'I was thinking about his play.'
'And?'
'It was like… well, like he was toying with us.'
'How so?' Valentine said.
'I mean, it wasn't even competitive,' Wily said. 'He had us beat the moment he walked in. You know what I'm saying? And he wasn't sneaky about it. At one point, he actually laughed at us.'
Valentine gripped the receiver, feelings its cold plastic freeze into his palm. Only one hustler he had ever known had laughed while ripping the house off. Only one.
'You're kidding me,' Valentine said.
'Not at all,' Wily said. 'It was how Sammy made him.'
'Sammy made his laugh?'
'Yeah. Said the moment he heard it he knew it was someone from his past.' In the background, a craps table was going wild. 'Gotta run. Call me if you come up with anything.'
Valentine killed the power on the phone. Out of the mouths of babes and idiot pit bosses come the most amazing things. It didn't make sense, yet at the same time, it made all the sense in the world. World-class hustlers didn't just appear out of nowhere. They plied their trade for years before attempting to rip off a casino. Frank Fontaine had been around a long time.
Taking out his wallet, Valentine dug out the threatening note he'd received the day before and reread it. Hustlers had threatened him over the years, but only one had actually tried to kill him. And for good reason: because Valentine had wanted to kill him. And that adversary had possessed a laugh as wicked as the Devil himself.
Of course Sammy Mann thought he knew Frank Fontaine. Everyone in the gambling world knew him.
Only there was one problem.
He was dead.
Valentine thought about it some more, then dialed the front desk. Roxanne picked up.
'Don't you ever go home?' he asked.
'I wish,' she replied. 'Three of my coworkers got the flu. I'm working double shifts until they come back.'
'Poor you.'
'Yeah,' she said. 'Poor me.'
'Has my son called recently?' he inquired.
'Only about ten times,' she said.
'Did he leave a number?'
Roxanne hesitated, clearly startled. 'No. Why?'
'I don't know. I was thinking about what you said.'
'You were?' Another pause. Then, 'I mean, that's great.'
Valentine laughed silently. He was getting an inordinate amount of pleasure out of baiting this young lady. As to where he planned to take this, he had no idea, but the ride was certainly fun. He said, 'Well, I'm sure I can track him down. Take care.'
'You, too,' she said.
His next call was to Mabel. It was three hours later on the East Coast, which made it dinnertime. Because his neighbor was a passionate cook, he assumed Gerry had weaseled an invitation and now sat at Mabel's dining-room table with a napkin shoved down his collar, utensils in hand, drooling as he eagerly awaited Mabel's next culinary masterpiece.
'How was the game?' he said by way of greeting.
A five-minute soliloquy followed. To hear Mabel describe it, it was the greatest Saturday afternoon of her entire adult life. And Gerry, his degenerate son, was the reason why.
'Is he there?' he asked.
'Your son? Why yes, he's sitting right here.'
Stuffing his face at that very moment, Valentine guessed. 'Put him on. Oh, Mabel-I got your fax. It was funny, but not your best. A little off, if you ask me.'
'Gerry and I came to the same conclusion,' she informed him. 'He talked me into scrapping it. I'm composing a new ad right now. It's very funny.'
Valentine felt his face grow hot. Being Mabel's sounding board was his job, not his son's.
'Here he is,' Mabel announced.
'Hey, Pop!'
'Hey, yourself,' Valentine said.
Gerry's voice was garbled, his mouth stuffed with food. He began to make awful choking sounds into the phone, and then Valentine heard the steady whacking sounds of Mabel pounding Gerry on the back. Soon his son was sipping water, breathing heavily.
'How many times am I gonna have to tell you not to talk with your mouth full?' Valentine bellowed into the receiver. 'For the love of Christ, Gerry. Chew your food, then swallow, then talk. It's what separates us from the monkeys, you know?'
'Aw, Pop,' his son said, sounding pitiful.
'Your uncle Louie-'
'Choked to death on a piece of veal on Christmas day,' Gerry recited by heart, 'and you and Gramps couldn't bring him 'round. I know the whole story. It runs in the family, and I'm the latest in the line. Stop making a federal case out of it.'
Valentine took a deep breath. A few weeks off, and they'd both come out of their corners swinging like a couple of kids in an amateur boxing match, all anger and no form.
'Hey,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'
His son didn't know what to say. Valentine tried another tack. 'So how was the game?'
Gerry was not used to getting second chances from his old man, so he picked his words carefully. 'Great. I mean, the Yanks got clobbered, but we had a good time anyway. I rented a little TV from a guy at the concession booth so we could see what was going on in the outfield. It was a blast.'
'Sorry I wasn't there,' Valentine said.
'Me, too.'
A brief silence followed. Valentine wasn't really sorry, but he felt better for saying it. He cleared his throat.
'Listen, I need you to help me with a case I'm working on. I want you to go to my house-Mabel's got a key- and turn my computer on. Boot up Windows and pull up a program called DCF. Think you're up to it?'
Valentine bit his tongue the moment the words came out of his mouth. It was the first decent conversation they'd had in a long time, and now he'd gone and spoiled it. Gerry was trying-he'd give him that-whereas he was doing his best to burn another bridge.
'I mean, would you mind?'
'Not at all, Pop,' his son said quietly.
Valentine had already booted up Frank Fontaine's profile on his Compaq notebook when Gerry called back ten minutes later.
'You need to fire your cleaning lady,' his son informed him.
'Don't have one,' he replied.
'That's what I mean. There are piles of crap everywhere. You're living like a hermit.'
'It's work,' Valentine replied. 'I'm running a business. Don't touch any of it.'
Normally, his son would have said something, and Friday Night at the Fights would have resumed. But not tonight; Gerry was different, more subdued. Maybe Mabel had said something, or perhaps flying down to Florida and finding his old man gone was a much-needed reality check.
'I've got the C prompt on the screen,' Gerry said.
'Good. Type in shell and hit Enter. Five or six icons will come on the screen. Double-click on DCF.'
'Done,' his son said. 'You need to get a new mouse.'
'Don't use the one I've got.'
