Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
Author Note
I can never guess
What tomorrow brings
I don’t hear the song
That the mermaid sings —
I don’t care. For I find
It’s enough for me
Just once in a while
To believe I see
Past the dealer’s guard…
That
Next
Card.
Nick the Greek
November, 1979
November, 1979
Chapter 1
“Wake up.”
Detective Tony Valentine of the Atlantic City Police Department blinked awake. Doyle Flanagan, his partner and best friend, was pointing at the binoculars lying in his lap. Embarrassed, Valentine handed them over.
“You spot him?” Valentine asked, smothering a yawn.
“I’m not sure.” Doyle lifted the binoculars to his eyes.
It was six A.M., and they were sitting in a pushcart chained to the Boardwalk’s metal railing. During the summer, pushcart men dragged tourists up and down the Boardwalk, two bucks a ride. It was a custom that dated back to the turn of the century, when Atlantic City had been the country’s most famous resort town.
Fifty yards from where they sat was a neon-lit monstrosity called Resorts Atlantic City. Resorts was New Jersey’s first foray into legalized gambling, and already generating more money than all the other businesses on the island combined.
“Got him,” Doyle said. “He’s coming out the front doors.”
Valentine followed the direction of Doyle’s finger, and spied the bouncing dread-locks of a notorious pimp named Prince D. Smith. Recently, the Prince had spread his wings, and his girls were now working Resorts hotel. The Prince was also a wanted felon, and they had planned to arrest him inside the hotel lobby, only to have their superior squash the idea.
“The governor doesn’t want any bad publicity inside Resorts,” Captain Banko had told them. “Arrest the Prince when he’s outside. That’s an order.”
So they’d taken to hiding in a pushcart. Climbing out, they shook the life into their legs, and jogged to the casino. They were dressed identically: faded blue jeans, baggy sweatshirts, and New York Yankees baseball caps. That was where the similarities ended. Doyle was five-nine, thin and wiry, his face dusted with freckles, with a mane of red hair that made him look as Irish as Pattie’s pig. Valentine was four inches taller, broad-shouldered and
