Wild Card

“What’s so funny?”

“Just because things go bad doesn’t mean I turn into a giant rat. I took an oath when I joined the mob. Sealed it in my blood. I’ll never go back on my word.”

“Then send me down the right path. Come on, Nucky. For both our sakes.”

Nucky poured the rest of his lemonade into the sink. “You want to talk to someone who knows about the scam? Go talk to your father.”

“My father?”

“That’s right. He knows what’s going on.”

“You told him?”

“He figured it out himself. He’s a smart guy, Tony. You need to make peace with him.”

Every time he got together with Nucky, his old man came up. The problems between them were none of Nucky’s business, not that he could convince Nucky of that. Upstairs, the stereo had gotten stuck on Elvis singing Don’t be Cruel, and so had Zelda, her voice husky and raw. Living with her had to be hell, yet it was obvious that Nucky loved her. It made Valentine think of his relationship with his father. Did he still love him? Somewhere, deep down in his soul, he imagined that he did.

They went to the foyer. The old gangster offered his hand, and Valentine shook it.

“I protected you for as long as I could,” Nucky said.

“Thank you. Say goodbye to Zelda for me.”

Nucky patted him on the shoulder and opened the door. Buttoning up his coat, Valentine ventured outside into the cold.

Chapter 44

Valentine drove until he found a gas station with a payphone, dropped a dime and called the surveillance control room at Resorts. Fossil answered, and Valentine asked him to find Doyle. Thirty seconds later, Doyle picked up the line.

“I’m out for the morning,” Valentine said. “Cover for me.”

“Sure thing. Something wrong?”

“I need to find my father, and have a talk.”

“Good luck,” his best friend said.

Valentine got back in the Pinto and drove north on Pacific Avenue. The island’s proximity to the ocean made it a magnet for storms, and a freezing rain began to pelt his windshield. The storm was intense, and soon water was flowing on the curbs. Fearful of stalling out, he straddled the double line.

The island had three flop houses, all situated on its north end. They were all the same: Unwashed men, many drunks or drug addicts or simply insane, slept on narrow cots in large, dormitory-style rooms. It was ugly, yet he’d come to understand the comfort the houses offered, the men having nowhere else to go.

By ten o’clock, he’d visited each of the flop houses, and come up empty. There were only so many places his father could be. Driving to the Boardwalk, he parked on the south end. The streets were deserted, the rain keeping everyone indoors. Getting out, he popped the trunk, and removed his police-issue rain slicker. He fitted the slicker on, then walked to the Boardwalk and headed north, the Resorts’ sign in the distance illuminating the otherwise dreary day.

Chained pushcarts sat outside the casino’s back doors. Valentine stuck his head into each one. In the last, an old man was snoring beneath a blanket. Lifting the blanket, Valentine found his father sleeping soundly with an empty bottle of Old Grand Dad cradled in his arms. He remembered taking a sip as a kid. It had been like licking a six-volt battery.

“Hey, Pop,” he said.

His father didn’t respond. Valentine took the bottle away, then pulled him out of the pushcart. His father didn’t weigh much anymore, and Valentine threw him over his shoulder like a fireman, and headed down the Boardwalk to his car. His father continued to snore, his sleeping undeterred.

He took his father to a flophouse named The Majesty. It was no better than the others, except the owner went to AA, and did not allow alcohol or bad language. He gave the owner ten bucks, then found an empty cot in the back of the room, and gently laid his father on it. There was a furnace here, and it was warm.

He touched his father’s shoulder. His father’s eyelids flickered, and then he was awake. A look of recognition spread across his weather-beaten face.

“You go to hell,” his father said.

After his father stopped cursing him, Valentine talked him into drinking a cup of coffee with him. They sat at a pocked table in the empty dining room. Instead of pictures hanging on the walls, there were food stains. A naked bulb dangled above their heads. In the kitchen, a radio played.

“I want us to come to an understanding,” Valentine said.

“Apologize for beating me up on New Year’s,” his father rasped.

“You were hurting Mom. You got what was coming to you.”

His father’s eyes narrowed like a caged animal’s. He’d been handsome once, only years of alcohol abuse had ravaged his face, and now he looked like the torture victims Valentine sometimes saw in the newspaper. It was hard to believe this was the same man who’d bounced him on his knee, and told him bedtime stories.

“You were out there in the garage, pumping weights, building yourself up,” his father said accusingly. “You picked the one night you knew I’d be soused. You planned it.”