18 Honey

Sitting behind the wheel of the Mercedes, he peeled off the rubber gloves. Then he backed out of the alley next to Sparky’s house. There were times when being in a flashy car wasn’t good, and this was certainly one of them.

He drove for several miles, then parked next to a Wendy’s and sat in the parking lot for several minutes, trying to gather his thoughts. Sparky’s dying words were already starting to haunt him. You know... Doyle...

He stuck his hand in his pocket and took out Sparky’s trusted .38. He’d told Sparky he needed another gun, and now he had one.

He stuck the gun back in his pocket. Then he tried to make sense of what had happened. Fifty grand was a lot of dough. Selling hot guns couldn’t be that lucrative. Even if it was, it didn’t explain why Sparky had thrown the bottle at him. Nor the fear in Sparky’s eyes. That was bothering him the most.

Going inside the restaurant, he bought coffee, then sat in his car and drank it. Soon his head was buzzing like a cheap TV. During his last checkup, his doctor had ordered him to cut out caffeine after 4 P.M. He’d said sure and gone right on drinking coffee and diet Cokes, caffeine the one addiction he planned to take with him to his grave.

Doyle had been a caffeine junkie as well. And an ex-smoker. They’d been alike in a lot of ways. So much so that Valentine had known his partner inside out. And if Doyle had one flaw, it was his inability to keep a secret. If Sparky was talking to Doyle, and had told Doyle anything worth repeating, Doyle would have told someone. It was simply his nature.

He fished Doyle’s cell phone out of his pocket. Powering it up, he retrieved Honey’s number. He needed to talk to this woman, just to see what she knew.

He hit the Send button. On the third ring, a woman’s sleepy voice answered.

“Is this Honey?”

The woman let out a gasp.

“Look, you don’t know me, but my name is Tony Valentine, and I—”

“Tony?” the woman said.

“Yes?”

“Oh my God, is that you?”


Liddy Flanagan met him at the front door of her house. She’d been lying in bed when he’d called — “No reason to get up,” she’d explained — and had thrown on jeans and a threadbare sweater and brushed out her hair. She looked like a ghost, her skin creamy white and translucent, showing every hidden vein. They went into the kitchen and she poured herself a cup of that morning’s coffee and stuck it in the microwave.

“Honey was Doyle’s nickname for me,” she said, sitting in the nook. “It came from his favorite song, Van Morrison’s ‘Tupelo Honey.’ When you called the other day and used that name, I cried for hours.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He watched her drink the steaming brew. Even the smell of coffee put his brain in high gear, and he reached across the nook and touched her arm. “Liddy, why did you lie to me the other day?”

The question jolted her out of her lethargy.

“I didn’t lie to you.”

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yes, you did. You said you found Doyle’s notebook hidden under the bed. That wasn’t true, was it?”

Liddy did not reply.

“You found it in the safe,” he went on, “where Doyle kept all his important documents, like his life insurance and his savings bonds.”

“Who told you about the safe?”

“I helped him install it, for Christ’s sake.”

“Oh, God, how stupid of me.” Liddy ran her hands through her hair. A number of expressions battled for a place on her face. A smile won out. “I never should have thought I could pull a fast one on you.”

They shared a long silence. Then he said, “You gave me that notebook hoping I’d unravel this thing. Well, every time I turn a rock over, I discover another snake. Doyle must have told you something.”

“I’ll tell you what Doyle told me,” she said, lowering her voice. “But please keep me and the boys out of it.”

He promised her he would.

“While Doyle was doing his investigation, he heard a story about another scam, one that involved a gang of employees. At first, he didn’t believe it. Doyle had so many friends at The Bombay. But then he got a call from a phone operator who worked there. He told Doyle the scam was real.”

“Do you remember this phone operator’s name?”

“Sparky Rhodes. He’s in a wheelchair. He’d been in Desert Storm with several Bombay employees. He told Doyle the Desert Storm gang had decided to rip Archie Tanner off.”

“Why did Sparky call Doyle?”

“He told Doyle he was afraid they’d be caught, and he’d end up in prison. He said gimps don’t last long behind bars.”

“What happened then?”

“Doyle went to Sparky’s house. Sparky had secretly taped a meeting the employees had, and he played it for Doyle. The employees were angry because Archie Tanner had spent their pension money buying hotels in Florida. They talked about ripping off The Bombay.”

“How?”

“Slots.”

“And that’s where the quotes in Doyle’s notebook came from.”

“Yes.”

“What did Doyle do with the information?”

“He called the Division of Gaming Enforcement and the Casino Control Commission and spoke to the auditors. They checked into it and told Doyle The Bombay’s slot take was normal. Doyle asked them to check the take again, and got the same answer. Then he contacted Detective Davis.”

“Why Davis?”

“Davis was handling the Funny Money investigation. You know, all the fake coins showing up around town.”

“So Doyle thought the cases were connected.”

“I guess.”

“What happened then?”

Liddy stared into the depths of her coffee cup. “Doyle was supposed to meet with Davis the night he got killed.”

“Did Doyle tell you anything else?”

“He said he wished he’d never taken the job.”

She went to the sink to wash her hands. She was moving in slow motion, the permanence of Doyle’s death finally catching up with her. Valentine came up from behind, and put his hand gently on her shoulder.

“One more question.”

“What’s that...”

“Was Frank Porter involved?”

He saw the corners of her mouth turn down. Then remembered that Frank was Sean’s godfather.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Please don’t lie to me, Liddy.”

Her shoulders tensed. “How do you know I’m lying?”

For as long as he could remember, Valentine had known when people were lying to him. It was a gift, yet also a curse.

“I just do.”

A tear did a slow crawl down her face. “Yes. Frank knew.”

He handed her a paper napkin from a basket on the counter and watched Liddy dab at her eyes. He struggled for something insightful to say to lessen her pain.

Nothing good came to mind.

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