'You, too,' Nick said.
'You want me to make the call?'
'No,' Nick said. He raced to the entrance to the Acropolis, where the harem of his ex-wives glowed eerily beneath amber spotlights. 'Look-I want to apologize to her like a gentleman. You think Longo will let me do that?'
Valentine wanted to say yes, but knew he'd be telling a lie. Sympathy was for doctors and the clergy, not the police.
'No,' he said.
'I just want five minutes with her,' Nick said. 'That's all.'
'Just five minutes?'
'That's all.'
'Is that a promise?' Valentine said skeptically.
'On my mother's grave,' Nick swore.
25
Nola was holed up at the Lucky Boy, a motel on the west side of town. Las Vegas got progressively worse the farther you strayed from the Strip, and the Lucky Boy was a wrecking ball away from being turned into a parking lot, the broken neon sign spelling something slightly obscene. Nick parked his Caddy in the motel's deserted lot and killed the headlights. For a long moment, neither man cared to speak.
'I still think you should call the police,' Valentine said.
'Fuck the police.'
'What if there's trouble?'
Reaching across Valentine's lap, Nick opened the glove compartment and removed a pearl-handled.38 that looked like a novelty-store item.
'Put that thing away before you hurt yourself,' Valentine said.
'I'm not going in there unprotected,' Nick said, slipping the piece under his belt. 'Anything else on your mind?'
'Yeah,' Valentine said. 'You'd better call Wily.'
Nick wiped his face on his sleeve. Twenty seconds without AC and the car was already an oven. 'What for?'
'Tell him to put everyone on alert.'
'Why?'
Valentine stared at him in the dark. Why couldn't Nick see it? Or was it one of those things that was so obvious it somehow became invisible? 'Because the last act of Frank Fontaine and Nola Briggs is about to start.'
'You think I'm about to get ripped off?'
'I sure do.'
Sweat poured off Nick's nose. 'How can you be sure?'
'I can feel it in my bones,' Valentine said.
'What are you, psychic?'
'For this kind of thing, yes.'
Nick made the call. Valentine played with the radio and found the news. A loudmouthed announcer was reading the sporting news. The fight was still on and Holyfield was getting the living daylights beat out of him. At the end of the fourth round, he'd eaten another vicious right and taken a breather on one knee. The champ sounded finished.
They got out of the Caddy. A nasty wind blew invisible grains of sand in their faces. Blinded, Valentine rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. He'd take Florida's blood-sucking mosquitos any day. Nick banged loudly on the peeling red door of 66-A.
'Who's there?' a woman's voice said meekly.
'Guess,' Nick said.
The door opened and a sliver of yellow light leaked out from within.
'Hey, Nick,' Nola whispered.
They slipped into the room. The accommodations were the kind you rented by the hour, with a waterbed and a TV bolted to the floor that took coins and showed porno. Valentine checked the bathroom, then went to the window and lifted a blind with one finger. In a loud voice, he said, 'Mind telling us how you got here?'
Nola stared at him blankly. She sat on the bed with Nick, holding hands. If Valentine didn't know better, he would have sworn they'd just gotten married.
'You didn't walk here,' Valentine said accusingly. 'Did you?'
'Leave her alone,' Nick said.
'Why should I?'
'Because somebody beat her up, that's why.'
Valentine got down on one knee to have a look at her. She'd been worked over by a pro. Her eyes were blackened, her nostrils were bloodied, and her lower lip sported a little purple pig. Ugly, but nothing disfiguring: no teeth gone, the pretty little nose intact. To Nick, he said, 'I hope you're not buying this little charade.'
Nick blinked. 'What are you talking about?'
'Somebody did this with some oranges stuffed into a nylon stocking,' Valentine explained. 'It's an old trick, causes lots of bruises.' To Nola he said, 'Didn't they?'
Nola stifled a pathetic little sob. Nick put his arm around her, shielding her from Valentine's accusation.
'Tony, you're a real asshole,' Nick said.
Valentine's face grew hot. He stood up and pointed a finger at Nick. 'Five minutes, like we agreed.'
'Yeah,' Nick said. 'Five minutes.'
'I'm calling the cops in five.'
'Five minutes,' Nick repeated. 'Now just get the hell out, okay?'
'Sure.'
Valentine went to the door. He'd done what he'd been hired to do. Now it was time to extricate himself from Nick's crazy world and go back to his own. His son needed him, and so did Mabel. And he desperately needed them. He opened the door and stepped outside.
The loudmouthed announcer had said that Holyfield had taken more punishment tonight than most boxers endure in a lifetime, but none of the blows that had bounced off the champ's skull were as unexpected as the one that awaited Valentine in the parking lot. It snapped his head straight back and he took a few wobbly steps backward. Then he collapsed in the open doorway of room 66-A.
His eyes snapped open to the sound of Nola's screams, followed by the unmistakable bark of Nick's toy.38. A punch followed, bone hitting bone. Nola's screams stopped and were replaced by the sound of someone choking the life out of her. Clutching the doorsill, Valentine tried to move his fingers and found them frozen in a spastic claw. Slowly he pushed himself off the floor and staggered back into the room.
Little Hands stood over the bed, holding Nola by the throat.
'Where's Fontaine?' he demanded.
'I… don't… know,' she gasped.
'Like hell you don't.'
Nick had wrapped his arms around Little Hands's massive leg and was biting him. Little Hands swatted him away like a flea.
'Help us,' Nick begged.
Valentine wasn't sure he knew how. Judo was great if someone was attacking you but offered little offense of its own. And Little Hands was a pro and not likely to let Valentine get the jump on him. The best he could try for was getting Little Hands outside, in the hope that someone would pass by and come to their aid.
Stepping forward, Valentine kicked Little Hands in the rump. It was like kicking a piece of rock. Little Hands
