Funny Money

“Where is it manufactured?”

“In the good old U.S. of A. Oh, hold on. There's a call on the other line.”

Valentine put a pillow over his head. Then he tried to make sense of what Mabel had just said. The European was using an explosive that wasn't available on the open market. So how had he gotten his hands on it?

“It's that slimeball Nick Nicocropolis,” his neighbor said, coming back on.

“Who's ripping him off now?”

“Some guy at blackjack. Nick taped him scratching his arm, and says you can see him sticking his hand up his sleeve. Nick thinks he's switching cards. He had the player detained, but he wasn't wearing a holdout, whatever that is.”

A holdout was a generic term for any device that allowed a crossroader to keep a playing card hidden on his body. Some holdouts were intricate pieces of equipment that cost thousands of dollars, like the Kepplinger body harness, while others were simple devices, such as a bulldog clip attached to a piece of elastic.

“So the guy was clean,” Valentine said.

“Nick said all he found was some trash around the player's chair.”

“What kind of trash?”

“I'll ask him.” She put him on hold, then returned. “Gum wrappers, a broken rubber band, some cigarette butts, and an eight-by-ten index card.”

“There's his evidence.”

“Where?”

The pillow wasn't doing any good, and he tossed it on the floor. “The rubber band and the index card. The crossroader wears the rubber band around his biceps with the index card tucked beneath the elastic. That's what holds the cards. When he smells trouble, he sticks his hand up his sleeve and breaks the rubber band. The evidence falls to the floor.”

“Can Nick prosecute with that?”

Valentine smiled into the receiver. Mabel was starting to sound like a cop. She really wanted this gig to work, and he found himself wanting it to work as well.

“No, but the crossroader is still screwed.”

“How so?”

“Nick has his face on film. He'll make his security team memorize it. He'll also send a picture to the Griffin Detective Agency, and they'll put it in a book that they sell to the other casinos. The crossroader won't be able to get a game of jacks.”

She giggled. “That's wonderful. One more question.”

“Shoot.”

“When are you coming home?”

He heard a knock on his door. Sliding off the bed, he stuck his eye to the peephole in the door. It was Detective Davis, and the look on his face was not friendly.

“Soon,” he told his neighbor.

16

Betrayal

The windowless interrogation room in the basement of the Atlantic City police department reeked of butts and body odor. Valentine had grilled many suspects here but had never realized how revolting the air truly smelled.

Davis turned on the tape recorder sitting on the desk. “Let's start from the beginning.”

It was not easy playing stupid, but Valentine did his best, and ended up saying nothing the detective didn't already know. Disgusted, Davis shut off the tape recorder.

A ham-faced guy in an off-the-rack suit entered the room. Late forties, fat, with stringy blond hair and a chipped front tooth. Davis introduced him as Detective Coleman. Coleman's beat was working security at The Bombay.

“How'd you like to get fucked?” Coleman said, popping a piece of bubble gum in his mouth.

Valentine thought he already was fucked. A bead of sweat ran down his spine. He'd made a lot of suspects sweat over the years and always found it comical. Now it didn't seem funny at all.

“Not really.”

Coleman eyed him, chewing away. “My partner and I have been investigating The Bombay. It's bad enough they got swindled and didn't tell the law; it's worse they went and hired you. It's called obstructing justice. You with me so far?”

Valentine nodded.

“We don't know what Archie Tanner's trying to pull, but he's about to get himself royally screwed. Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“My partner and I had a chat with Frank Porter this morning,” Coleman said, his fingers tapping the silent tape recorder. “I told him about the bomb in your car, asked him who might want you dead. Frank told us what happened between you and a European blackjack cheat in The Bombay yesterday.”

“Oh,” Valentine said.

Coleman leaned forward, getting in his face. “Frank said that you're carrying an illegal Glock. That true?”

The words hit Valentine like a kick in the stomach. He didn't know what bothered him more, the detectives knowing about the gun, or Porter's betrayal.

“Yes,” he said.

“Still have it?”

“No.”

“Mind telling me where it is?”

“The European took it away from me.”

Coleman's eyes went wide. Davis muttered under his breath. A third man entered the room, a detective's badge pinned to the lapel of his jacket. Valentine swallowed hard. It was the guy with the widow's peak he'd seen standing outside the Body Slam School of Wrestling. Kat's abusive boyfriend.

“This is Detective Marconi, my partner,” Coleman said.

Marconi got up close to Valentine's chair. He was tall and skinny, with piercing eyes that didn't blink. Leaning forward, he said, “Feel my face.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Feel my face.”

Valentine gently touched Marconi's chin.

“Feels soft, doesn't it? I got mauled by a Doberman as a kid. The plastic surgeon grafted skin from my ass onto my face. Pretty good job, don't you think?”

Valentine took his hand away. “Could have fooled me.”

“It fooled everybody. Only my brother told everyone in town. Kids called me Ass Face. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I've had a shitty attitude ever since.”

“I bet.”

“You're a hair away from going to jail, mister.”

“I know.”

“Want to prevent that?”

“Yes.”

“Stay out of this investigation, or the next time we catch you meddling where you don't belong, it's a bust.”

“I will,” Valentine promised. Then added, “Scout's honor.”

He hadn't meant the remark to sound flippant, but it came out that way. Marconi made a fist and reared back