Valentine put one of the last cigarettes in his mouth but didn't light it up. He chose his words carefully. “Tell Archie a gang of employees is ripping him off. Frank Porter is one of the ringleaders. I was trying to nail them. They got wise, and tried to kill me.”
Brandi put him on hold, then came back. “Archie wants to know why you ran from the police.”
“Because there are police involved.”
“Do you have proof?”
“Yes,” he lied.
She put him on hold again, then came back. “Archie said not to worry. He's taking his private jet home tonight. He wants you to come to my apartment and lay low until he arrives. He says he'll get everything straightened out.”
Her tone was businesslike. He liked that. She gave him her address, and he realized he knew exactly where she lived.
“I'll be there in ten minutes,” he said.
Brandi lived in the Reserve, a pricey high-rise condominium overlooking the ocean. Ten years before, Valentine and his wife had looked at a one-bedroom and found they couldn't afford to pay the monthly maintenance fee, let alone the mortgage.
He drove to a movie theater several blocks away and parked behind the brick building. He got out of the car and stripped out of the fireman's uniform.
He hiked up Arctic Avenue, the stiff ocean breeze fighting his every step. It felt ten degrees colder than the last time he'd been outside, and he wondered if his body was trying to tell him something.
A block before the condo, he ducked into an alley. At its end was a fire escape, which he climbed to the roof. Back when he was in uniform, he'd climbed this building many times while chasing suspects, the view the best around.
Standing on the roof brought back a flood of memories. He stared up and down the street. None of the original businesses were open anymore. Gone was the baker and the shoemaker and the pet shop. Not good businesses to run in a casino town.
The building he stood on had once housed a sausage factory. Two chimneys stuck out of the roof like buck teeth. Standing in their shadows, he stared across the street at Brandi's condo. Through the front doors he could see into the lobby. The night guard sat at a desk, reading the paper. There was no one else around.
The guard got up to stretch. He was in his thirties, square-faced with curly hair. Night guards were usually old geezers like him. The guy was too young for this kind of drudgery. Taking out his cell phone, he dialed 911 and made his second false report of the night.
Having nothing better to do, he timed the fire trucks. They reached the condo in six minutes flat. That was why people loved firemen. Because they knew how to hurry.
Three trucks and a pair of ambulances crowded the front entrance. The night guard came outside, followed by a half dozen cops who'd been hiding in a back room.
He stared at the condo's glass walls, trying to guess which unit Brandi occupied. And wondered why a woman who had everything money could buy would get involved in something like this. It was one more piece of the puzzle that didn't fit.
He thought he saw her looking down from the top floor. The penthouse. He dialed her number.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Brandi?”
“Mr. Valentine?”
“Nice try,” he said.
32
The Man in the
Purple Suit
The Armory's parking lot was full, the faithful braving the weather to drink beer and watch wrestling. Valentine squeezed the Mercedes between two sorry-looking pickup trucks. It was nine-ten. Kat went on in twenty minutes.
He sat for a while and felt the car grow cold. The question was, would Kat help him? Although he wasn't well versed in the ways of modern love, he knew that an invitation from a woman was a big thing, and Kat
The ticket taker would not take his money. “Show started an hour ago,” he said. “Have fun.”
Valentine went inside and bought a bucket of popcorn. The Armory had always been a bastion of male aggression, and he was having trouble imagining Kat doing battle within its walls. Pushing open the double doors, he was greeted by a roar.
The auditorium was packed, the mostly male audience yelling itself hoarse. Up in the ring, a man in orange tights was being pinned by a cartoon character wearing a hockey mask. Valentine found a vacant seat in the last row and fell into it, his feet slipping on spilled beer.
The wrestlers were both giants. Orange tights' girlfriend, a slinky miss in a red gown, entered the ring holding a folding chair. Soon her boyfriend's opponent was lying facedown on the canvas. The crowd stomped its feet and cheered.
Hockey mask staggered to his feet. Orange tights offered his hand, being a gentleman about the whole thing. The blue-haired woman sitting beside Valentine did not approve.
“Cold-cock the motherfucker,” she screamed.
Hockey mask obliged and threw a punch at his opponent, missing by a country mile. Popcorn flew into the ring. He tried again, and got a little closer. More popcorn. The third time, it almost looked real, and a collective cheer filled the auditorium.
Somehow, the contest ended with everyone being friends. If someone had told Valentine the script had been written by a ten-year-old kid, he wouldn't have been surprised.
The old woman with the dirty mouth pulled out a program. Valentine said, “Who's on next?”
“Vixen!”
“She good?”
“As mean as a junkyard dog.”
“Who's she fighting?”
“A big-titted slut named Judo Queen. Doesn't stand a chance.”
“Who said Judo Queen's a slut?”
The old woman drew back in her seat. “No offense, mister. You related or something?”
Valentine started to reply, then heard cheers. Kat was coming down an aisle on the opposite side of the auditorium. She slipped through the ropes and began dancing around. She looked great, her mane of hair flowing seductively down her back, her lips painted red. The sacred crane was nowhere to be seen.
Vixen came next, drawing boos. She was accompanied by her manager, a massive guy wearing a purple suit. He looked like a grape, and Valentine laughed so hard it made his stomach hurt. By the time Vixen reached the ring, other people in the crowd were laughing as well.
“What's so funny?” the old woman asked.
“The guy in the purple suit.”
“Fits pretty good, if you ask me.”
Vixen disrobed. About five-ten, done up in leather, a cat-o'-nine-tails strapped to her waist. Not a girl you'd bring home to Mom. She strutted around the ring, getting the crowd to shout her name.
The referee slipped through the ropes. Right away, Valentine saw a problem. He was about five feet tall and a hundred pounds soaking wet. A snack for either one of these ladies. And Vixen had trouble written all over her.
