted. The tops of cars gleamed with bright, shadowless light as a storm rumbled in the distance. Newsboys danced in the road along with women hawking flowers and an enterprising guy with lottery tickets trailing from a roll like toilet paper.
The barefoot man stopped in front of Valentine’s rental. Clenched in his fist was a soda bottle. Valentine tensed, guessing it was about to come through his windshield. Instead the man took a swig and, holding his body erect, ignited his breath with a lighter. An orange balloon of flame burst from his mouth. As he started to do it again, Valentine pulled his wallet out and motioned the man over to his window.
“Here,” he exclaimed, stuffing five dollars into the man’s hands. “Now, get out of here before you blow us all up!”
The man sauntered away, barely avoiding a motorcycle weaving in and out of traffic. Valentine shifted into drive and the rental rolled forward a few yards, and then traffic stopped again. He’d killed an entire day traveling from Palm Harbor to Key West, and now watched the sun balance on a cluster of palm trees.
A flower seller tapped on his window. She was Cuban, and in broken English hawked flowers for any occasion: birthdays, young mistresses, even suspicious wives. He smiled for the first time that day. “I’m looking for the Coral House. It’s supposed to be right off Duval.”
She pointed to the next block. The street sign had been covered by a banner announcing a festival that started tomorrow. A dented Volkswagen bus cut in front of him, its rear panel removed to help cool the engine. Raising her voice, the flower seller said, “At the end of that street, hidden behind a big hibiscus hedge, is the Coral House.”
“You want to buy flowers?”
He shook his head.
“Maybe there is a woman you secretly care about,” she insisted, trying to get him to take a handful.
Traffic had finally started to move, and Valentine frowned and drove away.
Valentine had given Gerry and his wife a week’s stay at the Coral House as a present. They had both taken the ban by the Las Vegas casinos hard. Until Yolanda could get back to work, they were existing solely on Gerry’s income. Losing that had put Gerry in a real bind. He was thirty-six years old and, except for running a bar that had fronted a bookmaking operation, had never held down a legitimate job in his life.
Walking up the path, Valentine was happy to see the place wasn’t a dump. The old Victorian two-story had a wraparound porch and rockers that looked like they got plenty of use. The reception area was right inside the front door. A prim little man sat at a desk, drinking herbal tea while balancing his checkbook. Looking up, he said, “Good afternoon.”
“Hello,” Valentine said.
“Are you…Mr. Valentine?”
The guy didn’t look like anyone he’d ever busted. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“The resemblance to your son is remarkable. They’re upstairs, room 7.”
Valentine thanked him and climbed up a winding staircase to the second floor, stopping halfway to admire the black-and-whites of old Key West hanging on the walls, Ernest Hemingway’s grizzled, sunburned face shining out from several. He’d toured Hemingway’s home during an earlier trip and come away impressed. A nice place, but nothing lavish.
Room 7 was at the hallway’s end. He tapped lightly and heard his son say, “It’s unlocked.” He opened the door and went in. Gerry was standing over the bed, attempting to change his two-month-old daughter’s diaper. He looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, his daughter kicking and screaming her displeasure.
“Let me show you how to do that,” Valentine said.
It had been Yolanda’s idea to name the baby after Valentine’s late wife. Gerry liked to say Yolanda was psychic, and in this case, she was. The baby had his late wife’s genes: china-delicate features, black hair, and beestung lips. Holding her in his arms, Valentine often found himself feeling incredibly happy and immensely sad at the same time. He tickled his granddaughter’s toes and got her to stop crying, then changed her diaper. When he was done, Gerry lifted her into the air and said, “Grandpa’s a star, isn’t he?”
“I changed her diaper, I get to hold her,” Valentine said.
“Sure. Just promise you won’t bite her.”
“Very funny.”
Handing the baby to his father, Gerry said, “So what’s going on? The way you sounded on the phone earlier, I thought you’d won the lottery until I remembered you don’t gamble.”
Valentine cradled the baby against his chest. He’d decided that grandkids were the greatest thing ever invented. All the fun, and none of the hassle. “I had a unique opportunity presented to me yesterday. It includes you.”
“I’m all ears,” his son said.
Yolanda came out of the bathroom and kissed her father-in-law on the cheek. She wore white shorts and a man’s white cotton shirt and looked stunning. His son had married a wonderful young woman who was a doctor. She also put up with Gerry’s nonsense, which qualified her for sainthood in Valentine’s book.
“Thank you again for giving us this vacation,” she said.
