here that coins were weighed and wrapped. In the room's center sat a table that held a giant scale. Beside the scale was a coin-wrapping machine.
Everything in the Hard Count room looked normal, except for a second table propped against the wall. He fiddled with the joystick. On this table sat a smaller scale. He made the camera get close. What the hell was that for? Overflow?
He leaned back in Porter's chair. Was The Bombay gang taking buckets of coins taken from slot machines, dumping them onto the smaller scale, then spiriting the coins out of the casino?
He decided it wasn't possible. Every slot machine in The Bombay was video taped 24/7. These tapes were reviewed by teams of Division of Gaming Enforcement agents. The DGE counted how many buckets of coins were taken from each machine, and compared it to how many were dumped on the scale. If the numbers didn't match up, people got arrested.
Which meant he still had no idea what was going on.
He was getting disgusted with himself. He was better than this. Did losing his best friend and all the other nonsense in his life have something to do with his inability to think straight? Taking the bottle of Diet Coke from Porter's fridge, he unscrewed the top and swigged it.
“You still here?” Fu Manchu yelled from the closet.
Valentine tossed the bottle at the door. Then he tapped a command into the keyboard, and the matrix for the blackjack pit appeared on the screen. Porter was at Table 17, talking furiously to a dozen security guards. Davis and his pals were gone.
The guards dispersed. Using the joystick, Valentine followed them across the casino floor. Each guard appeared to be running toward an elevator, or one of the fire exits.
Valentine tapped in another command. Table 17 reappeared. Porter was still there. In his hand was a walkie-talkie. He raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth.
The phone on the desk started to ring.
Valentine hesitated, then picked it up.
“Tony?”
“Hey, Frank,” he said.
“You fucking bastard,” Porter screamed at him.
“What's wrong?”
Frank's face was twisted in fear. Which meant the secret to the missing five million was on his computer, and Valentine had failed to find it.
“You're a dead man,” Porter said.
31
911
Hanging up on Porter, Valentine called Archie Tanner's office. He expected the conversation to be brief. He was going to tell Archie to call the cops. Archie could have any employee arrested for suspicion of stealing, regardless of whether he had evidence. The state gave him this power, along with every other casino owner in Atlantic City.
“I'm sorry,” the receptionist said, “but Mr. Tanner is in Florida.”
“Is Brandi there?”
“She's at home, sick.”
“Who's in charge?”
“Frank Porter,” the receptionist said.
He hung up. He guessed he had a minute before one of Porter's men reached the third floor and shot him. Picking up the phone, he dialed 911. “There's a fire at The Bombay,” he told the operator.
He marched into the surveillance control room. The employees were gone. He opened the door to the hall and stuck his head out. Empty. He walked down the hall to a fire alarm and punched out the glass. A whooping alarm drowned out all sound.
He followed the red Exit signs to a stairwell. Stepping onto the landing, he heard someone coming up the stairs. Taking the .38 from his pocket, he aimed at the landing and pulled the trigger. He heard the same pair of feet run down the stairs.
He fired two more times as he descended to the first floor. He wondered how he was going to feel if he shot an innocent person. Then it occurred to him that everyone who
The first floor landing was deserted. He opened the door and peered into the casino. Several pit bosses had remained at their stations. He thought of the fifty grand in Sparky's bank account and shoe box. Fifty into five million was a hundred employees. He couldn't trust anybody.
Soon, firefighters were streaming into the casino. He waited until one happened by. Opening the door, he shoved the .38 in the firefighter's face. “Get in here.”
The firefighter obliged him. He was an Irish guy with freckles and flaming hair, and didn't seem terribly upset. Like he'd experienced worse than a .38 shoved in his face.
Valentine sent him up the stairs in his underwear. Then tried his uniform on over his own clothes. It fit. He saw the fireman standing at the top of the stairs, shaking his head.
The casino floor was pandemonium. Valentine passed several firefighters without drawing suspicion. He headed for the nearest exit, his heart racing out of control.
He drove to an all-night grocery and parked between two delivery trucks. Inside, he bought cigarettes and fired one up once he was back in the car. Filling his lungs with smoke, he felt himself start to calm down.
Man, that tasted good.
So good, that he smoked two more before taking out his cell phone and dialing Davis's number. The detective answered on the first ring.
“An arrest warrant's been issued for you. You're considered armed and dangerous. Did you really stick a gun in the fireman's face and make him take off his clothes? What were you thinking?”
“Porter's men were trying to kill me,” Valentine said.
“You made the scam?”
“No.”
“Do you know any more than you did before?”
“No.”
“I want you to turn yourself in,” Davis said.
“You're out of control.”
“I am?”
“You're suffering from dementia, Tony. Running around town knocking women down and carrying a hot gun. Do you think that's normal behavior? For Christ's sake, you introduced me as Richard Roundtree yesterday.”
Valentine watched two police cruisers pass by. When they were gone, he blew out a monster cloud of smoke. “I'm not nuts.”
“It's your only defense,” the detective said.
Davis was right. It was the one defense that would probably keep him out of prison. But if he pleaded insanity, there would be a price. He'd have to close his business and spend the rest of his days doing . . . nothing.
“Good-bye, Eddie,” he said.
His cell phone rang when there were three cigarettes left in his pack. He stared at the face. Caller Unknown. Answering it was a risk—cell companies could trace any phone in seconds—but he did so anyway, hoping it was Mabel or his son, wanting desperately to hear a friendly voice.
“Mr. Valentine?”
His prayers were answered. It was Brandi.
“I'm on the other line with Archie,” she said. “He heard what you did at The Bombay tonight. He wants to know what happened.”
