Valentine put the letter down, and stared at the film playing on his computer. Cheating at private poker games was the largest unchecked crime in America. It cost unsuspecting players millions of dollars a year. He watched the game for a few minutes, then noticed a plastic Budweiser sign behind the table.
The oil man’s cell phone number was given at the bottom of the letter. He punched the number into his phone, and moments later was talking to an older gentleman with a drawl so thick he could have cut it with a knife.
“You work fast, Mr. Valentine. You figure out what’s going on?”
“Maybe,” Valentine said. “Let me ask you a couple of questions first.”
“Be my guest.”
“I’m staring at the CD you sent me. There are eight players at the table. Are you the player wearing the string tie and twirling a toothpick in your mouth?”
“Well, I’ll be darned. How did you know that?”
“It’s because of where you’re sitting at the table,” Valentine said.
“It is?”
“Yes. You’re in what gamblers call the hot seat. You sat in that chair every week, didn’t you?”
“How the heck did you know that?”
“The guy who owns the bar is running a peek joint. The Budweiser sign behind the table is made of Plexiglas. It’s tinted on the front, but not the back, and works like a two-way mirror. Someone standing behind the wall can see through the sign, and spot the cards you’re holding. That information is transmitted to the guy who owns the bar either by radio or by a waitress who delivers it to him on a cocktail napkin.”
“You’re saying this whole thing was a setup designed to fleece me?”
“I’m afraid so. Did you lose much money?”
“Sixty grand, but that’s not the point. The man who owns that bar swore to me that he ran a clean game. He gave me his word.”
“May I make a suggestion?” Valentine said.
“By all means.”
“Show your local sheriff the film. Then have him call me. I’ll explain what’s going on, and he can file charges against the bar owner. If you’d like, I can fly to Texas, and act as an expert witness at a trial.”
“That’s awful generous of you, Mr. Valentine, but I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll just go and shoot the son-of-a-bitch.”
Valentine hung up the phone, then picked up the oil man’s check and endorsed it. He hadn’t made much money as a cop, and felt a certain satisfaction each time he signed the back of a check that he’d received for solving a scam. His bank account was growing fatter by the week, and he supposed one day he’d go out and buy himself a new car, or some nice new clothes, or maybe even a boat. Someday, but not today.
As he started to shut down his computer, he remembered why he’d come back to his study in the first place. Digging into his pocket, he removed the sheet of paper on which he’d written down Vinny Fountain’s and Frank DeCesar’s social security numbers, driver ID numbers, and addresses. He canceled the shut down and went into his e-mail, hitting the button for NEW MESSAGE. Then he typed in the recipient’s name: Eddie Davis.
Eddie was an undercover detective with the Atlantic City Police Department, a hip black guy whose resemblance to the actor Richard Roundtree from the first Shaftmovie was uncanny. Eddie had joined the force after Valentine had retired. They’d never worked together, and had no mutual friends in the department. But they did have bond. Eddie had helped Valentine catch the people who’d murdered his partner, and they’d become good friends.
Valentine copied Vinny Fountain and Frank DeCesar’s information into the body of the e-mail, and hit SEND. Picking up the phone, he called Eddie at home.
“Am I getting you at a bad time?” he asked when Eddie answered.
“Just entertaining a lady friend.”
“I can call back.”
“She was just leaving, weren’t you, honey?”
Valentine heard a woman’s angry voice, followed by an unpleasant exchange. The conversation ended with a door being slammed.
“I’m back,” Eddie said.
“I hope I wasn’t the cause of that,” Valentine said.
“Not at all. She was starting to use offensive language, so I figured it was time to end things.”
The mean streets of Atlantic City were as bad as any in the nation, and Valentine couldn’t imagine any language that Eddie might find upsetting.
“What kind of offensive language?”
“You know, words like marriage and commitment. That sort of thing.”
“You’re never going to settle down, are you?”
“The fields are too green for a man to stop mowing.”
“I guess that means no.”
“I’ll find the woman of my dreams someday,” Eddie said.
Valentine’s eyes found the framed photograph of his late wife that sat on his desk. She’d never stopped being the woman of his dreams, even after she’d died.
“So what’s up?” Eddie asked.
“I just sent you an e-mail with the names of two punks in Atlantic City I’d like you to check out. I need everything you can tell me about these jokers. Criminal backgrounds, who they run with, crimes they’ve been accused of, the whole shooting match.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Anybody I know?”
“Vinny Fountain and Frank DeCesar. There’s also a third one, Nunzie Fountain.”
Eddie went silent, and Valentine said, “You know them?”
“Their names have come up.”
“How so?”
“This is in strict confidence, okay?”
“Of course.”
“Vinny and Frank are informants. There was a flood of bad heroin on the streets a year ago; lots of hookers were shooting up and dropping dead. Vinny and Frank came forward, gave us enough information to track the source, and shut the operation down. The department didn’t pay them or anything.”
“What are you saying, they’re good Samaritans?”
“In a way, yeah,” Eddie said. “Don’t get me wrong. They’re wise guys, but they’re also locals. They didn’t like what was happening, so they put a stop to it.”
“Sounds like they want to go to heaven,” Valentine said.
Eddie laughed. “I’ll run a check on them first thing tomorrow.”
7
At eight o’clock in the morning, Gerry drove his family across Highway 60 toward Tampa International Airport, the rush-hour traffic made bearable by the near-perfect spring weather. Warm temperatures, and not a cloud in the flawless blue sky. The baby was asleep in her car seat in the back, while his wife sat beside him reading the paper. He drove with his eyes glued to the road, even though traffic was hardly moving.
“What time did your father come over last night?” Yolanda asked.
“Late,” Gerry replied.
“I’m surprised I didn’t hear him.”
“He tried to be quiet. He knows how lightly you sleep.”
“What made him change his mind?” his wife asked.
Lying had never been Gerry’s strong suit, and it was rare that he was able to pull the wool over his wife’s eyes. Yolanda had a sixth sense when it came to knowing the truth, and he guessed it was why she hated it when he tried to break bad news to her over the phone.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Come on. You must have some idea.”
“I guess he realized I’m not a kid anymore,” Gerry said.
“You’re always going to be a kid in his eyes.” His wife took out a sanitary wipe and cleaned off their daughter’s chin. “You need to get used to it.”
The traffic began to move and Gerry goosed the accelerator. Ahead was the Courtney Campbell Causeway, the four-lane highway bordered on both sides by the gently lapping sea. Yolanda had hit the nail on the head. His father was still treating him like a kid. Only he wasn’t a kid anymore; he’d stopped being one the day he’d started taking bets from his classmates in high school. He’d done that for twenty years along with plenty of other illegal things, yet somehow his father had forgotten that.