Funny Money

9 Honey

According to the scuttle at Doyle’s funeral, the bomb that had killed him was pretty fancy. A quarter pound of cyclotrimethylene trinitramine, commonly called RDX, attached to a mercury switch. A trucker inside the McDonald’s had likened the explosion to overheating a bag of popcorn in a microwave, with pieces of car flying in every direction.

Because Doyle’s cell phone had briefly stayed on, Valentine had assumed it had landed behind a bush or beneath a car. He’d also assumed a cop on the scene would find the phone, and a check would have been run to see whom Doyle was talking to. That would have led to the police’s contacting him and grilling him to find out what he and Doyle had been talking about.

Only none of this had happened.

Leaving Atlantic City Metro Police headquarters, he drove to the McDonald’s where his partner had died, just to see if the police had forgotten to look someplace obvious.

He parked behind the restaurant. Hard as it was for him to spend money, he was starting to understand how people got attached to these cars. Smooth ride, great seats, an unreal sound system. He needed new wheels. Why not a Mercedes?

He took a walk around the property. It sat on a small parcel of land. There was a handful of trees, the rest of the landscape lunar. He decided he wanted to get on a higher elevation. Going inside, he found a pimply kid mopping floors and stuck a sawbuck in his hand. His name badge said Harold. Valentine whispered in Harold’s ear what he wanted.

Harold met him behind the restaurant, ladder in hand. Propping the ladder against the wall, he pointed at his watch. “Sixty seconds. Just like we agreed.”

“Right.”

“The clock’s ticking.”

Valentine scampered up the ladder. He walked around the roof edge, and to his surprise, saw a cell phone sitting near an air vent. Picking it up, he rubbed its cold blue steel against his pant leg. The explosion had blown its cover off, but otherwise it appeared intact.

A flicker of silver caught his eye. Out of the snow he plucked a silver dollar — size coin. It looked real, only instead of Eisenhower’s profile it was stamped with Archie Tanner’s grinning mug. Funny Money.

“Hurry up,” Harold called.

He climbed down the ladder. Reaching the bottom, he shoved the items he’d found on the roof into his pocket.

“What did you find?” Harold asked.

“None of your business.”

“You’re not going to split what you found?”

“Why should I?”

“I thought we were partners,” the boy said with righteous indignation.

Valentine looked at him scornfully. Harold had carrot red hair and enough rings on his face to hang a shower curtain. A sullen-faced manager came around the corner.

“Harold? What the hell’s going on?”

Harold spelled it out to him. Traitor. Walking over to the Mercedes, Valentine got in and drove away.

When you threw in tax and the extra battery the cute salesgirl at the AT&T store talked him into buying, the charger for Doyle’s cell phone set Valentine back fifty bucks. It was ridiculous: People were spending a small fortune to do something that only cost a quarter. It was like the four dollar coffee at Starbucks, and ten dollars to see a first-run movie. Someday, everyone would be a millionaire, and a burger would cost a grand.

Sitting in his motel room, he plugged the charger into the wall and Doyle’s cell phone lit up in his hand. The salesgirl had thrown in an instruction manual, and he taught himself how to access the phone’s memory bank and scrolled through it. It contained six names.

Guy. Sean. Home. Tom. Tony. Honey.

Valentine stared at the last name. Who was Honey? Doyle had never mentioned her. That wasn’t like him. Then he had an unsettling thought. Was Doyle seeing someone on the side?

The idea seemed absurd. When it came to women, Doyle was like him: a square. They’d both married their high school sweethearts, both stayed loyal through thick and thin. Only the evidence was staring him in the face.

He pulled a Diet Coke out of a paper bag and popped it. Whoever this woman was, he needed to talk to her. Chances were, she knew something. That was the real reason guys had girlfriends. You could get sex just about anywhere these days. But finding someone to talk to, that was tough.

He retrieved Honey’s number and hit Send. After three rings a woman’s groggy voice said, “Yes?”

It was nearly two in the afternoon. What kind of woman slept this late? Then he had a bad thought. What if it was someone he knew? Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said, “Is this Honey?”

The woman caught her breath.

“I’m a friend of Doyle’s,” he said.

The phone went dead in his hand. He finished his Diet Coke, wondering how many more unpleasant items he was going to discover about his old pal.

Something in his bones told him Gerry was trying to call him. Taking out his own cell phone, he dialed into voice mail and found a lone message awaiting him.

“Pop, do you have any idea what you’ve done?” his son said. “The cops raided the bar and arrested Big Tony. They told him you’d sent them! How could you do this to me?

“Now Big Tony’s brothers are looking for me! Goddamn it, Pop, I’m a dead man. Do you understand? A dead man! This is the last time I ever ask you for help. The last time!”

He erased the message. You try to help out, he thought, and look where it gets you. The door to his room banged open. A Mexican chambermaid pushing a vacuum came in. Plugging the vacuum into the wall, she started cleaning.

“Come back later!” he yelled over the vacuum’s roar.

She smiled sweetly, not understanding a word.

“Later,” he yelled, pointing at his watch.

She pointed at his cell phone. He looked down; it was all lit up. Crossing the room, he unplugged her.

“Later,” he said. “Please.”

He chained the door behind her, waited a minute, then dialed into voice mail. It was Frank Porter.

“Call me,” Porter said.

Valentine called him.

“Guess who just waltzed into The Bombay,” Porter said.

It sounded like the opening line of a joke.

“Jimmy Hoffa?”

“The European. He’s already won five grand.”

Valentine felt his heart start to race. The Bombay was on the north side of town, a good ten-minute drive from his motel.

“I’ll be there in five.”

“Meet you by the front door,” Porter said.