Funny Money

“It is the only logical explanation. We are being turned into—what is the expression?”

“Fall guys,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Fall guys.”

“But you are ripping off The Bombay.”

“Ripping off?”

“Stealing.”

“Yes, yes, we are doing that. But we did not kill your friend. We would never do such a thing. You must believe me when I say this.”

Valentine drank his soda. He got the feeling Ann was being sincere, which could only mean one thing. Her partners had planted the bomb in Doyle's car without telling her.

“Why should I?” he said.

She took another swallow of beer. “The Bombay hired you to investigate Doyle Flanagan's murder, yes?”

“That's right.”

“And you are an ex-policeman.”

“Right again.”

“You have an open mind, yes?”

Valentine shook his head. She didn't understand, so he spelled it out for her. “Doyle Flanagan was my partner and my best friend. Did your sources tell you that?”

Ann leaned over the table. “The night your partner was murdered, we were playing blackjack at The Bombay.”

“Prove it.”

She killed the beer and her cheeks grew flushed. “As you are probably aware, we play at tables which are not being monitored by surveillance cameras.”

“So there's no film,” Valentine said.

“No. But a member of our team did cash in our winnings—”

“—and since the cage is always being filmed,” Valentine finished, “your partner would be on tape.”

She slapped her hands on the table. “Exactly!”

“Honey, all that tells me is that one of you was in The Bombay that night.”

The Chatterbox's front door banged open. A dozen uniformed men stormed in, bringing an arctic wave of cold air with them. They ripped off their fireman's jackets and bellied up to the bar, loudly ordering pitchers of beer.

Ann's eyes went wide. Seconds later she was out of the booth and beating a path toward the back door. Wearing his soda, Valentine ran after her.

“Try to keep it civil,” the bartender called out.

Ann hit the back door like a truck. The door swung open, and Valentine saw her run into the parking lot, then suddenly stop, looking in both directions. Had her ride gone and left her?

Being old definitely had its advantages. For one, people were always underestimating his physical prowess, and Ann let out a scream when he grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her like a top. He started to shake her.

“Tell me where your partners are,” he said.

“Do not . . . be stupid.”

That got Valentine mad. She was the stupid one. Any other hustler would have left town. He started to reply, then felt something hard tap the back of his skull.

He awoke on an icy metal floor, his wrists handcuffed to an exposed hot water pipe. Voices danced around him; three men and a woman. The cold floor was doing a number on his bowels, and he fought the urge to soil himself.

He tried to make out the conversation but couldn't place the language. Not Turkish or Greek or Albanian but similar, from that part of the world. He cracked an eye open, and got a look at the other two males who made up the gang. Late thirties, gaunt, with sallow complexions, their faces without humor.

The room they had brought him to was filled with litter. Mostly beer cans but also shattered crack pipes, and he guessed he was in an abandoned warehouse on the west side of town.

Ann stood in the room's center. She'd changed into sweats and wore a Walkman around her neck. She came over and knelt beside him. Coming out of the earphones was Vivaldi's The Four Seasons. Her hand touched his brow.

Valentine opened his eyes. “Hi.”

The gang circled him. Taking out a penlight, the European shined the tiny beam into Valentine eyes. Then he said something reassuringly to Ann.

“Good,” she said in English.

Valentine rattled his handcuffs against the water pipe. “Would you mind undoing these? I'm not going anywhere.”

“Only if you'll tell me something,” the European said.

“What's that?”

“I want to know how you spotted me in the casino.” Then he added, “No one else has.”

“These first,” Valentine said.

The European took out the keys and opened the cuffs. Pushing himself into a sitting position, Valentine leaned against the wall and watched the room spin.

“Out with it,” the European said.

“You cut your own hair, don't you?”

The European nodded. “We take turns.”

“Well, it shows.”

“You're saying my hair gave me away?”

“Afraid so.”

“Your country is filled with strange-looking people. And so are your casinos. Why would I stand out?”

Valentine tried to think of a delicate way to explain it. Some of the worst-dressed human beings could be found in American casinos. Only these people did not play at the five thousand dollar blackjack tables. They played keno and the quarter slot machines. The gamblers at the five-thousand-dollar tables wore Rolex watches and had hundred dollar haircuts. They had dough, and they flaunted it.

Valentine said, “Well, it's like this. You look . . .”

They were all staring at him.

“Poor,” he said.

The European winced. Valentine had hit a nerve.

“You haven't been in this country long, have you?”

The European put his hand on Valentine's shoulder. “You are a clever man, and if we keep letting you talk, I'm sure you'll find out plenty about us. So, shut up.”

“You bet,” Valentine said.

They huddled on the other side of the room. Valentine used the break to take deep breaths and try and get his heart to slow down. An old martial arts trick that he'd never been any good at. He saw Ann break away from the group. She came over and knelt down beside him.

“Will you please listen to me,” she said.

“I'm listening.”

“We have played blackjack all over the world. Eventually, the casino figures out they cannot beat us, and we are eighty-fived—”

“Eighty-sixed.”

“Thank you. So we go elsewhere. Monte Carlo, Nassau, San Juan. A month here, a month there. It is always the same.”

“I'm not reading you,” he said.

“Eventually, we are barred,” she explained. “The casinos figure out they cannot win and throw us out.”

“Okay.”

“The Bombay was different. We played and won and kept playing. Each night we wondered, ‘When will it