yanked her clean off the canvas.
Valentine felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Zoe, Kat’s smart-mouth twelve-year-old. Her eyes were ringed by black mascara, her lips a menacing brown. Did boys her age really get turned on by fright masks?
“Know what you look like?” Zoe asked.
“No.”
“A giant banana.”
His clothes were the job’s only pitfall. As part of his contract with the promoter, he had to wear a neon yellow suit with padded shoulders that made him look like a comic-book character. Donny’s suit was purple and made him look like a grape. Their audiences drank a lot of beer and needed constant reminding of who was who.
“Hey,” Zoe said, “you’re on!”
Valentine climbed through the ropes into the ring. Donny was bouncing Kat by the hair, and fake blood poured down her chin. After Valentine had lost his wife, he’d wondered if he’d ever be happy again. Then he’d met Kat during a job in Atlantic City. It wasn’t a perfect relationship, but she made him feel good, and that was all he cared about these days. He tapped Donny on the shoulder.
“Let her go,” he roared into the overhead mike.
“Get lost, old man,” Donny roared back.
Valentine wasn’t getting lost. He twisted Donny’s free arm behind his back, and Donny released Kat. She ran across the ring and jumped on Gladys, who’d been standing in the corner, egging the crowd on. The script now called for Valentine to flip Donny over his shoulder. It was a move they’d practiced a thousand times. The big man stomped his foot on the canvas, signaling he was ready to be thrown.
“Go easy, okay?” Donny mumbled.
“You bet,” Valentine said.
The promoter was all smiles in the dressing room after the show. His name was Rick Honey, and he was a shaven-headed sanctimonious prick. Rick handed out their checks along with plane tickets to their next gig, a sold- out show in Memphis the following week. As Valentine peeked inside his envelope, Rick cast him a disapproving eye.
“What’s the matter, Tony, you don’t trust me?”
“You, I trust,” Valentine said. “Not your accountant.”
Zoe came into the dressing room. “For you,” she said, and handed Valentine her mother’s cell phone.
He took the call in the hall. Out of principle, he never left his cell phone on, and people were always tracking him down through Kat’s.
“It’s me,” Mabel Struck, his neighbor, said. Mabel was the other woman in his life. She ran his consulting business when he was out of town, which had been a lot lately. “I got a package earlier from a casino in South Africa. I just read the letter from the head of security and figured I’d better call you.”
Valentine glanced at his watch. Tuesday night, nine-thirty, and Mabel was still working. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“He’s desperate.”
“Mabel—”
“Tony, he sent you a check for five grand!”
“Certified?”
“Yes! I’m sorry, young man, but I grew up knowing the value of a dollar—”
“So did I.”
“And I’m not about to let you walk away from a small fortune, so listen up.”
Valentine was standing in a tunnel, the manufactured air cool on his face, and he shut his eyes while Mabel read the letter to him. The casino was called Jungle Kingdom, and the head of security spelled out the situation pretty clearly. The casino’s blackjack tables were bleeding money, and the casino suspected a high-rolling customer was ripping them off. The problem was, the casino didn’t have any proof and couldn’t have the man apprehended without fear of a lawsuit.
“We have watched the man play for a hundred hours,” Mabel read from the letter. “He plays with different dealers, which rules out collusion. We are also convinced that he is not card-counting. Sometimes, it appears he is reading the backs of the cards. We have examined the cards, and they appear absolutely clean. I have enclosed four decks for your inspection. Your help in this matter is most appreciated. Sincerely, Jacques Dugay.”
“Jacques Dugay? He worked in Atlantic City once.”
“Were you friends?”
“No, he’s a jerk. Go into my study and turn on the black light next to my desk.”
“I’m in your study,” his neighbor said. “There, the light’s on.”
“Place one of the decks under the light.”
“Okay. Oh, my. The cards lit up like a Christmas tree. Even I can read them, and I can hardly see. All right, how did you know that?”
“I did some work for a casino in South Africa last year. I noticed that they were using playing cards manufactured in the next town. It struck me as really stupid, so I told the management. They said they did it to save money.”
“You’re saying the cheats went into the playing card factory and marked all the decks that went to the Jungle Kingdom?”
“Yes. The cards are called luminous readers. The cheat marks them in the factory before they’re shipped. Cards treated with luminous paint can be read with special glasses or with tinted contact lenses, but not with the naked eye.”
“How do you know the cheater isn’t marking the cards at home, then having an employee bring them in?”
Mabel had been running his business for two months and already sounded like a pro. He explained how he’d reached his conclusion. “That employee would have to be a dealer or a pit boss. It’s a risky play, especially with the eye-in-the-sky. The safest way to get marked cards into a casino is by going to the plant and marking them there.”
Valentine felt a tug on his sleeve.
“The cake is melting,” Zoe said.
He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “You got a cake?”
“Chocolate ice cream. From Carvel.”
He took his hand away from the phone. “Mabel, I’ve got to beat it.”
“You still enjoying being a wrestler?” his neighbor asked.
“It’s a blast,” he said.
Zoe’s cake had started to sag, the inscription MEAN GIRLS RULE running down one side. Donny was holding an empty plate, waiting for Valentine to take a slice before going for seconds. Donny’s career as a pro football player had been cut short by injury, and he was the humblest guy Valentine had ever known. Kat and Gladys ate their cake leaning against the wall, looking bushed but happy.
Valentine found a chair and dug in. For him, the wrestling had been a welcome relief. He’d opened his consulting business to give himself something to do after Lois had died, having no idea of what he was in for. Back in ’78, when he’d started policing Atlantic City’s casinos, two states in the country had legalized gambling. Now there were thirty-eight, plus casinos on three hundred Indian reservations. Every one had been ripped off at least once, usually for huge sums. Most never knew it. Those that did, called him.
Which was why he enjoyed the wrestling. No pressure, no worries, his role a minor one. Best described, his life was a breeze, and when the dressing room door opened a minute later, he wasn’t ready to have it end. Especially by the handsome guy who waltzed in carrying a bouquet of flowers.
“Daddy!” Zoe yelled.
She rushed across the dressing room and hugged her father. As he tousled her hair, she let out a joyous
