“Peter, this is Bill Higgins,” Bill said into the phone. “I’ve got someone here who I think can help your investigation.”
42
Longo woke up Sunday morning feeling like he’d slept with his head stuck in a vise. Like an idiot, he’d gone and gotten a six-pack of beer the night before, sat in front of the TV in his motel room, and polished it off. His body ached from the beating he’d taken, so he’d gotten drunk, hoping the alcohol would wash his misery away.
It had worked, and he had slept like a dead man.
But then he’d woken up with the world’s worst headache. Staggering into the bathroom, he’d stared at his reflection in the vanity and groaned. The lumps and bruises on his face were reminiscent of the white boxers on ESPN who couldn’t fight. Throw in the broken nose, and he was the picture of a palooka.
He couldn’t deal with it. Not so early in the morning. So he’d taken a handful of ibuprofens and washed them down with the remains of a beer. Soon his head was spinning. Lying on the lumpy bed, he’d returned to dream world.
At eleven o’clock the phone on the bedside table rang. Only a handful of people knew he was here, all of them cops. Longo raised the receiver expectantly.
“What’s up?”
His caller was an undercover narcotics detective named Hotchkiss.
“I’ve been calling you for an hour,” Hotchkiss said belligerently. “Where the hell have you been?”
Longo sat up in bed. “Out jogging. You got something for me?”
“Yeah, I found your guy.”
Before he’d gone to sleep, Longo had called every cop in Las Vegas who owed him a favor, and asked them to help him track down Valentine.
“Where is he?”
“Right now, he’s on Las Vegas Boulevard, heading back into town.”
“You got a tail on him?”
“No,” Hotchkiss said, “a helicopter.”
Longo smiled. Narcotics had a great way to track suspected dealers. They would put tiny reflectors on the hoods of their cars and watch their movements from the sky. “How did you find his car in the first place?”
“A sheriff saw him driving the Strip this morning. He followed him to the FaceScan building and tagged his car.”
Longo’s smile grew. It made his face hurt, but he didn’t care. He was going to finally give Tony Valentine his due. Nothing in this world could have made him happier.
“Your guy just turned into the Acropolis,” Hotchkiss said.
There was a pause, and Longo guessed Hotchkiss was watching the action through the computer in his office, the helicopter sending him back a live feed.
“What’s he doing?”
“He left the car by the valet and went inside. I heard the place is closing down.”
“How come?”
“Got ripped off by a gang of cheaters.”
Longo slowly rose from the bed. His head felt like a balloon, and his legs were rubbery. He sat back down and said, “Thanks for the information. Thanks a lot.”
Longo ingested another handful of ibuprofens, then tore open a Little Debbie cupcake he’d bought the night before and wolfed it down. This time, the pills didn’t knock him sideways, and he dressed himself in yesterday’s clothes, then got his Glock .45 from the dresser. He slipped it into his shoulder harness, then went into the bathroom and combed his hair. He heard a knock on the door. Raising his voice, he said, “I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes.”
Another knock. This one louder, and more determined. He went to the door and stuck his eye to the peephole. It was his wife, Cindi. He pulled his face away.
There was a curtained window next to the door. Cindi’s face appeared behind the glass. Her eyes peeked through the opening in the curtain, and saw him.
“Pete. Please open up. I want to talk to you.”
His wife. Jesus Christ. He couldn’t let her see him like this.
“Pete? Do you want me to kick this door down?”
She would, too. Cindi was tough as nails. Her father had been a judge, and the genes had been passed down. Longo undid the chain and threw the deadbolt. Then he stepped back, hoping his face would be obscured by the room’s shadows.
Cindi came in, saw him, and did her best not to scream.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “What happened to your face?”
“I walked into a jet engine,” he replied.
They stared at each other for a long minute. Cold air invaded the room, his wife having left the door ajar, as if knowing she might want to escape. Finally, she found it in her to speak, the words coming out slow.
“Your detective friend Jimmy Burns told me you were here, if that’s what you’re wondering. I went and saw him this morning. I figured you’d probably seen him, and he’d know what you were up to.
“I asked Jimmy if he knew why you had the affair. I figure Jimmy’s been a cop a long time, he probably understands these things. Jimmy said, ‘Yeah, I know why,’ and he showed me your girlfriend’s picture.”
Longo couldn’t deal with this, and stared at the floor.
“Look at me, Pete.”
He lifted his eyes and stared at his wife. She looked no different than when they’d met in college twenty-odd years ago. He’d loved her a lot back then. So what had changed? Him? Her? Or was it just the world?
“She was beautiful,” Cindi said.
Longo felt like he’d been kicked. Why was she doing this to him?
“Don’t,” he said.
Cindi edged closer. She offered a faint smile.
Longo saw a twinkle in her eye. He’d once brought home a bottle of rum called Cabana Boy. On the bottle’s label was a picture of a handsome, well-proportioned guy in a bathing suit. Cindi had swooned over the bottle all night.
“You’re not mad?” he said.
“Of course I’m mad, you dickhead. What I’m trying to say is, I understand. Hell, if I was a guy, I’d probably screw her, too.”
Longo couldn’t help it, and started grinning. The first time they’d met, she’d cracked him up with the things she’d said. He felt her squeeze his waist.
“Jimmy told me this woman was using you,” Cindi said. “She was laundering stolen casino chips, and you were her protection.”
“Jimmy said that?”
“Yes. He said she was caught doing it up in Lake Tahoe and got two years’ probation. She was a bad person, Pete.”
Cindi was really holding him. They were the odd couple—him six-one, her nearly a foot shorter—and he rested his chin on her head, and felt her heart beating against his ribs. “I couldn’t . . . help myself,” he whispered.
“I’m willing to give our marriage another shot,” she said after a moment. “Go see a counselor, and get some stuff off our chests. I won’t hold this against you.”
“You won’t?”
“No. But you have to promise me one thing.”
