'He'd have to be very good, wouldn't he?'
'Damn good.'
'What's your second theory?'
'The girl is signaling him.'
'How?'
'I have no earthly idea.'
'How can that be a theory if you don't know how it's being done?'
'Because it's logical,' he explained. 'Experience says lean toward the simplest theory. Maybe she's doing it with her eyes or her lips or the way she flares her nostrils. I'd have to see her in person to know for sure.'
'So the girl's guilty?'
'It's a distinct possibility.'
Mabel put her cup down, her eyes fixed on the blinking answering machine. Valentine fidgeted uncomfortably.
'Not to change the subject,' she said, 'but have you spoken to Gerry lately?'
'He called over the weekend,' he mumbled.
'Did you have a conversation, or did he have to leave a message on that horrible machine?'
If Mabel had a flaw, it was her unwillingness to let sleeping dogs lie. Six months before, he'd lent his son fifty thousand dollars to buy a bar in Brooklyn, New York. His son had been in and out of trouble over the years, and Valentine had always begrudgingly bailed him out. The bar, Gerry had promised him, would be a new beginning. So when Valentine had gone to visit a few weeks ago, he'd been shocked to find Gerry sitting at a desk in the back room, running a bookmaking operation. 'You're early,' his son had quipped, a phone pressed to his ear. Removing his belt, Valentine had whipped his son's butt good-and had not talked to him since.
'What's so horrible about my machine?' he asked.
'You need to change the message.'
'I like the message. It's me.'
'Are you going to answer the question or not?'
'You know,' he said, 'when you talk like that, you sound just like my dearly departed wife.'
'I'm sorry. Would you please answer the question?'
'I was out in the backyard.'
'Did you call him back?'
'I haven't gotten around to it.'
'Tony, I'm ashamed of you.'
'That makes two of us.'
'And what is that supposed to mean?'
'I'm ashamed I dislike my son as much as I do.'
'Then why won't you call him?'
'He's not worth it,' he said, ending the conversation.
Valentine escorted Mabel down the front path to her car, an old Honda Accord with a vanity plate that said spoofs. She got in, and as he closed the door for her, she said, 'At least listen to your machine.'
'All right, all right,' he said.
'And call your son.'
'No,' he said as she drove away.
Going inside the house, Valentine hit the Play button on his answering machine.
'Hey, Tony-Wily here at the Acropolis. Love the message. I've got a big problem, buddy, and I need your help.'
Valentine winced. He hated it when total strangers called him buddy. Pal was acceptable; Hey, friend, okay; Yo, chief, borderline; but never buddy.
'Believe it or not,' the pit boss went on, 'the guy on the tape showed up again. He started beating us, so we tossed him. Our head of surveillance watched the tape and decided our dealer was signaling him. We had her arrested this afternoon. We showed the tapes to Gaming Control, and they're not convinced. They think we should drop charges.' The pit boss coughed nervously. 'It's a real fucking mess. I'd like you to fly out here and have a look. I know this is spur of the moment, but my ass is on the line.'
'I'll bet it is,' Valentine said to the machine.
'Money's no object. I'm begging you, Tony. I'm having an airline ticket couriered to you. Call me.'
Valentine erased the message. Vegas in August? Who was this joker kidding? Besides, what could he do? The Gaming Control Bureau was the single most powerful entity in Las Vegas and was responsible for prosecuting any cheating taking place inside a licensed casino. They were the knights on the white horses who were entrusted to keep things honest. Without their support, Wily didn't have a pot to piss in.
He stuck Mabel's lasagna in the microwave while thinking about the young woman on the tape. She was a sweet-looking kid and not the type he'd normally suspect of cheating. Now that she'd been arrested, her career dealing blackjack was over. It would be a crying shame if she was innocent.
The kitchen phone rang. Dinnertime was the witching hour for solicitors, and he let his machine pick up.
'This is Tony Valentine. I don't answer my phone because too many jerks call. Leave a message or a fax. Or you can go away. It's up to you.'
'Hey, Pop, it's Gerry,' his son's voice sang out. 'Guess I missed you again. Glad you're leading an active social life down there.'
'Get on with it,' Valentine said to the machine.
'… anyway, it looks like I'm coming down to your neck of the woods. I scored some tickets to the Devil Rays and Yankees game tomorrow, and I figured we might catch a game. Whaddaya say? It would be fun, like old times. I'm flying down in the a.m. on Delta. Call me at the bar, okay?'
Valentine took the lasagna out of the microwave and stuck a fork in it. A baseball game sounded great, only not with Gerry. His son had been making his life miserable for years, and he wanted him to suffer and do a little penance. He did not think that was so much to ask.
His doorbell rang. His place was turning into Grand Central Station. Valentine went to the door; through the window, he saw a Tampa Express van parked in his driveway.
He opened the door, and the strangest-looking courier he'd ever seen waltzed in. Shaved head, with a dozen silver pins connected by silver chains adorning the side of his face. The name tag above his pocket said Atom. Had his folks actually christened him that?
Atom handed him a thin envelope, then produced a pen from behind a pierced ear. 'Sign on the label.'
Valentine scribbled his name, and Atom tore off the receipt.
'Atom, mind if I ask you a question?'
'Not at all.'
'How much did it cost to have those pins put in your face?'
Atom smiled, thinking he was being paid a compliment. 'I got it done in Ybor City at Pin amp; Pierce. Three hundred for all twelve. The chains were extra.'
'Atom, if a man came up to you in the street, knocked you down, and pierced your cheek with a hat pin, they'd put him away for ten years.'
Atom looked puzzled. Then his face reddened; Valentine almost could've sworn that the pins also changed color. 'This is different,' he spouted defensively.
'I'm glad one of us thinks so,' Valentine said.
Atom refused a tip. Valentine shut the door and tore open the envelope. Inside was a ticket to Las Vegas on Delta, the departure the next morning. He checked the seat assignment. Wily had sprung for first class.
The phone rang and he let the machine pick up.
'Hey, Pop, it's Gerry. I just spoke to Mabel Struck on her cell phone. She says you're home and that you're probably standing in the kitchen sticking your tongue out at the phone. Look, Pop, enough is enough. I'm coming down to Florida whether you like it or not. We need to hash this out. Like men.'
Like men? What were they going to do, Greco-Roman wrestling on the floor? Gerry didn't know how to act like a real man; that was the fundamental problem. 'Get serious,' he shouted at the phone.
'I mean it, Pop. I'm coming down.'
