Funny Money

was parked and slipped into the forest. Finding a stump, he sat down, then laid the double-barreled shotgun he'd found in Frank's closet on the ground.

Twenty minutes later when the white van appeared at the bottom of Porter's driveway, he was deep in thought.

Of the scores of hustlers he'd busted over the years, only a handful had ever tried to kill him, and that was to avoid going back to prison. But the majority hadn't put up a fight. He supposed it had to do with the fact that they were professional criminals, a group that, for the most part, had few illusions about life. Amateurs were different when it came to crime. They had dreams, and were often willing to kill to keep those dreams alive.

The van came up the hill at a fast clip, its occupants hidden behind the tinted windshield. When it was a hundred yards away, he picked up the shotgun, and stepped into its path.

The squealing of brakes echoed across Pheasant Run. He raised the shotgun and aimed at the windshield. Then hesitated. The van retreated, its back end swerving first to the left, then to the right. Lowering the barrel, he shot out both front tires.

The driver lost control. Valentine watched the van veer off the drive and go crashing through the forest. Flipping on its side, it started to roll. He entered the forest to the sound of screams.

Two hundred yards off to his left, the van lay upside down, its tires spinning furiously. The windshield had imploded and thousands of silver dollars had spilled out, engulfing the car's occupants.

The coins were so thick he had to clear a path. Seeing a hand, he dug until he was looking at an upside down face. It was Monique. Her mouth was open, her eyes lifeless.

He dug some more and found Gigi behind the wheel, her pretty face sheeted in blood. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Help me,” she whispered.

Valentine checked her pulse. It was good and strong. He was no doctor, but had a feeling she'd make it if an ambulance got to her before the bitter cold did her in. Her eyes opened wide.

“Please,” she whispered.

Kneeling, he brought his lips next to her ear.

“Who killed Doyle Flanagan?”

“I can't . . .”

“Tell me.”

“Will you help . . .”

“Tell me.”

She whispered a name in his ear. Rising, he started to walk out of the forest and back to his rental.

“Please . . .” she called after him.

The wind whistled through the trees, their branches carrying the words to a song. She's as sweet as Tupelo Honey. She's as sweet as honey from a bee. He knew every word by heart, because Doyle had sung that song every day of his life. He felt his hands start to tremble and realized it had nothing to do with the cold.

37

Bally's

You know what a pack rat Doyle was,” Liddy said.

Valentine stood in the foyer of Liddy's house, staring at a pile of Doyle's stuff in the middle of the living room floor that she was about to throw away. It was stuff he could relate to. Old record albums, bundled copies of Life magazine, and an old wooden tennis racket in a frame.

“I want you to go out of town for a few days.”

Liddy frowned. “I'm not ready for that, Tony.”

“I think you'd better. I found out who's ripping off The Bombay.”

She sat down on the couch, a pained look on her face.

“Is it bad?”

“Yes,” he said.

Liddy had a cousin in Vermont. She wrote the phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to him. Valentine promised to call as soon as he could. She walked him to the door. Then said, “Wait,” and returned a few moments later holding a fax. “The dry cleaner found this in Doyle's jacket.”

He slipped his bifocals on. It was a purchase order for fifty Series E Micro-Processor–Controlled Slot Machines from Bally's Gaming in Nevada, the largest manufacturer of slots in the world.

“Can I keep this?”

“Of course.”

He stuffed the fax into his pocket and gave her a hug.

He drove to the Philadelphia airport and dropped his rental off. He found Kat sitting on a bench next to the Delta ticket counter, her daughter in a nearby arcade playing video games.

“I need a cigarette,” he said.

Next to the arcade was a special glassed-in room for smokers. He'd always looked down his nose at the people who sat in such places, puffing away furiously, and now he found himself sharing a bench with a couple of diehards. Kat sat beside him, holding his hand.

Zoe sauntered in. “Are you my mother's new boyfriend?”

Valentine hemmed and hawed. The French probably had some cute word for his relationship with Kat, but the English language was void of such niceties.

“That's me,” he said.

“Aren't you a little old?”

“Zoe!”

She stared at her mother. “You know what they call these rooms?”

“No, honey, I don't.”

“Nicotine aquariums.”

She kept up the monologue all the way to the Delta ticket counter. Valentine inquired about the next flight to Tampa. The ticket agent said, “How about right now?”

Valentine looked at the big board above the agent's head. The noon flight to Tampa hadn't left. The agent explained the situation.

“The plane needed some repairs. Nothing serious. I can still get all three of you on.”

“I also need to go to Palm Beach,” Valentine said.

“That's the Tampa flight's final destination,” the agent said.

Valentine laid his credit card on the counter.

“How much luggage?” the agent asked.

“None,” he said.

“Why are we going to Florida without any luggage?” Zoe wanted to know when they were seated in the very last row. The plane had been sitting at the gate for hours and was filled with the living dead.

Kat patted her daughter's arm. “Well, honey, Tony asked me so suddenly, I just didn't have time to pack.”

The pilot came over the PA and announced that it would be another ten minutes before they left. A collective groan filled the cabin. Kat and Zoe started to spar, the little girl masterful at pushing her mother's buttons. Borrowing Kat's cell phone, Valentine ducked into the lavatory. He dialed Mabel's number.

“Oh Tony, you're not going to believe what happened,” his neighbor said.

“What?”

“I took your advice and called my neighbor. He came over and rescued me from Cujo. Actually, he just opened the back door, and the dog ran out.

“Well, everything was fine until an hour ago. I was in the kitchen fixing a cup of tea. I was standing at the stove when I heard this sound. Like a rat gnawing at wood. It was coming from the back door, so I ducked down. Then I heard a voice. It was a man and he was swearing under his breath, saying motherf***ing this and motherf***ing that, like it was the first word he'd ever learned. And then it hit me. It was a burglar. Well, you'll