He retrieved Honey's number and hit Send. After three rings a woman's groggy voice said, “Yes?”
It was nearly two in the afternoon. What kind of woman slept this late? Then he had a bad thought. What if it was someone he knew? Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said, “Is this Honey?”
The woman caught her breath.
“I'm a friend of Doyle's,” he said.
The phone went dead in his hand. He finished his Diet Coke, wondering how many more unpleasant items he was going to discover about his old pal.
Something in his bones told him Gerry was trying to call him. Taking out his own cell phone, he dialed into voice mail and found a lone message awaiting him.
“Pop, do you have any idea what you've done?” his son said. “The cops raided the bar and arrested Big Tony. They told him
“Now Big Tony's brothers are looking for me! Goddamn it, Pop, I'm a dead man. Do you understand?
He erased the message. You try to help out, he thought, and look where it gets you. The door to his room banged open. A Mexican chambermaid pushing a vacuum came in. Plugging the vacuum into the wall, she started cleaning.
“Come back later!” he yelled over the vacuum's roar.
She smiled sweetly, not understanding a word.
“Later,” he yelled, pointing at his watch.
She pointed at his cell phone. He looked down; it was all lit up. Crossing the room, he unplugged her.
“Later,” he said. “Please.”
He chained the door behind her, waited a minute, then dialed into voice mail. It was Frank Porter.
“Call me,” Porter said.
Valentine called him.
“Guess who just waltzed into The Bombay,” Porter said.
It sounded like the opening line of a joke.
“Jimmy Hoffa?”
“The European. He's already won five grand.”
Valentine felt his heart start to race. The Bombay was on the north side of town, a good ten-minute drive from his motel.
“I'll be there in five.”
“Meet you by the front door,” Porter said.
10
The European
Valentine pulled up to The Bombay's valet stand five minutes later, having run every red light and broken every speed limit in the city. The stand was deserted, and he left the keys in the ignition and hurried in.
Porter was waiting just inside the front door. Pulling him aside, he handed Valentine a New York Yankees baseball cap.
“There's a transceiver with an inter-canal hearing aid taped in the rim,” Porter explained. “I'll be able to talk to you from the surveillance room, but no one else will be able to hear me.”
Valentine put the cap on and adjusted the strap. “Where's he sitting?”
“Table 42.”
Because The Bombay was so large, Porter had written instructions to Table 42 on the back of a business card. Going over to a Funny Money cage, he took a bucket of the special coins and shoved them into Valentine's hands.
“Carry this. Makes you look like a tourist.”
“What do I look like now?”
“An old cop.”
Valentine dropped Porter's card into the bucket, reading it while he walked across the crowded casino. The European had picked an out-of-the-way table, close to an exit. By the time Valentine reached it, Porter was talking to him from his desk in the surveillance control room on the third floor.
“How's the sound?”
“Great.”
“He's the third player at the table. See him?”
The European was not hard to spot; his piles of black hundred-dollar chips towered over everyone else's.
“Uh-huh.”
“He doesn't see you.”
Valentine circled Table 42 and sized the European up. He was thin, late thirties, and seemed in a sour mood, which was odd considering the amount of money he was winning. His clothes were nondescript: black pants, black turtleneck sweater, and a black sports coat. And then there was his haircut. It was a bowl job, the kind they used to give guys in prison.
Valentine sat in front of a Funny Money slot machine and watched the European play. The European won another five thousand dollars, yet did not tip the dealer once. That was odd: Most hustlers tipped the dealer heavily, just to keep them happy.
“Does this guy ever lose?” Valentine said into his hat.
“Not that I've seen,” Porter said.
The other players at Table 42 were women. Valentine looked at each one, and spotted the dark-haired beauty from the video Doyle had sent him. She'd dyed her hair red, but the resemblance to Audrey Hepburn was unmistakable. Their eyes met.
Turning on his stool, Valentine took a handful of coins from his bucket, and started feeding them into the Funny Money slot machine.
“I think I've been spotted.”
“He's not even looking at you,” Porter said.
“The woman sitting to his immediate left.”
“You think they're a team?”
“Yup.”
“I think you're okay. Keep playing.”
Soon Valentine was down to his last coin. He fed it into the machine and jerked the handle. Slot machines were for dummies, a chimpanzee having the same chance of winning, and he cringed as the reels fell his way and the grand prize sign started flashing.
A big-bosomed hostess appeared lugging a bulky cappuccino maker. Panting, she dropped the box into his hands.
“Congratulations,” she said.
“No thanks,” Valentine replied.
The hostess snarled at him. “Take it,” she insisted.
“I don't want it.”
The hostess lowered her voice. “Listen, buster. It's my last cappuccino maker. They're heavy and my back is killing me. Make a girl happy, okay?”
Valentine glanced over his shoulder. The European and his accomplice were leaving. The cappuccino maker fell from his hands and hit the floor with a loud crunch.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Bite me,” the hostess replied.
Clutching the Glock in his pocket, Valentine followed them across the casino floor. The European was making
