Wild Card

and viciously bit off the end. A waiter appeared with a light, and the cigar’s tip glowed a bright orange. “What about that dumb wop?”

“I thought he was running things in AC,” Gino said.

“Nucky runs the nickel-and-dime crap,” the Lobster said. “This is out of his league. I sent Vinny Acosta down. He’s running the AC operation now.”

The Lobster spent a few minutes enjoying his cigar, oblivious to the stifling haze it was creating inside the restaurant. Three years ago, on November 5^th, 1976, one day after New Jersey voters voted to legalize casino gambling, New York’s five mafia families had congregated in the back room of a restaurant on Carmine Street in Little Italy. A single topic had been on the agenda: The opening of Resorts’ casino in Atlantic City. At the meeting, it had been decided that The Lobster would run the Atlantic City operation, with the five families splitting the profits. The Lobster was the natural choice for the job. He’d made his bones in Las Vegas in the fifties, and knew how to rip off a casino.

The Resorts’ scam was a huge moneymaker for the mafia, and was netting the five families three million dollars a month. Eight more casinos would be opened in Atlantic City in the next three years. Each would be shaken down, and the operation set up. The projected take was twenty-seven million a month, almost a million bucks a day. It was enough money to make the Lobster’s head spin.

“Life is fucking good,” he proclaimed.

The Lobster paid the tab, then flirted with the twenty-year old hat check girl before venturing outside. The air was chilly, and he took his time tying his scarf, enjoying the last few puffs on his cigar. Gino and Frankie dutifully trailed a few steps behind.

Tossing the cigar into the gutter, the Lobster stepped out of the restaurant’s shadows into the sun-drenched afternoon and sucked in the invigorating air. His black Lincoln town car was parked at the curb, its engine idling. He considered taking a short walk, then decided against it. Exercise had never appealed to him. Opening the passenger door, he started to climb into the town car, then heard pounding footsteps on the sidewalk. His head instinctively snapped at the sound.

A skinny Italian kid with pimply skin and wearing a tan leather jacket was running towards him. The Lobster immediately recognized him. It was one of the Andruzzi twins from Philly, come to assassinate him.

“Frankie! Gino!” he cried. “Get him!”

Frankie and Gino jumped in front of their boss, at the same time drawing their weapons. Before they could get off a round, the Lobster heard a dull popping sound, and saw his bodyguards crumple to the sidewalk. A set-up, he thought.

The Lobster had always suspected he’d die this way. His belly full of rich food, the taste of a cigar in his mouth, his guard down. The price for being a glutton. He glanced over his shoulder just to be sure. The other Andruzzi twin stood behind him, aiming a gun with a silencer directly at his face. Nearly a million bucks a day, the Lobster thought, and joined his Gino and Frankie on the sidewalk as he was shot dead.

Chapter 19

Fuller and Romero pulled into Valentine’s driveway at noon the next day. Valentine hobbled out of his house on crutches, his right foot covered in a green ski sock. He slid into the back seat of the FBI agents’ car, and laid his crutches on the floor.

“I hear you want to talk to some ladies of negotiable affection,” he said.

Fuller’s eyes danced in the mirror. He was driving, and wore a black sweater that showed off his physique. “Rumor has it you’re the expert.”

“You can’t work this town and not be one,” Valentine said. “Get onto Pacific Avenue and head north until you hit Harold’s House of Pancakes.”

“That the local hangout?” Fuller asked.

“There’s usually one or two girls hanging around.”

Fuller followed his instructions. Leaving Margate, he drove through the suburb of Marvin Gardens, entered Ventnor with its rows of majestic mansions that locals called slammers, and then came to the mean streets of Atlantic City. The scenery changed from spectacular to slum in the time it took to smoke a cigarette. A sign for Harold’s House of Pancakes loomed in the windshield. Valentine had Fuller pull into the lot.

“Hookers like to eat here,” Valentine said. “Manager has a special for them.”

They went in. The restaurant was paneled in knotty pine turned smeary from grill grease and smoke. Valentine canvassed the back of the room. In the corner sat a hooker hunched over a plate of rheumy eggs with hash browns that looked like wood shavings. Her eyes locked onto his.

“Looks like we’re in luck,” Valentine said.

Her name was Mona. Valentine had always thought it was a put-on, until he’d run her in, and the name had appeared on her rap sheet. “I popped out of my mother’s belly, doctor slapped my ass, I started moaning like a cat in heat,” she had explained, her wrist handcuffed to a chair as he finger-typed his report. “Name stuck.’”

Valentine had always liked her after that. Mona was heavy on the sarcasm, and he guessed she was trying to hide the real self, which was a strung-out, broken down women whose best days were past. She liked him, too, as much as any hooker could like a cop.

“Mind a little company?” Valentine asked.

Mona looked the three men over. “Pick up the check?”

Fuller agreed, and they sat down at her table. Mona’s right hand held a fork, her left a cigarette. She hacked violently in their faces. “I hear you got shot,” she said.

Valentine showed her where the bullet had gone through the palm of his hand.

“No more life line, huh?” she said.