Funny Money

“Sorry,” his neighbor said.

He got dinner from the Burger King down the street and ate while watching Hogan's Heroes on the mute TV. A station out of Newark liked to show the old stuff. It was such garbage, you didn't need the volume to figure out what was going on.

He stared at the set while thinking about the European. A bad haircut, a fake gun, and a blackjack system that let him always win. That was the part that bugged him. Every blackjack system that didn't rely on outright cheating was based on card counting, and card counting wasn't infallible.

He remembered a crew of card counters he'd encountered years ago. They'd had five members. Four were expert counters. The fifth was a businessman who played the role of the BP, or Big Player, and carried a huge bankroll.

The counters sat at different blackjack tables and did their thing. Card counting was based upon the fact that a deck rich in high cards—the tens, jacks, queens, and kings—gave the players an edge. When the deck became rich, the counter would signal the BP, and the BP would come over and play.

Only on the night he'd seen this crew play, the BP had lost all his money. And all because of a statistical principle called standard deviation. Standard deviation was the average number of misses that might occur in a game of chance and often produced a large swing in the odds. In blackjack, it could wipe out a card counter's edge.

Somehow, the European had gotten around this, which was like saying he'd learned how to walk on water.

The show ended, and he killed the power with the remote. Tomorrow was going to be a better day; he was just sure of it. Turning off the lights, he buried himself in the sheets.

The phone on the night table interrupted his dreams. He cracked an eye. Almost eleven. Mabel was a night owl, and he answered the phone with, “So what did you find?”

“Is this Tony Valentine,” a woman with a thick accent said.

He turned on the lamp on the night table. He'd heard that accent earlier today in the bathroom at The Bombay.

“That's me.”

“Do you know who this is?”

He hesitated. “I think so.”

“There is a bar on Atlantic Avenue. The Chatterbox Lounge. Do you know it?”

Since before you were born, he nearly said. “Yes.”

“Go there and take a booth in the back. Come alone, or I won't.”

“Wait—”

“You have twenty minutes.”

The line went dead. Slipping out of bed, he took his wallet off the night table and removed Davis's card. He punched in the detective's cell number. Five rings later, a woman with a dreamy voice said, “Yes?”

“I need to speak to Eddie.”

“He's not available.”

“You sure about that?”

Her voice turned sharp. “Who is this?”

“Tony Valentine. Get him, will you?”

The woman went away. Valentine glanced at his watch, its face glowing in the room's dim light. A minute slipped away, then another. Davis's lady friend came back on the line.

“Eddie wants to know if it's urgent,” she said.

“It sure is,” he said.

Then he hung up on her.

The Chatterbox was a longtime hangout of Atlantic City's underbelly. Valentine parked under the busted neon sign and went in. In the smoky room he made out a few vague forms shooting pool. Otherwise, it was dead.

The bar was in the shape of a horseshoe and surrounded by a dozen stools. For drug deals and illicit rendezvous there were booths on the far wall, each lit by a single candle. He caught the bartender's eye and ordered a Diet Coke.

A few stools away sat a woman of negotiable affections. Her skirt was hiked up to her crotch, exposing red satin underwear. Without looking his way, she said, “See something you like?”

“Not in here.”

She spun on her stool, facing him. “You sure?”

She sounded desperate. In her face he saw a hard life hidden behind the paint. She smiled, thinking he was warming up to her.

“Scram,” he said.

“What are you, pops, a cop?”

“How bad do you want to find out?”

She flung her purse over her shoulder and bolted. The bartender placed his soda on the bar. “Are you a cop?”

“Ex.”

“You look familiar. Soda's on the house.”

The bartender was a guy his age, lots of character in his face. Sometimes Valentine regretted that he didn't drink. Some of the finest people he'd ever met served booze for a living.

He slipped into a booth and sat with his back to the wall. He looked at his watch. Eleven-eighteen.

Two minutes later, the European's accomplice entered the bar, her wool cap flecked with snow. She stopped and ordered a draft beer, then came to the booth and slid onto the other seat.

“Hello,” she said.

Close up, she was even prettier than he'd expected. But what struck him was her smell. She smelled of cigarettes, or more precisely, a few thousand cigarettes, her teeth stained from years of abuse. She removed her cap and shook it out on the floor.

Valentine kept looking at the two exits, waiting for one of her partners to come in.

“I'm alone,” she informed him.

“You got a name?”

“Ann.”

“What do you want, Ann?”

“Are you always so . . . direct?”

Only with thieves, he nearly said. “Yes.”

Ann pulled a square of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and slid it across the table. His eyes scanned the page.

Wanted!!!

For the murder of Doyle Flanagan and stealing money from The Bombay. If you see either of these individuals inside the casino, alert a pit boss or security immediately. These people are armed and extremely dangerous.

Do Not Attempt To Apprehend

These Individuals!!!!!!

Beneath the screaming type was Ann's picture, lifted off a surveillance tape, another of her partner. Not good shots, but she was so pretty, it would be easy to spot her. He slid the flyer back.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You didn't do it.”

She took a long swallow of beer. It left a wet mustache on her face that she did not seem to notice.

“New Jersey has the death penalty, you know.”

“We are not murderers,” she said. “Your friend was involved in something else.”

“You think so?”