Funny Money

“That explains the stealing,” Valentine said. “But it doesn't explain the killing.”

“That was Coleman and Marconi's idea,” she said, still staring at Archie. “Once things started to unravel, they decided to get rid of anyone who could implicate them.”

He twitched the gun's barrel and saw her wince. Her eyes shifted to his face.

“That's not what I meant. Gigi told me you were the one who pulled the switch that killed Doyle. I want to know why.”

Brandi's features turned hard as stone. She no longer resembled the beautiful woman sitting in the chair a moment ago.

“He got in the way,” she said.

Valentine punched her in the face.

Valentine stuck the revolver beneath his jacket and watched her slide out of her chair and onto the marble floor. Kneeling, he pulled back one of her eyelids. She was out cold.

Archie came over and stood next to him.

“You said she was stealing from me. How?”

“Slots,” Valentine said.

“Is there anyone else involved.”

“A whole shift. Plus surveillance. And probably others.”

The casino owner made a fist and punched his other hand.

“What about my bodyguards? And my staff down here? Is there anyone I can trust?”

“No,” Valentine said. He gathered Brandi up and tossed her over his shoulder. “Let's go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to Atlantic City.”

They entered the kitchen with Archie telling the cook and kitchen staff she'd passed out from something she ate, and how dare they serve such crummy fucking food. Out in the driveway, Valentine opened the back door of the BMW.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” the casino owner said.

“Why not?”

“Because she's a black belt in karate.”

Valentine popped the BMW's trunk and looked for air holes so she wouldn't suffocate. Then he lay the unconscious woman into the tight space. Throwing the waiter's uniform into the bushes, he got behind the wheel and waited for Archie to belt himself in before starting the car.

It wasn't easy, but he managed to do the speed limit through the tony neighborhood while staring in his rearview mirror. No one from Archie's mansion followed them. Soon he reached the middle of Palm Beach's downtown. He stopped at a light. He was sweating, and he jacked up the air conditioner.

He stared at the line of chauffeured cars parked in front of Tom and Jack's fashionable eatery. A decorative sign heralded the restaurant's stone crab special. A pound of giant claws for only seventy-five dollars.

“You know what bugs me, Archie?”

The casino owner was also sweating. He shook his head.

“You turned these people against you. Your employees weren't thieves when they started to work for you. You made them into thieves.”

Archie stared straight ahead. And said nothing.

Valentine approached the bridge that would take them over the Intercoastal waterway and back to the real world of fast food and normal-priced cars. On the middle of the bridge a red light began to flash. The traffic stopped in both directions.

He threw the rental into park, then watched the drawbridge go up. A yacht motored through, the ship's captain playfully tooting his horn. A loud Bang! made both men jump.

Valentine didn't move, his eyes fixed on the dime-size hole that had appeared in the BMW's windshield. He watched the glass crack in a thousand places, then realized what had happened.

Someone was shooting at them.

Dropping down, he stared at the white-haired geezers in the Jaguar in front of them. They looked harmless, and he glanced in his rearview mirror at two kids necking in a Jeep.

Where had the shot come from?

He felt a second bullet whiz by his ear. Spinning around, he saw where two black holes had appeared in the backseat. Then understood.

Brandi had another gun.

He had his door open when he felt Archie's hand touch his waistband.

“No!”

Holding the pearl-handled revolver with both hands, Archie fired through the backseat's upholstery, not stopping until the gun's chamber was empty. Valentine slapped his hands over his ears.

Then the bridge lowered and traffic started moving again.

39

The Squarest Guy

in Atlantic City

Long-term parking at West Palm Beach airport was deserted. Valentine parked under a halogen light, then pushed a button that popped the trunk. Then he and Archie got out and had a look.

Brandi lay on her back, her lifeless eyes staring into space. Six bullets had penetrated the trunk and riddled her body. As they stared, flies appeared and became stuck in puddles of blood that coagulated around their legs. Valentine waved them away and started to shut the trunk. Then he noticed the tiny revolver clutched in Brandi's right hand. A two-shot Derringer.

They walked over to a stand to wait for the shuttle that would take them to a terminal. During the ride over, a portion of the windshield had disintegrated, and he hoped it wouldn't be too long before airport security would be around to have a look.

“It was self-defense,” Archie said.

Valentine thought about the two-shot. Archie had probably bought it for her. Which meant he knew she was out of bullets.

“Bullshit,” he said.

Archie clutched his arm. “Listen to me, you stupid guinea fuck. It was self-defense. Say otherwise, and I'll make sure the district attorney presses charges against you for shooting up The Bombay.”

Valentine pulled his arm free. Porter had said that Brandi hadn't told anyone how Archie was skimming The Bombay. It was her trump card, and it had died with her.

A jet took off from a nearby runway. Then a tram came by, and they got on it.

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting on a runway in Archie's private Lear jet. Archie swore the pilot could be trusted—“He's worked for me for ten years”—but that hadn't stopped Valentine from searching the cockpit for weapons.

Soon they were airborne. Archie got up and fixed them drinks, his fingers dropping ice cubes on the floor. He handed Valentine a Diet Coke in a plastic cup, then took the seat directly across from him. Killing another human being did something even to the worst people, and his face had taken on a gallows pallor. Valentine sucked down his drink in one long swallow.

Twenty-five minutes later, Jacksonville came into view. North of the city, paper mills spewed pillars of soot, the smoke dotting the night sky in lazy exclamation points. Valentine got up and poured himself another soda. Then he took a cell phone off the minibar and tossed it to Archie.

“You need to call the New Jersey attorney general. Have him call a homicide detective named Davis. I've got a number where Davis is hiding out. Davis is the only policeman in Atlantic City he should call.”

“Davis is square?” Archie asked.

“He's square. Tell the attorney general to pass this message along. When the police raid your casino, Davis