Funny Money

headlock. In his other hand was a bag from Burger King.

“This must be my lucky day,” Big Tony said. “I go to get some lunch, and I find this lovely lady sitting in your car.”

“You need help?” he asked Kat.

“No,” she said through clenched teeth.

She stomped on Big Tony's instep, then slipped free of his headlock. Grabbing the big man's wrist, she give it a twist, and he let out a yelp.

“Hey, lady,” he whined, twisting in agony. “I didn't mean nothing, honest.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

Kat kicked him in the balls. He doubled over, and she brought her knee into his face. Big Tony's eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell onto the frozen lawn with a deadening Whumph!

Valentine entered his son's room, and Little Tony jumped out from his hiding place behind the door. There was something clutched in his hand—a small knife or a blackjack—and as Valentine socked him in the jaw and sent him flying into the bathroom, the weapon fell from his fingers. Valentine picked it up. It was a blue Pez dispenser.

Valentine untied his son and fiancee. Yolanda let out a pitiful sob as the duct tape was pulled from her mouth. Valentine knelt down beside her.

“He touched me,” she whispered.

Valentine stared at her chest. Her blouse was ripped open, her left breast hanging out. The skin looked scratched and raw. “Who did this?” he asked.

She started to cry. Gerry put his arm around her shoulder, and told her everything was going to be all right.

“Who did this?” Valentine demanded.

His son looked at him. He'd been slapped around pretty good, his cheeks puffy and discolored. “It was Big Tony. He fondled her right in front of me.”

Valentine made Gerry open his mouth. His teeth were all there. He and Lois had nearly gone broke having braces put on them. Then he marched outside.

Big Tony was on the lawn on all fours, trying to reconnect with gravity. Kat hovered over him.

“Hey, stupid,” Valentine said.

Big Tony lifted his head and gave him a blank stare, like he couldn't remember who Valentine was. A glimmer of recognition spread across his bovine features.

“What . . . ?” he mumbled.

“Why'd you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Mess with the girl.”

Big Tony spit contemptuously on the ground.

“Because she's a whore,” he said.

Valentine stepped on his hand.

25

Call Me Dad

There were a lot of drawbacks to having a criminal record. In most states, you couldn't get a liquor license or vote in an election. If your crime was serious, you couldn't drive a car or work as a civil servant or sit on a jury or run for office. You became persona non grata, at least to the government.

Another drawback was that you couldn't have a serious conversation with a cop. Having a record meant you were criminal—even if you'd paid your debt to society and had been a model citizen ever since—and that made you an enemy in the eyes of the law.

Which was why his son didn't press charges when the police showed up a short time later. Although Gerry's rap sheet was nothing serious—an arrest for bookmaking, and a bust for marijuana when he was a dopey teenager—it was enough to paint a picture to a streetwise cop that he was no choirboy. Which meant the Mollos would get a chance to present their side of the story, namely that Gerry owed them fifty big ones. And, since New Jersey didn't have a problem with people collecting debts—the casinos went out of state to collect markers all the time—his son might find himself in court.

Standing on the curb to Atlantic Avenue, Valentine watched the Mollos drive away in a black Lincoln, its rear slung low to the ground. Their first stop, he guessed, would be a hospital emergency room. Then back on the prowl. Guys like this didn't learn their lesson; they kept coming back until you did something drastic to stop them.

He stepped into the manager's office. The manager was working on a bottle of Johnny Walker, his eyes riveted to the portable TV on his desk.

“We're at war,” he announced.

Valentine came around the desk. The TV was filled with shotgun-toting FDLE agents inside the Micanopy Indian Reservation Casino. Dead alligators were strewn about, some flopped on felt gaming tables, others belly-up on the roulette wheel, all shot in the head, oozing blood.

“Gators are an endangered species,” the manager said. “Government broke its own damn laws.”

“Did they nab Running Bear?”

“He's still hiding in the swamps.”

Valentine dropped a twenty on the counter. “If those thugs show up again, call my room, will you?”

The manager pocketed the money. “I'll keep an eye out for them. I like the way that girl of yours handles herself.”

Valentine was taken aback. That girl of his? What did the manager think, that Kat was his daughter?

“Me, too,” he replied.

Gerry was pacing his motel room like a caged animal.

“They'll be back,” his son said. “You know that, don't you?”

Valentine sat down on the bed beside Yolanda. She seemed to be doing better, her toughness coming through once the initial shock of being molested had worn off. He took her hand with both of his. “I'm really sorry I was such a flaring jerk this morning.”

She smiled faintly. “You made up for it this afternoon.”

“You going to be okay?”

“I'll live.”

He saw Kat glance at her watch, then make a face and grab her jacket off a chair. “I've got to go pick up my daughter from school. It's been nice meeting you folks.”

Valentine walked her out to the sidewalk in front of the motel. The wind was blowing off the ocean mean and cold, and he draped his overcoat over her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“Hey,” he said, “thanks for helping out.”

“You ever been to a wrestling show before?” she asked.

He had, as a kid, and hated every minute of it. The sight of big flabby guys in tights with monikers like Pretty Boy Williams and Mr. Wonderful was so repulsive to his childhood sensibilities that he'd asked his old man to take him home.

“Years ago,” he said.

“Like it?”

“I had a great time.”

“I'm wrestling at the Armory tomorrow night. Show starts at eight. I go on at nine-thirty.”

“I'll be there,” he heard himself say.

A checkered cab turned onto Pacific and he waved it down. Kat handed him his overcoat and got in. She lowered her window, and he knelt down so their faces were inches apart.

“I like the way you fight,” she told him.