The coffee was scalding hot, just the way he liked it. “You want me to talk to her? I used to be a cop, you know.”
A smile appeared on Lin Lin's face, and Valentine realized it was exactly what she wanted. Finding a pen, she wrote on a notepad, then tore off the paper and handed it to him.
“This is where she practices her judo now.”
He stared at the address. Body Slam School of Professional Wrestling, 1234 Winston. It was a bad part of town, filled with rowdy bars and guys on Harleys who didn't sell stock during the day. “This woman got a name?”
“Kat.”
“I'll make sure I bring a whip and chair.”
They finished their coffee. Then Lin Lin got his coat and walked him to the door. As she opened it, the toy poodle darted through Valentine's legs and disappeared into the bushes.
“Tell Yun I'll be back,” he said.
He was a block away from Yun's house when a Chevy Caprice appeared in his mirror. The Atlantic City Police Department had been buying Chevies for as long as he could remember, and people on the wrong side of the law usually knew when a plainclothes detective was crawling up their behind.
He pulled off the road and parked. The Chevy parked behind him. Valentine hit the button that unlocked the passenger door and watched Detective Davis climb in.
“You're something else,” Davis said.
“I am?”
“You come by the station with Doyle's notebook, I figure you're a friend. Next thing I hear, you're at the McDonald's poking your nose where it doesn't belong. That's an Italian thing, isn't it? Kiss 'em before you fuck them.”
“The manager file a complaint?”
“Sure did. Said you had no right going on his roof.”
“His employee supplied the ladder. Did the manager tell you that?”
Davis glared at him. Angry, he looked almost brutal, his eyes fixed in a vicious gaze.
“Doyle was my best friend,” Valentine explained. “I wanted to see where he died, okay? You don't like that, take a hike.”
“The kid at the McDonald's saw you put something in your pocket. Give it to me, or I'll arrest you.”
Valentine tapped the steering wheel with his fingertips. How long had Davis been a detective? A few years? You never let a suspect empty their own pockets. You cleaned out their pockets yourself. He extracted the Funny Money coin, while leaving Doyle's cell phone. He handed the coin to Davis.
“Huh,” Davis said. “You found this on the roof?”
“That's right,” Valentine said.
“You think it was in Doyle's car?”
“I think Doyle was holding it when he got killed.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Doyle was always playing with money, sort of a nervous tic.”
The detective rolled the coin across his knuckles, showing some skill. He was calming down, and Valentine sensed he was going to let him off the hook. Alice was right; he did look like Shaft from the first version.
“You know the skinny about these coins?” Davis asked him.
Valentine said that he didn't.
“Funny Money has been turning up in cash registers around town. Pizza joints, dry cleaners, bars. The police have been all over Archie Tanner about it. FBI, too.”
“What did Archie say?”
“Archie says if the cashiers are stupid enough to take them, what's he supposed to do?”
Over the years, Valentine had known a lot of people who ran cash businesses. As a rule, they were meticulous about checking the money that went into their tills.
“That doesn't make sense,” he told the detective.
“Tell me about it.” Davis flung open his door and started to get out. Then glanced backward at Valentine. “Keep your nose clean, will you?”
“Sure. Can I give you some advice?”
The detective eyed him warily. “What's that?”
“Lose the Chevy. It's a dead giveaway.”
Davis walked away muttering under his breath.
13
Judo Queen
Richard Roundtree,” Valentine said aloud, remembering the name of the actor who'd played Shaft as he drove away. A good-looking guy and a sharp dresser, at least in the movies. Davis looked a lot like him, although he wasn't nearly as sharp.
The roads had iced up, and he drove cautiously to the Body Slam School of Professional Wrestling, the daylight doing a slow fade in his mirror.
He parked in front of the building and got out. A knot of middle-aged bikers stood around the storefront window. From inside he could hear bodies slamming the canvas, the concussive sound making the glass vibrate. The burly boys in leather shook their heads.
“I'd like to do her,” a ponytailed biker said.
“Do her?” another mocked. “Hell, she'd do you.”
Valentine shouldered his way to the front. The wrestler getting all the attention was a knockout in a black leotard, her braided hair hanging halfway down her sweaty back. She was beautiful in an overwhelming sort of way. Big all over, and proud of it. The ponytailed biker tapped Valentine's shoulder.
“Hey,” he said.
Valentine glanced at him. “Hey yourself.”
“You're blocking the view, old man.”
“Is that Judo Queen?”
“Sure is.”
Through the window, Valentine saw a muscular guy in sweats climb through the ropes. Judo Queen charged across the ring and took him down with a perfectly executed dropkick. The ponytailed biker tapped Valentine's shoulder again.
“Like what you see, old man?”
“She's something else,” Valentine admitted.
The bikers erupted, making barnyard sounds. They were pushing fifty, big-gutted, their lives running out of road. Valentine opened the front door and went in.
The school's interior was sweaty hot. Up in the ring, Judo Queen had her opponent in a hammerlock, a classic submission hold. Wrestling and judo had a lot in common, with cleverness playing as great a role as technique. Laying his overcoat over a metal folding chair, he took a seat.
For the next twenty minutes, he watched Judo Queen practice the gimmicky moves of her trade. He could see why Yun had taken a liking to her. Hard worker, no nonsense, eye-of-the-tiger intensity. Mixed in was a nasty attitude—it was there every time she took her opponent down—and right away he could imagine her hurting someone.
At the session's end, her opponent clapped his hands and said
“See you Monday,” her opponent said.
“Right,” she gasped.
Her opponent climbed through the ropes. Rising, Valentine went to the ring apron. Judo Queen lifted her head.
