“Any of your neighbors see them?”
“Yeah. They fit the description of Coleman and Marconi.” Davis paused. “But you knew that, didn't you?”
“They were at the top of my list. Did your neighbors call 911?”
“Call 911? I live in a black neighborhood, Tony. Whatever Coleman and Marconi say happened, that's what the police are going to believe.” He paused again. “You haven't explained why they're after me.”
“Because they think I made the scam at The Bombay and then told you.”
“You're saying I'm fucked,” the detective said.
“Yes, I'd say you're fucked.”
He could almost hear Davis thinking. “Maybe I'd better call in sick, and go hang at my girlfriend's.”
“I would,” Valentine said.
Davis recited his girlfriend's phone number. Valentine wrote it down on the palm of his hand, then hung up.
Behind the register, the weirdo had taken off his shirt and was displaying the colorful array of tattoos adorning his upper torso. Each was of a famous wrestler—the Hulkster, the Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin—and the weirdo did tricks with his muscles that made them come to life, with Kat ohhing and ahhing at the appropriate moments. Valentine hooked his arm into hers and bolted from the store.
“Let me guess,” she said when they were on the road. “You don't like body art.”
“You didn't see me sporting any tattoos, did you?”
“Can't say I looked that hard.”
“They're crude. Some religions think they're blasphemous.”
“Name one.”
“Okay. The Jews. I knew a Jewish guy who had a tattoo. He died, and his wife wanted him buried in a Jewish cemetery. So they cut his arm off.”
She made a face. “I was thinking of getting one. Lots of women wrestlers have them.”
He gave her a look that said this conversation would go no further. She stared at the road.
“So what did they do with the arm?” she asked a few minutes later.
“I guess they buried it in a Gentile cemetery.”
“Very funny,” she said, punching him in the shoulder.
36
The Four Kings Approach
Valentine needed a car.
Kat drove him to the Hertz lot at Bader Airport, and he rented a Mustang. As he turned the car on, Van Morrison's “Tupelo Honey” came blaring out of the radio's speakers.
He parked next to Kat's Saturn and got into her car. Kat was on her cell phone telling the principal at her daughter's school why she was pulling Zoe out. She hung up.
“What a pencil dick. Zoe's already missed so many classes, what difference will another day make?”
He took out his cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Is that a little question or a big question?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do I mind if you smoke in my car, as in right now, or do I mind if you happen to smoke, as in all the time?”
He showed her the two remaining cigarettes in his pack. “I've got these to go, then I'm back on the wagon.”
“Go ahead.”
He lit up, then exhaled a dark plume. When the cigarette was nearly gone, Kat spoke.
“You haven't told me what you're going to do.”
No, he hadn't. He'd told Kat what he wanted
“You don't want to know,” he said.
He filled his lungs with smoke. Knowing it was one of his last cigarettes made it taste that much better. He stared across the lot into the rental car office. “I need to find out how The Bombay's getting ripped off. Frank Porter knows, so I'm going to make him tell me.”
“Make him how?”
“I'm going to use the Four Kings approach.”
“It sounds ugly.”
“You ever been to Fremont Street in Las Vegas?”
“I've never been west of the Mississippi.”
The cigarette was nearly out. He smoked it until he tasted the filter, then snuffed it in the ashtray. “When people think of Las Vegas, they think of the Strip, and all the big casinos. But the original Las Vegas is on Fremont Street. Locals call it old downtown. The casinos here are old-fashioned joints.
“The Four Kings is one of the better ones, a member of the ‘All Right to Be Bright Club.' The interior is light and tropical. Old- timers dig the food and the lounge shows. There are some high rollers, but mostly it's just the motor coach market.
“Anyway, the Four Kings has a strict policy about cheating. It's been in force for years, and every crossroader who's ever worked Las Vegas knows about it. If you get caught cheating, they drag you into the back room. And in that back room there's a wall. The wall was originally white, but it hasn't been painted in forever.
“The wall is covered in crossroaders' blood. By the time you leave that room, some of your blood gets added to that wall. That's the deal. If you're new, it's usually just a punch in the mouth. But if they've seen you before, watch out. The Four Kings approach.”
“That's brutal,” she said.
“It is. And you want to know something?”
“What?”
“It works. The Four Kings has been ripped off the least of any casino in Nevada, probably any casino in the world. Don't get me wrong: I'm not advocating beating up criminals. I'm just telling you what works with crossroaders. You have to threaten them, and then you have to be willing to back it up.”
“Is it really necessary?”
He took her hand with both of his. “They killed my best friend, and they tried to kill me. And now they're after you and Eddie. You're goddamned right it's necessary.”
He followed Kat to her daughter's school. Soon Zoe came out. A skinny waif, too much makeup, and a boy's haircut made up the package. She got into the Saturn and immediately started arguing with her mother.
Valentine followed them to the exit for the New Jersey Turnpike. The Saturn went up the long entrance ramp, then stopped. He saw Kat turn and wave good-bye. He waved back.
How Frank Porter had saved his house in Pheasant Run from his ex-wife was one of the great mysteries of New Jersey.
Frank had bought five acres of wooded paradise twenty years before, then saved his dough and built his dream house, a two-story A-frame with a wood deck sitting off the second story. Designed like a Swiss chalet, the house was a favorite gathering place and had hosted many Sunday afternoon football parties.
Valentine inched the Mustang up the long, sloping driveway. Halfway up, he pulled off the road and got out. The underbrush was heavy, and the car got swallowed by the forest.
He knew Frank's schedule about as well as his own. Today, a Friday, was one of Frank's off days. Usually, he stayed at home, tinkering in his shop or working in the yard.
The climb up the gravel driveway got his heart going. The wind was blowing through the trees, creating a thousand whispers. It was strange, but he did not feel apprehensive. The tip of the A-frame appeared above the treetops. Then the rest of the house took shape. Up in Frank's study a light was on.
He went around back and entered the two-car garage.
