Funny Money

19 Money Plays

Going back to his motel, Valentine flopped down on the bed with his clothes on and pulled out his cell phone. From memory he punched in Joe Cortez’s number at the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

There were days that would always stay in his memory. His first great Christmas. Kissing Lois for the first time. Seeing Gerry take his first real step. Special days that would remain fresh, no matter when he thought of them.

For Valentine, one of those special days had occurred because of Joe.

It had happened like this. In 1982 he’d been assigned to work the high rollers room at the old Resorts International casino. A Japanese billionaire named Toki Mizo had been playing blackjack, and asked the house to raise the stakes to a half-million dollars a hand. The dealer, an imported French guy in a pointy-collar tux, had objected.

“But, sir, it is unheard of,” the dealer said.

Mizo slapped the table angrily. He was down four million bucks and hadn’t broken a sweat. A handful of casino employees hovered around him, tending to his every whim. Mizo glanced across the room at Valentine, who was leaning against the wall. Mizo knew he was a cop — high rollers always drew heat — and motioned him over to the table.

“Hey, Mr. Policeman, what do you think?”

Valentine shrugged his shoulders. “None of my business.”

“Come on,” he said. “You been around.”

That Valentine had. And seen a lot of blackjack played. Playing one-on-one against the dealer like Mizo was doing was a dangerous proposition. A player could go broke in the time it took to smoke a cigarette.

“Well,” Valentine said, “you know what they say.”

“What’s that?”

“Money plays.”

Mizo had to think about it. Then he smiled. “And that’s what makes the world go round, my money.”

“It sure as hell isn’t my money making the world go round,” Valentine said.

Mizo burst out laughing. So did everyone else in the room. Even the dealer let out a snort. The casino’s general manager slipped under the red rope that separated the Worthy Few from the Unwashed Mob, and whispered in the dealer’s ear.

“A half-million dollars it is,” the dealer announced.

Valentine went back to leaning against the wall. A cocktail waitress appeared, testing her strength with a tray of drinks. She’d served him a Coke.

Valentine sipped the drink. By the time the glass was empty, Mizo was down twenty-six million dollars.

It would go down as the single biggest loss in casino history. Out in Las Vegas, where Mizo had been lured from, it had pissed off everybody. And, it had made Valentine’s reputation, the expression money plays becoming a slogan in one of the city’s advertising campaigns.

“I remember that little bastard,” Special Agent Joe Cortez of the INS said. “That was a fine piece of police work you did tracking him down.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Valentine said.

“No,” Cortez said, “you couldn’t have.”

Where the story had gotten interesting was when Mizo had tried to blow town and not pay off his marker. On a hunch, Valentine had called Joe and found out which airports had direct flights to Japan. The earliest was out of Philadelphia on JAL, and he’d driven there and convinced the local cops to let him board. He’d found Mizo hiding in a john.

“I need your help,” Valentine said now.

Cortez worked in Newark on the third floor of a brick building with old-fashioned fire escapes and an American flag hanging out front. He said, “For you, anything.”

“I’m trying to track down a gang of European blackjack cheats. My guess is, they’re here on some type of special visas. I was hoping you could help me finger them.”

“Tony, two hundred thousand foreigners visit New Jersey each year,” Cortez said. “That’s a tall order.”

Valentine told Joe what he knew: three guys, one woman, well educated, late thirties. He’d thought a lot about their accents and said, “My guess is they’re from Yugoslavia, that part of the world.”

“I don’t think Yugoslavia is a country anymore.”

“Shows you where I’ve been.”

“Well, that winnows it down. You said they were blackjack cheats?”

“That’s right.”

“Well educated?”

“Very. One of them listens to Vivaldi.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“The woman is beautiful. Like a young Audrey Hepburn.”

“How are they cheating?”

“I honestly don’t know. They’ve got a system, and I’m beginning to think it’s mathematical.”

“They must be good if they’ve got you stumped. Think they might be here on teaching visas?”

“There’s a thought.”

He listened to Cortez’s stubby fingers pry information from the INS’s super-computer located in the basement of his office. Joe cleared his throat and Valentine sensed he’d found something.

“I looked through all the foreigners in New York and New Jersey staying here on teaching visas,” he said. “There’s 647 names. I looked to see if any were in groups, and narrowed the list down to 360. Now I need to sort through them.”

“How much time do you think it will take?”

“That’s hard to say. I may have to work on it at home tonight.”

“I really appreciate this, Joe.”

“What are pals for,” Joe said.

Valentine’s eyes snapped open to the sound of the telephone ringing.

He’d fallen asleep fully dressed. It had grown dark outside his motel room. He heard his stomach growl. Had he eaten today? He honestly didn’t remember. He looked at his watch. Three hours had passed since he’d spoken to Joe. He picked up the phone.

“There you are,” Mabel said by way of greeting. “You must start leaving your cell phone on.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because people are looking for you.”

“That’s no reason to leave it on.”

“Stop being obtuse,” his neighbor said.

He sat up too quickly and the room started to spin. He touched the bump on the back of his head and saw stars.

“Who’s looking for me?”

“Your son. He called this morning. He said the Mollo brothers are chasing him all over New York. He begged me to ask you to reconsider lending him fifty grand.”

Valentine laughed into the phone. He was feeling better already. “So how’s your day going?”

“The afternoon was quiet. I started reading one of the books on cheating I found in your library. I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s a monkey’s paw?”

“It’s the furry thing at the end of a monkey’s leg. They use it to peel bananas.”

“Very funny. I mean in casino cheating.”

“It’s a mechanical device that cheaters stick up the coin tray of a slot machine,” he explained. “It has a light on the end which activates the slot machine into paying out even when the reels aren’t lined up correctly.”

“The book said casinos lose millions to monkey’s paws.”

“At least,” he said.

“Speaking of paws,” Mabel said. “I went to the pound and saw a wonderful dog, very affectionate, only it has a black tongue. I don’t know why, but it gave me the willies. The lady in charge said the dog was half Chow, half who-knows-what. You know anything about the breed?”

As far as Valentine was concerned, dogs were dogs. Until they started walking on their hind legs and talking, he didn’t care who their parents were. “No.”

“I looked it up on the Internet. Bred to protect the royal family in Japan. I’ve got two days to make a decision. Either he comes home with me, or off to doggie heaven.”

He sensed that Mabel had made up her mind and just wanted some reassurance. And since it had been his idea, he figured he ought to be giving it to her. But part of him wanted to see the dog first, feel its vibes. They were animals, capable of equal amounts of good and evil, and he didn’t want one in Mabel’s house until he felt sure it wouldn’t turn on her.

“Why don’t you wait until I get home,” he said.

“Is your job done?”

“No, but I’m leaving tomorrow anyway.”

For a moment he thought he’d been disconnected.

“You’re leaving in the middle of a job?” she asked.

He took the bottle of Advil off the night table and unscrewed it. Once Joe fingered the European, he planned on turning the information over to Detective Davis and getting out of Atlantic City. Seeing Sparky Rhodes die had convinced him that it was time to pull up stakes.

“That’s right,” he said.

There was another pause. He popped four Advil into his mouth and swallowed them dry.

“Do you know what that Greek slimeball Nick Nicocropolis said about you?” his neighbor asked.

“No.”

“He said you were the world’s champion grifter catcher.”

“I’m touched,” Valentine said.

“Tony.”

“Yes, Mabel.”

“World champions don’t quit.”

He found himself too stunned to reply.

“There’s the other line,” his neighbor said. “Ta ta.”