The dealer had been dying when Valentine had reached the scene. He'd been no more than a kid. When Valentine had asked him to describe his assailant, the dealer had managed to stroke his face once, then gone to meet his maker. Valentine hadn't understood the kid's dying gesture—until now. It was an allusion to the invisible scar on Marconi's cheek.
Valentine watched Coleman and Marconi get into their car and leave. The manager went inside his office and turned out the light. Popping the latch on the fence, he slipped onto the property.
The plastic key to his room still worked. He entered the darkened room, kicking furniture as he let the shades down. His big toe caught a bedpost. He cursed silently.
Then he turned on a light and had a look around. Marconi and Coleman had rifled the drawers and selectively taken different pieces of clothing. In the bathroom, he found his toilet kit gone. Some pieces of clothing were still hanging in the closet, and he guessed the detectives had only taken items that fit them.
He sat on the bed. His head hurt, his feet were cold, and his stomach was aching for a hot meal. But more than anything else, his sixty-two-year-old body was nearing a state of total exhaustion.
He opened the window an inch, hoping he would hear any unwanted visitors approach. Then, taking off his clothes, he slipped beneath the bed's warm blankets and was soon sound asleep.
He dreamed he was standing next to a construction worker. The construction worker had a jackhammer and was busting up a piece of pavement. He yelled in the man's ear but got nowhere, the jackhammer drowning out all sound.
He opened his eyes. Someone was banging on the door of the adjacent room. It was morning, the sunlight splashing on the walls. Rising, he grabbed the .38 off the night table and went to the door to his room. He cracked it open and looked out. And blinked. Kat Berman stood outside.
He shut the door. He slipped the .38 into the pocket of his overcoat, then threw on yesterday's clothes. Patting down his hair, he opened the door.
“Looking for someone?” he said.
“You,” she said, smiling. “Actually, your son. I was hoping he'd tell me how to find you.”
“Well, here I am.”
She surprised him with a kiss on the cheek. “Can I come in?”
“Sure,” he heard himself say.
When they were sitting on the couch in his room, she said, “I need to talk to you.”
“Isn't that what we're doing?”
“Serious talk.” Taking her handbag off the floor, she removed a liter of Fresca and two plastic cups. She poured, nearly emptying the bottle.
“Are we celebrating something?” he asked.
“We most certainly are. I don't drink booze, so I hope you don't mind the soda.” She handed him one of the cups. “Cheers.”
“Bottoms up.”
She giggled, reading more into his toast than he'd intended. His face grew red and he shifted uncomfortably. What the hell was going on? Twelve hours ago, she'd been ready to neuter him. They finished their sodas in silence. Then Kat put her hand on his leg. And left it there.
“This morning, Gladys and Donny and I had a meeting with the promoter who staged last night's show. Guy named Rick Honey. Rick produces wrestling shows for cable TV. Anyway, Rick sits us down in his office, acts like he's pissed. He used to be a wrestler, called himself Mr. Clean. So Rick says, ‘Whose idea was it to change last night's script?'?”
“I hope you told him it was mine,” Valentine said.
“Of course not! Nobody tells the truth in this business, Tony. So Donny says, ‘It was my idea, Rick. I thought the script stunk.' Now, Rick just stares at us for a minute like he doesn't know what to say. Then he reaches into his desk drawer and takes out some contracts. He tosses them on the desk, and he says, ‘You know what these are?' We all nod our heads and Rick says, ‘Before we talk terms, I want there to be an understanding. From now on, we stick to the script, okay?' Well, Donny and Gladys and I looked at each other, and I can't tell you how hard it was not to laugh!”
“Terms for what?”
“For me and Gladys to fight each other
“You're kidding me,” Valentine said.
“No, I'm not. We stole the show.”
He felt his spirits soar. He hadn't screwed up Kat's life after all. Maybe spilling his guts out to Father Tom at confession had done more good than he'd realized.
“What kind of money did he offer you?” he said.
“Five bouts, ten thousand dollars a bout.”
Valentine took her hand and squeezed it. “That's the best news I've heard all week. I hope you said yes.”
“There's a catch.”
“What's that?”
She removed some legal-looking papers from her handbag and dropped them in his lap.
“The deal is for all four of us.”
“I'm not following you,” Valentine said.
“Donny told Rick you were part of the act.”
“Tony—don't get mad, please.”
Valentine picked up the papers and held them up to his face. It was a contract, his name at the top of the page. His role as the jealous boyfriend was clearly spelled out. He would beat Donny up, only this time he'd get paid for it, two grand a pop. On the bottom of the page were the dates, the first show three weeks away at the Orlando Centroplex.
“This is crazy,” he said, putting the contract down. “You should have told this guy the truth, Kat.”
“But, we couldn't . . .”
“No—you didn't want to.”
She started to reply, then dropped her head so her chin was touching her chest. “You're not going to do it.”
“I'm not a wrestler,” he said, feeling his blood boil in a different way now, unable to rein in his feelings. “I could have hurt someone. You said it yourself. Now you want me to do it professionally. For the love of Christ, what are you thinking, girl?”
“Oh, fuck it.” Taking the contract from him, she threw it across the room. “You stepped into the ring, didn't you? My life was going along just fine until you came along. This is the chance of a lifetime, Tony—of my fucking lifetime. But do you care? No! You just want to keep messing things up for me, don't you?”
“You know that isn't true,” he said.
“Then why won't you do it? It would be fun, and three of the shows are in Florida, so you'd be in your backyard. And Donny and Gladys are a scream. Come on, Tony.”
“Can I think about it?”
“That is so lame,” she said.
He blew out the air trapped in his lungs. “All right.”
“Meaning what?”
He looked into her eyes. “For you, okay.”
“Oh, Tony!”
She threw her arms around him and started kissing his face. Her breath was hot, her lips as sweet as confectionery sugar. Soon every part of his body was aroused, and he couldn't have turned back if he'd wanted to.
