Wily brushed a spider's web away before placing his mouth next to the intercom. He did not know who Nick was with or whether that person should hear what he was about to say. It was the smartest thing Valentine had seen the pit boss do.
'We need to talk,' Wily said, dropping his voice.
'Isn't that what we're doing right now?'
'Face-to-face.'
'Mano a mano? Why, you want to punch me out?'
Nick's giddy laugh filled the box. A woman's giggle accompanied it. Valentine got the picture. Sex was Nick's narcotic. When he was getting it, there was no happier male on the planet.
'We've got some bad news,' Wily explained.
'How bad?' Nick asked, sounding worried.
'I think we should tell you in person.'
'This must be serious.'
'Yeah, Nick, it is.'
Valentine heard what sounded like the splashing of water and then the front door buzzed open. 'Wipe your feet,' Nick told them.
They did, then entered the ten-thousand-square-foot palace that Nick had somehow salvaged through six messy divorces and countless out-of-court palimony settlements. While questioning the hotel staff, Valentine had heard all about Nick's home, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer horror of it. Built by the same crazy Greek fairy who'd designed the Acropolis, the house had dozens of false windows that looked onto painted scenes of the Greek countryside, the flora and fauna enhanced by anatomically inflated nymphs and nymphets engaged in every conceivable act of fellatio and intercourse.
'For the love of Christ,' Valentine muttered under his breath.
'It's something, isn't it,' Wily marveled. Heading into the living room he said, 'How about a drink?'
'Water would be fine.'
The bar was marble and shaped like a cock. Wily filled a glass from the tap, then plucked a pair of O'Doul's from the fridge and opened them. An unfinished cocktail sat on the bar, the glass smeared with burnt-orange lipstick. 'Someone new,' he quipped.
Drinks in hand, the pit boss marched down a hallway to the master suite. He paused at the door before knocking.
'Come on in,' they heard Nick say. 'We're all friends here.'
The suite was massive, with more square footage than Valentine's entire house. It also had more stuff in it. Wily stood in the room's center, looking for his boss.
'Over here, stupid.'
Wily started grinning. Valentine followed his gaze. Through an open door, he saw Nick in the Jacuzzi with a young miss perched on his lap, still in the act of screwing her.
'Attaboy,' Wily said under his breath.
Nick waved to them. The woman's shoulders tensed and she spun her head around like Linda Blair in The Exorcist and gave them a wicked stare. It was none other than Sherry Solomon.
'Make yourself comfortable,' Nick called to them.
The suite had a living room at one end. Wily took the L-shaped leather couch; Valentine, the cushy chair designed like a hand. Under his breath, Wily said, 'I wish Nick would stop screwing the help. Someday it's gonna ruin him.'
'You should talk to him,' Valentine suggested.
'Right,' the pit boss said.
While they waited, Wily talked about Nick's sex life like it was a matter of public record. To hear him tell it, the thing that had gotten Nick into trouble his whole life was the same thing that made him great. It was the way he treated women. He loved every single one he could get his grubby little hands on. If they were legal and willing, he'd show them the best time they'd ever had, lavishing gifts and attention and limos and the best seats at the best shows and fresh-cut roses every day, and just about everything else their little hearts could desire or ever hope for.
And it was this wonderful display of affection that got Nick into so much trouble. He was too nice to the women he slept with. After a few weeks of being treated like a princess, the poor ladies were not ready for him to take off the magic slippers and tell them the ball was over. It was a big letdown, and their reactions usually ranged between hysteria and suicide.
Sometimes, Nick would cave in and marry one of them, and he'd end up forfeiting another chunk of his fortune to extricate himself. Wily had seen it coming every time, the last wife leaving him on the exact day Wily said she would.
Nick came out of the bathroom in a red satin robe, his curly hair dripping wet. He snatched an O'Doul's out of Wily's hand. Sitting in a leopard-skin recliner, he took a guzzle.
'So how bad did we get hit?' he asked.
'Hit?' Wily said. 'Who said anything about getting hit?'
'It's a pattern,' Nick said. 'Whenever the casino gets hit, you show up on my doorstep.'
'I didn't know I was so predictable,' Wily said uncomfortably.
'Well, you are,' Nick said, the bottle never leaving his lips.
'Tony made Fontaine,' the pit boss said.
Nick leaned forward, his robe parting and exposing his swollen genitals. 'You interrupted the best lay I've had in six months to tell me that?'
Wily bit his tongue. 'That's right.'
'What's so goddamned funny?'
'I can see your balls.'
Reddening, Nick covered himself. Wily put his serious face back on. Valentine sipped his water, trying not to laugh.
'Tell him,' Wily said.
'It was Sonny Fontana,' Valentine said.
'Stop blowing me,' Nick said, killing the fake beer. 'Fontana's dead. He got his head stuck in a door in Lake Tahoe.'
'That's the story we all heard,' Valentine said. 'Trust me, Nick. It's definitely him.'
'You're sure?'
'I am.'
'One hundred percent positive sure?'
'That, too.'
Nick did not want to believe it. Eyeing Wily, he said, 'Are you and Sammy in agreement on this?'
'Yeah. That's why we came over.'
Nick stood up and began pacing the room. Valentine heard Sherry Solomon brush past, then the bedroom door open and close. If Nick heard her leave, he gave no sign of it.
'Sonny Fontana,' Nick said, punching his fist into an imaginary target. 'My life is turning into a disaster movie. Why the hell would Sonny Fontana rob me?' Spinning on his heels, he pointed an accusing finger at his pit boss. 'Any ideas?'
'I still think Nola's involved.' Wily hesitated, then added, 'Tony does, too,' knowing Nick was more interested in Valentine's opinion than his own.
'That true?' Nick asked him.
Valentine nodded. 'Get the police to haul Nola in and make her take another polygraph.'
'You think we'll learn something?' Nick asked.
Valentine nodded. One of Fontana's trademarks was that he always worked with inside talent. 'Nola said she'd never met Fontaine. Maybe not, but I'll bet my paycheck she knows Fontana.'
'Jesus H. Christ,' Nick said, his anger spilling over. The empty brown bottle left his hand and flipped lazily through the air, shattering against the head of the porcelain replica of the Venus de Milo standing inconspicuously in the corner of the suite.
