Funny Money

16 Betrayal

The windowless interrogation room in the basement of the Atlantic City police department reeked of butts and body odor. Valentine had grilled many suspects here but had never realized how revolting the air truly smelled.

Davis turned on the tape recorder sitting on the desk. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

It was not easy playing stupid, but Valentine did his best, and ended up saying nothing the detective didn’t already know. Disgusted, Davis shut off the tape recorder.

A ham-faced guy in an off-the-rack suit entered the room. Late forties, fat, with stringy blond hair and a chipped front tooth. Davis introduced him as Detective Coleman. Coleman’s beat was working security at The Bombay.

“How’d you like to get fucked?” Coleman said, popping a piece of bubble gum in his mouth.

Valentine thought he already was fucked. A bead of sweat ran down his spine. He’d made a lot of suspects sweat over the years and always found it comical. Now it didn’t seem funny at all.

“Not really.”

Coleman eyed him, chewing away. “My partner and I have been investigating The Bombay. It’s bad enough they got swindled and didn’t tell the law; it’s worse they went and hired you. It’s called obstructing justice. You with me so far?”

Valentine nodded.

“We don’t know what Archie Tanner’s trying to pull, but he’s about to get himself royally screwed. Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“My partner and I had a chat with Frank Porter this morning,” Coleman said, his fingers tapping the silent tape recorder. “I told him about the bomb in your car, asked him who might want you dead. Frank told us what happened between you and a European blackjack cheat in The Bombay yesterday.”

“Oh,” Valentine said.

Coleman leaned forward, getting in his face. “Frank said that you’re carrying an illegal Glock. That true?”

The words hit Valentine like a kick in the stomach. He didn’t know what bothered him more, the detectives knowing about the gun, or Porter’s betrayal.

“Yes,” he said.

“Still have it?”

“No.”

“Mind telling me where it is?”

“The European took it away from me.”

Coleman’s eyes went wide. Davis muttered under his breath. A third man entered the room, a detective’s badge pinned to the lapel of his jacket. Valentine swallowed hard. It was the guy with the widow’s peak he’d seen standing outside the Body Slam School of Wrestling. Kat’s abusive boyfriend.

“This is Detective Marconi, my partner,” Coleman said.

Marconi got up close to Valentine’s chair. He was tall and skinny, with piercing eyes that didn’t blink. Leaning forward, he said, “Feel my face.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Feel my face.”

Valentine gently touched Marconi’s chin.

“Feels soft, doesn’t it? I got mauled by a Doberman as a kid. The plastic surgeon grafted skin from my ass onto my face. Pretty good job, don’t you think?”

Valentine took his hand away. “Could have fooled me.”

“It fooled everybody. Only my brother told everyone in town. Kids called me Ass Face. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I’ve had a shitty attitude ever since.”

“I bet.”

“You’re a hair away from going to jail, mister.”

“I know.”

“Want to prevent that?”

“Yes.”

“Stay out of this investigation, or the next time we catch you meddling where you don’t belong, it’s a bust.”

“I will,” Valentine promised. Then added, “Scout’s honor.”

He hadn’t meant the remark to sound flippant, but it came out that way. Marconi made a fist and reared back as if to hit him. Coleman intervened and grabbed his partner’s arm.

“He’s not worth getting suspended over, Vic.”

The two detectives marched out of the interrogation room. Davis shook his head wearily.

“Get out of here,” he said.

Valentine got into the Mercedes and stared at the dashboard. He was too old for this kind of nonsense. And the idea of going to jail, even for just a few days, worried him more than getting hurt.

He started the engine. He was ready to fold his tents, but before he did, he needed to have a talk with Frank. They’d known each other a long time, so long that he considered him more than just a friend. Which was why he had to find out why Frank had betrayed him.

The Bombay’s valet stand was quiet when he pulled in fifteen minutes later. Throwing the kid on duty the keys, he walked inside the casino. And waited.

The Bombay had over a thousand pan/tilt/zoom cameras, commonly called PTZs. And a dozen were aimed at the front doors. The people in the surveillance control room constantly watched the doors to make sure no known crossroaders came in. Next to the cage, where the money was kept, it was the most heavily watched area in the casino.

Soon a security guard appeared, and led him over to a house phone. Valentine picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.

“God, Tony, I’m sorry,” Porter said.

“You sold me down the river.”

Valentine heard a crunching sound. Porter was at his desk, eating something. He started to hang up the phone.

“Tony, wait...”

Valentine put the phone back to his ear.

“Those pricks Coleman and Marconi leaned on me,” Porter said. “I had to give them something.”

“You gave them me.”

“I’d just gotten off my shift; I was tired and wasn’t thinking. When they asked me if you were carrying, I slipped and told them about the hot gun.”

Valentine gripped the receiver, feeling the cold plastic seep into his palm. He’d shown Frank the gun in Sinbad’s. But he was positive he hadn’t told him it was hot.

“I’ve got a great joke,” Porter said. “Want to hear it?”

“No.”

“I saw this enormous woman with a sweatshirt with GUESS on it. So I said, ‘Thyroid problem?’ ”

“You’re not funny,” Valentine said.

Then he walked out of The Bombay.