Funny Money

as if to hit him. Coleman intervened and grabbed his partner's arm.

“He's not worth getting suspended over, Vic.”

The two detectives marched out of the interrogation room. Davis shook his head wearily.

“Get out of here,” he said.

Valentine got into the Mercedes and stared at the dashboard. He was too old for this kind of nonsense. And the idea of going to jail, even for just a few days, worried him more than getting hurt.

He started the engine. He was ready to fold his tents, but before he did, he needed to have a talk with Frank. They'd known each other a long time, so long that he considered him more than just a friend. Which was why he had to find out why Frank had betrayed him.

The Bombay's valet stand was quiet when he pulled in fifteen minutes later. Throwing the kid on duty the keys, he walked inside the casino. And waited.

The Bombay had over a thousand pan/tilt/zoom cameras, commonly called PTZs. And a dozen were aimed at the front doors. The people in the surveillance control room constantly watched the doors to make sure no known crossroaders came in. Next to the cage, where the money was kept, it was the most heavily watched area in the casino.

Soon a security guard appeared, and led him over to a house phone. Valentine picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.

“God, Tony, I'm sorry,” Porter said.

“You sold me down the river.”

Valentine heard a crunching sound. Porter was at his desk, eating something. He started to hang up the phone.

“Tony, wait . . .”

Valentine put the phone back to his ear.

“Those pricks Coleman and Marconi leaned on me,” Porter said. “I had to give them something.”

“You gave them me.”

“I'd just gotten off my shift; I was tired and wasn't thinking. When they asked me if you were carrying, I slipped and told them about the hot gun.”

Valentine gripped the receiver, feeling the cold plastic seep into his palm. He'd shown Frank the gun in Sinbad's. But he was positive he hadn't told him it was hot.

“I've got a great joke,” Porter said. “Want to hear it?”

“No.”

“I saw this enormous woman with a sweatshirt with GUESS on it. So I said, ‘Thyroid problem?'?”

“You're not funny,” Valentine said.

Then he walked out of The Bombay.

17

Sparky

Valentine parked the Mercedes in the narrow alley beside Sparky Rhodes's house, then stood on his porch and rapped three times on Sparky's front door. Moments later he was standing inside the darkened foyer, looking down at the paralyzed cop in his wheelchair.

“I lost the Glock,” he explained.

Sparky scratched the day-old stubble on his chin. He wore a flannel bathrobe and had bread crumbs on his chest. Tucked into the belt of his robe was his trusty .38. Valentine could not remember ever seeing him without it.

“You want another gun?”

“Yes.”

“This one's gonna cost you,” Sparky informed him.

“I brought cash.”

“Good.” Sparky turned the wheelchair around and headed toward the kitchen. “Because I don't take credit cards anymore.”

His hoarse laughter filled the dreary house. He wheeled himself down the hall, zigzagging to avoid a pile of trash in his way. His wife had split after he'd been shot, and Valentine didn't think he'd had the place cleaned since.

They went into the kitchen. On the table sat the remains of lunch: a half-eaten baloney sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a long-necked bottle of Budweiser. Stopping at the table, Sparky took the sandwich and shoved it into his mouth, chewed a few times, then washed it down with beer.

“What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking of a .38,” Valentine said. “Something dependable. Like the gun you carry.”

Sparky drew the .38 from his robe and kissed the barrel. “Smith and Wesson makes a lot of guns, but none finer than this baby.” He then proceeded to tell Valentine about the time he'd shot a fourteen-year-old black kid breaking into his house. The district attorney had wanted to prosecute but eventually dropped charges. Because it was a black kid that had shot him, Sparky had seen the act as vindication.

“You understand what I'm saying?” Sparky said.

Valentine didn't. But he didn't say so.

“Can I see it?”

Sparky handed him the .38. Valentine examined it, then put the gun on the counter, out of Sparky's reach.

Sparky stared at him. “What the fuck you doing?”

“I have a question to ask you.”

The paralyzed ex-cop pursed his lips.

“Why'd you tell Frank Porter that you gave me a hot gun.”

“I didn't tell Porter nothing.”

“That's a lie,” Valentine said.

“Fuck it is.”

“Frank got grilled by two detectives this morning, and he coughed up that I was carrying an illegal piece. I didn't tell Frank, so it must have been you.”

Sparky started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut. Valentine leaned against the counter and waited him out. Behind Sparky's cow-brown eyes he could see the gears shifting. Sparky picked up his beer and polished it off.

“Well,” the paralyzed cop said, “it's like this.”

And then he threw the bottle at Valentine's head.

Valentine had just enough time to duck, the bottle hitting the cabinet behind him and shattering. Sparky spun around in his wheelchair and bolted for the hall. Stopping at the door leading to the basement, he jerked the door open and shot down the ramp. Valentine grabbed the .38 and ran after him.

He heard a cat scream, followed by Sparky letting out a scream of his own. Then a loud crash. Reaching the stairwell, he flipped on the basement light.

Sparky lay on his back, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. His wheelchair lay beside him, both wheels spinning. Clinging to his bathrobe was a terrified black cat.

Valentine ran down the stairs. The cat cowered in a corner, hissing.

“Sparky? You okay?”

He put his ear next to Sparky's mouth. The paralyzed cop's breathing was shallow. “I . . .”

“What?”

“I'm . . . sorry.”

“About what?”

“You know . . .”

“Tell me.”

“Doyle . . .”

Sparky's breathing grew faint and his eyes closed, and then he wasn't breathing at all.