31
Valentine walked back into the living room and saw Fontaine standing with a group of FBI agents, shooting the shit. He wasn’t handcuffed, and Valentine felt his head start to spin. Fontaine was a career criminal, yet the agents were talking to him like an old pal.
Two agents walked past, carrying the cowboy in a black body bag. The guy whose face Valentine had broken with the door was sitting up, and being given smelling salts by one of the FBI agents. He wasn’t wearing handcuffs, either.
Valentine realized Fontaine was staring at him. He returned the look and saw Fontaine smile like a guy who knows he’s Teflon-coated. One of the FBI agents said, “Let’s go,” and Fontaine walked up to Valentine, said, “My scar’s bigger than yours,” and followed the agent outside.
Valentine went to the window. Parting the blinds with a finger, he watched Fontaine hop into a car waiting by the curb. He had to imagine his feet were nailed to the floor to force himself not to go after him.
The remaining FBI agents cleared out of Lucy’s condo a few minutes later. Fuller got in Valentine’s face one more time and told him not to get any stupid ideas.
Valentine shook his head. He had run out of those.
Standing by the living room window, he watched the FBI agents pull away from the curb in three black sedans. Fontaine sat in the passenger’s seat of one car, being treated like a VIP. He let the blind drop and shook his head. The world had gone crazy and no one had bothered to tell him.
In the kitchen he found Lucy pouring herself a glass of wine. She got a Coke out of the fridge and said, “I know you like the artificial stuff, but is this okay?”
He said sure and took a seat at the kitchen table. She served him the can, then sat down across from him. Hoisting the wineglass to her lips, she took a long pull. The drink brought instant relaxation to her face. She lowered her glass and looked at him long and hard. The white in her eyes had turned pink.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said. “What happened to your face?”
“The head of finance at the Acropolis cut me.”
“Let me guess. He works with Fontaine.”
“Yeah. He seems to be the brains behind the operation. He also had tremendous clout within the Acropolis. My guess is, he had the twenty-five grand you won stolen from your room.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you beat the shit out of him.”
“Come to mention it, I did.”
They went back to their drinks. Lucy polished off her wine, then went to the counter and refilled her glass. Watching people drink booze was one of his least favorite things, yet Lucy wasn’t bothering him. She deserved it.
She sat back down, this time taking the chair next to his.
“The way you shot the cowboy.”
Her words hung in the air like a puff of smoke. He let her finish.
“You’ve shot people before.”
“Yeah. I was a cop.”
“How many?” she asked.
“This is the fifth.”
“Does it bother you?”
“It will stay with me, if that’s what you mean.”
“How long?”
He drained his can of Coke and felt the buzz he got whenever he mixed sugar with caffeine. The look in her eyes said she really wanted to know.
“The rest of my life,” he said quietly.
She drew her chair closer and put her arms around him in an embrace, drawing his head close to her bosom, holding it there and kissing his crown.
She bandaged his face in the bathroom. Then, arm in arm, they walked to her bedroom, the movement of their bodies pressed against each other as natural as anything Valentine had ever felt. Like they were floating a few inches off the ground.
In the bedroom, she found a candle, propped it on her dresser, and lit it. It was perfect, he thought. She unbuttoned his shirt, and he stared at the bed, imagined them making love, then him jumping out of bed to go search for his son.
She had his shirt open to his navel, her fingers sifting through his mat of chest hair. In her kiss he felt a smile. He put his arms around her waist and held her.
“I have to go look for my son,” he said.
“You’re not going to stay?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
She heard the hesitation in his voice, and said, “Can’t your son wait?”
He shook his head. “He’s involved with this.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Lucy said.
She buttoned his shirt back up, gave him another kiss. They walked into the living room, and Lucy opened the front door for him. The dog that had barked when he’d shot out her light was still barking. No one in the neighborhood seemed to give a damn. He didn’t like that, and said, “Maybe you should stay in a hotel tonight.”
“Believe it or not, we have a neighborhood watch group,” she said.
“Right,” he said.
They both found it in them to laugh.
“I’ve got friends I can stay with, if it will make you feel better,” she said.
“Please. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She kissed him again, and Valentine said good night.
Pete Longo lifted his head off the steering wheel. He’d fallen sound asleep, and stared now at the luminous clock on his dashboard. Seven twenty-five. Rolling down his window, he sucked down the cool night air, then glanced upward at the blinking stars that were slowly filling the evening sky.
Taking the infrared binoculars off his lap, he found the house he’d seen Valentine go into. Valentine’s car was still parked in the driveway, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t let him slip away. The front door opened, and a couple became silhouetted in the doorway.
Longo stared at them. It was Valentine and an attractive-looking woman. The problem with infrared binoculars was that they didn’t allow you to actually see in the dark. They needed light to work, but Valentine and his lady friend were giving him plenty of that.
He watched the woman kiss Valentine good night. She was real passionate about it. He tried to remember the way Kris used to kiss him. Had it been that good?
He decided that it had.
He’d had a lousy time of it since Valentine had broken his nose yesterday. He’d stuffed cotton up his nostrils, taken some aspirin, and figured he’d be okay. Only he hadn’t, and had woken up this morning with a splitting headache. He decided he needed a doctor and killed the day running around town, trying to find one willing to see him. The emergency rooms were all jammed with pregnant women and kids that had fallen off bikes, and it wasn’t until four that he’d found a two-year intern willing to shine a penlight up his nose.
“Your septum is deviated,” the intern said.
“Is that why I can’t breathe?” Longo asked.
The intern had taped a butterfly bandage to the bridge of his nose, and nodded. “You need to get your nose fixed by a surgeon. Otherwise, you’ll be breathing through your mouth the rest of your life.”
Valentine’s car was backing down the driveway. Longo reached down to start up his own car, and cursed. The keys weren’t in the ignition. He frantically ran his hand across the seat. Valentine’s car came down the street,
