was no return address. She tore it open and a steel key fell into her palm-and with it, a note. Nola, This is how I signed your name.
She examined Fontaine's forgery. It didn't look anything like her signature, but that wasn't the point. It was written in simple script and would be easy to duplicate. As crooks went, he was awfully smart.
But why was Fontaine throwing her a life preserver? What did he gain by helping her prove her innocence? He was a hustler: There had to be something in it for him.
The sun was making her feel like one of the French fries she'd eaten for lunch. Back inside, she grabbed her keys and entered the garage from the kitchen, hopping into her Grand Am. She kept the garage air-conditioned, so the car was ice cold. For the longest while, she sat behind the wheel, thinking.
The conclusion she came to was a simple one. Like it or not, she needed a lawyer, a real good lawyer, one that could buy her time until she could straighten the police out. If the safe deposit box was filled with cash, then she was going to take it. What other choice did she have?
She fired up the engine and hit the automatic garage door opener. Sunlight flooded the interior. A sense of urgency overcame her, and she threw the car into reverse and skidded down the drive, barely able to see.
She braked at the curb to check for the neighborhood kids and saw the cops' Chrysler backing down the Davenports' driveway.
She did thirty through her development, the Chrysler fixed in her mirror. Braking at a stop sign, she watched the car pull up. Inside sat two dudes in their midthirties, one black, the other Hispanic, both wearing Terminator shades and hip street clothes. She wasn't fooled for a second.
She slowed down, forcing the Chrysler to hang back. The guard booth in front of her development sat vacant, just as it had since the day it was built. A quarter mile away was the entrance ramp for the Maryland Parkway. She spun the radio to her favorite station, classic rock for whining boomers, and with the Stones' 'Satisfaction' pumping adrenaline through every vein in her body, punched the accelerator to the floor. The Grand Am let out a beastly roar and she blew past the empty guardhouse.
Her tires were smoking as she flew onto the six-lane superhighway and was immediately challenged by a sleek Porsche Boxster whose driver was determined not to give up the lane. Freedom was a glorious thing, and Nola was not about to relinquish hers anytime soon.
Blowing past the Boxster, she was soon doing one hundred and twenty. The cops in their Chrysler were nowhere to be seen.
8
The fifty-year-old bellman was waiting when Valentine returned to his room. Without a word, he retrieved Valentine's suitcase and escorted him upstairs to his new digs, a twelfth-floor suite with travertine floors, red leather furniture, and a Jacuzzi sporting eighteen-karat gold fixtures. It was high-roller heaven, the kind of room money couldn't buy, and Valentine called the front desk and left a thank-you message for Roxanne.
Exhausted, he went to bed early and slept as soundly as he had in a long time. The next morning, a Mexican busboy appeared at his door at eight A.M. with scrambled eggs, toast, fresh OJ, a pot of coffee, and the local paper. He had finished reading the box scores when there was a tapping at his door. He opened it to find a grinning Sammy Mann.
'Remember me?' the head of security asked.
Old age had robbed Sammy of his debonair good looks, his face gaunt and unhealthy. Gone, too, were the tailored clothes and silk neckties, replaced by beltless polyester slacks and a tacky madras shirt.
'If it isn't Sammy 'The Whammy' Mann, last of the red-hot deck switchers,' Valentine greeted him. 'Come on in.'
Sammy limped in and took a seat at the head of the dining-room table, a chrome-and-glass monster big enough to seat twelve. As he got settled, Valentine poured two cups of coffee and pulled up a chair. Sammy tipped his cup, his dark eyes twinkling. They seemed to be saying, Isn't life filled with little ironies? Sammy was one of the classier cheats Valentine had ever arrested, and for a while they reminisced about the old days and the various hustlers they'd both known.
Their mutual acquaintances were many. Like most hustlers, Sammy had switched partners as often as he changed shirts, and the array of talent he'd plied his trade with was a venerable Who's Who of Sleaze. Jake 'the Snake' Roberts, Whitey Martindale, Larry the Lightbulb, Sonny Fontana, Big J.P., and on and on.
'I probably ran with every great hustler of the last twenty-five years,' Sammy boasted, working on his third cup.
'Who was the best?'
'Sonny Fontana, hands down.'
'They ever catch the guy who murdered him?'
'Not yet.'
'Looking back, you have any regrets?'
'I just wish I'd gotten to Atlantic City sooner.'
It was a common lament. In the late seventies, Atlantic City had put a new rule into play at its blackjack tables. It was called Surrender and allowed players to look at their cards, and if they had a bad hand, surrender half their bet. Someone had forgotten to do the math, as Surrender actually put the odds in favor of the players, especially those who knew how to card-count. Overnight, the word went out that the little city on the Jersey shore was a candy store, and hustlers from around the globe had come running. Surrender was eventually banned, but by then the damage was done. The casinos had lost millions.
'A lot of boys retired after visiting Atlantic City,' Valentine said.
'Until you came along,' Sammy said ruefully.
'Someone had to stop them.'
Soon the conversation drifted to the topic of Sammy's bribing a judge. He was not ashamed to talk about it. 'I was scared as hell of going to prison. You hear stories. Every prison has a crime boss. If the boss finds out you're a hustler, he puts you to work. Believe me, I wasn't about to start cheating other criminals.'
'That could prove hazardous to your health.'
'No kidding.'
'How much did it end up costing you?' Valentine asked.
'Thirty grand and a condo I owned down in the Caymans. I was facing five years minimum, so I didn't mind paying.'
Valentine topped off Sammy's cup with the last of the coffee. He'd heard the same complaint from hustlers over the years: Prison was tougher on cheats than other criminals. 'So tell me about this Fontaine character. Wily says you know him.'
Sammy corrected him. 'I think I know him. His play reminds me of someone from a long time ago. His attitude strikes a nerve.'
'How so?'
'He's arrogant. Like he's daring us to catch him.'
'Think about what you just said,' Valentine said, passing the cream. 'You paid a judge a small fortune to avoid prison, and this joker Fontaine dares you to nab him. Doesn't make sense.'
'I know,' Sammy said. 'Wily told me you keep profiles of every hustler you've ever arrested. Maybe Fontaine matches one.'
'I already tried that,' Valentine admitted. 'Physically, he doesn't resemble anyone I've got in my computer. That means he probably had plastic surgery. If I'm going to make a match, I need to learn more about him. His habits, the way he dresses, what he drinks, that sort of stuff.'
'I'll give you a list of everyone he came into contact with at the casino. Wily had a lot of interaction with him.'
'Good.'
Across the street, the volcano at the Mirage blew its stack, sending a giant doughnut of black smoke into the humid summer air. They watched it float lazily over their heads and burn a hole in the simmering sky.
