Wild Card

“I want you to do it my way,” Valentine said.

A couple of hookers took the table next to theirs, and the three men went outside to the parking lot to finish their conversation.

“My way,” Fuller said. “Isn’t that one of Sinatra’s songs?”

Fuller was trying to be funny, and maybe to an outsider it was funny. A bunch of Mafia goons had come to town, and stolen millions of dollars right in front of everyone’s noses. It sounded like a script for a movie, only the script included too many lives being destroyed. There was nothing funny about any of it.

“Here’s the deal,” Valentine said. “When you make your bust, you’re going to tell the media a story. You happened to be visiting the casino, and spotted Vinny Acosta. Knowing he was mafia, you put a tail on him, and discovered he was up to no good. Everything you learned from that point on came as a result of your own brilliant detective work. The Atlantic City police weren’t involved, and neither was I.”

Romero understood, and nodded his head. Fuller didn’t, and said, “You want to be left out of the picture?”

“Correct.”

“And all the credit goes to us?”

“Right again.”

“Why?”

“Because I live here, you idiot.”

Fuller got it. “That shouldn’t be too hard,” he said.

Valentine had said everything he wanted to say. Fuller and Romero started to thank him, and he waved them off. He hoped he never saw either of them again.

The FBI agents got into their Chevy. Valentine tapped the windshield with his knuckles, and the driver’s window came down.

“How long will the sting take to organize?” Valentine asked.

“These things take time. At least a few months,” Fuller said.

“Call me the day before you make the bust.”

“Will do.”

He stepped away from the car, and they drove away. The wind was blowing hard off the Atlantic and the tip of his nose had gone numb. He’d parked the Pinto next to the building, and he got in and stuck the key into the ignition. The engine rolled over once, then made a sound like a dying animal drawing its last gasp. Cursing, he got out and gave the car a good kick, then went inside the restaurant, and called his wife for a ride.

Chapter 59

“I don’t like it here,” Bernard said, his teeth chattering.

“Neither do I,” Valentine said.

“Can we go soon?”

“Sure. In a few minutes.”

Winter had hung on longer than it was supposed to. Two weeks into March, and there was still six inches of snow covering the ground. Valentine used the broom he’d brought to the cemetery to dust away the snow from the tombstone Bernard thought was his grandfather’s. It wasn’t, and Bernard asked him to try the next tombstone. Valentine did, and uncovered the grave of someone named Johnson.

“This is…” Bernard strained for the right word.

“Futile?”

“Yeah,” the boy said. “Futile.”

“But not a waste of time,” Valentine said.

“I didn’t say that,” Bernard said.

He’d turned eleven the week before and was growing like a weed. During the drive over, he’d told Valentine about the foster home he’d been living in for the past two months. The Polish couple that ran it took in lots of kids, and since he was the oldest, he didn’t get much attention. He hadn’t been complaining, just explaining how things were. Valentine tried another tombstone.

“Here he is,” he said.

Bernard edged up beside him. He stared down at his grandfather’s tombstone, then closed his eyes and stifled a tiny sob. Valentine put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and kept it there until Bernard opened his eyes and wiped his tears away.

“I miss him every day,” Bernard said.

“I know you do,” Valentine said.

“Will I ever stop missing him?”

“No.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. You always miss the people you love.”