Loaded Dice

Fontaine.”

“To who?” Valentine asked.

“Nick’s new wife.”

Nick’s bride was named Wanda Lovesong. According to Wily, the English language did not contain enough adjectives to describe what she looked like. Driving to Nick’s palatial estate on the outskirts of town, Wily explained how she and Nick had met.

“You know how Nick’s a sucker for beautiful women,” Wily said.

“His Achilles’ heel,” Valentine said.

“There you go. Well, he gets a distress call a few months ago from a promoter named Santo Bruno. Seems Santo is staging the Miss Nude World contest, and his venue backed out on him at the last minute.”

“The Miss what?”

“You heard me,” Wily said, grinning as he stared at the highway. “The hundred best strippers and exotic dancers in the country compete for prizes. It’s a real scene.”

“What’s the grand prize? A new wardrobe?”

Wily slapped the wheel. “That’s a good one. Anyway, Santo asked Nick to hold the event at the Acropolis, and be a judge. Well, you know Nick’s weakness for naked broads. He said yeah, and we got to host the event. Craziest weekend of my entire life.”

“Did you see the contest?”

“Wouldn’t have missed it if the place was on fire. The talent show was amazing.”

Nick’s place was up ahead, a lush, sprawling estate surrounded by other sprawling estates, all in the middle of nowhere. That was the thing about Las Vegas: Being in the desert, everything was in the middle of nowhere.

Wily drove down the elongated driveway without slowing down. Two cars sat beneath the pillared front entrance: Nick’s black Cadillac and a pink Jaguar convertible with a vanity plate that said LITLMISS. As they approached the front door, Valentine said, “So how did Nick end up getting hitched?”

Wily pressed the front doorbell. Moments later, the door buzzed, and Wily grabbed the handle then glanced at him. “One hundred of the best strippers in America were at the Acropolis. Wanda stayed.”

They entered the ten-thousand-square-foot monstrosity that Nick had salvaged through six messy divorces. The place had changed, the paintings of nymphs engaged in orgies replaced with classic English landscapes. Gone, too, were the anatomically enhanced statues of the famous Greek gods. Valentine’s favorite piece of furniture—the marble bar shaped like a cock—had been whittled down, and now resembled a lima bean. Grabbing two sodas from the bar, Wily headed down a long hallway toward the back.

“Nick’s in the bedroom. He’s always in the bedroom.”

“One question,” Valentine said.

“Shoot.”

“Did Wanda win the contest?”

Wily stopped at the double mahogany doors to Nick’s bedroom. Lifting his hand to knock, he said, “You’re kidding, right?” and rapped loudly.

“We’re all friends here,” a voice called from within.

They entered the master bedroom. Nick’s bachelor pad had been transformed into a Laura Ashley showroom, and the little Greek lay propped up on pillows on his gigantic bed. He was dressed in a satin robe, and as he jumped out of bed, his manhood was displayed for all the world to see.

“Tony, how you been?” he said, whacking Valentine on the arm while pulling his robe together. He smelled like cheap perfume, and Valentine gagged on his reply.

“No complaints. I hear you tied the knot.”

“Yeah. They say number seven’s the charm.”

Valentine heard the bathroom door open, and a pair of feet approach. He turned slowly, expecting to be overwhelmed, and was not disappointed when he laid eyes on Nick’s bride. Wanda Lovesong was a shade under six feet, with flaxen blond hair, too much makeup, and a body worth fighting a war over. That she wore a toga like the women in Nick’s casino only added to the allure. Valentine realized his mouth was hanging open, and he snapped it shut. Wanda demurely offered her hand. He took it.

“I saw you on TV earlier,” she said breathlessly. “That took courage to do what you did.”

She flashed a smile, and Valentine smiled back. It was shameless flirting, and it helped erase the sting of the woman at the Acropolis who’d found him too old. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nick grimace, not enjoying being upstaged.

“A real hero, except his pants fell down,” Nick said.

“Airline lost his luggage,” Wily explained.

“You need pants, I’ve got pants,” Nick said. Crossing the room, he flung open the door to his clothes closet and motioned for Valentine to follow him inside. Nick was short, and Valentine didn’t think he’d have anything that fit, but saw no point in rubbing it in. As he entered, Nick said, “What’s your waist size?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Stop bragging.”

Nick nosed around his seemingly endless collection of clothes, then stuck his head through the open closet door. “We may be a few minutes,” he told Wanda. “Why don’t you and Wily go whip something up.”

“You hungry, honey?” his bride asked.

“Just for you, baby.”

“Want a Wanda sandwich?”

Nick said Heh, heh, heh under his breath. As they departed and Valentine started to look through the pants, he heard Nick come up behind him.

“Hey,” Nick said.

Valentine turned and found his host standing next to him. The fun had gone out of the little Greek’s eyes. “None of these clothes fit you,” he said.

Valentine nearly said No kidding but decided to shelve it.

“You going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Valentine said.

Nick stuck his arm behind a rack of silk jackets and pulled out a baseball bat. It was a Louisville Slugger, and had Mark McGwire’s name on the throat. Nick gripped the bat with both hands, his eyes never leaving Valentine’s face.

“Want me to beat it out of you?”

“You’re serious,” Valentine said.

“Dead serious,” his host replied.

8

As a cop, Valentine had never done well with threats. People brandishing weapons particularly annoyed him. Knives, guns, baseball bats, they were all throwbacks to the good old days when people lived in caves and settled their differences through violence and bloodshed.

Stepping forward, he grabbed Nick’s wrists, wrenched the baseball bat from his grasp, and within seconds had him writhing on the closet floor.

“Let me go! Let me go!” Nick begged, gnashing his teeth.

“Promise you won’t threaten me again.”

“I promise I won’t threaten you again!”

Of all the casino owners in Las Vegas, Nick’s word meant something. Valentine released him, and Nick sat on the floor rubbing his wrists. Then he tried to stand, only his balance wasn’t there. Agewise, they were about the same, only Nick hid his through dyed hair, dyed eyebrows, and cosmetic surgery that made his face look like he’d gotten caught in a wind tunnel. Valentine pulled him to his feet.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, still holding the bat.

“It’s a long story,” Nick replied.