Funny Money

31 911

Hanging up on Porter, Valentine called Archie Tanner’s office. He expected the conversation to be brief. He was going to tell Archie to call the cops. Archie could have any employee arrested for suspicion of stealing, regardless of whether he had evidence. The state gave him this power, along with every other casino owner in Atlantic City.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, “but Mr. Tanner is in Florida.”

“Is Brandi there?”

“She’s at home, sick.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Frank Porter,” the receptionist said.

He hung up. He guessed he had a minute before one of Porter’s men reached the third floor and shot him. Picking up the phone, he dialed 911. “There’s a fire at The Bombay,” he told the operator.

He marched into the surveillance control room. The employees were gone. He opened the door to the hall and stuck his head out. Empty. He walked down the hall to a fire alarm and punched out the glass. A whooping alarm drowned out all sound.

He followed the red Exit signs to a stairwell. Stepping onto the landing, he heard someone coming up the stairs. Taking the .38 from his pocket, he aimed at the landing and pulled the trigger. He heard the same pair of feet run down the stairs.

He fired two more times as he descended to the first floor. He wondered how he was going to feel if he shot an innocent person. Then it occurred to him that everyone who wasn’t guilty was probably standing outside, waiting for the fire trucks.

The first floor landing was deserted. He opened the door and peered into the casino. Several pit bosses had remained at their stations. He thought of the fifty grand in Sparky’s bank account and shoe box. Fifty into five million was a hundred employees. He couldn’t trust anybody.

Soon, firefighters were streaming into the casino. He waited until one happened by. Opening the door, he shoved the .38 in the firefighter’s face. “Get in here.”

The firefighter obliged him. He was an Irish guy with freckles and flaming hair, and didn’t seem terribly upset. Like he’d experienced worse than a .38 shoved in his face.

Valentine sent him up the stairs in his underwear. Then tried his uniform on over his own clothes. It fit. He saw the fireman standing at the top of the stairs, shaking his head.

The casino floor was pandemonium. Valentine passed several firefighters without drawing suspicion. He headed for the nearest exit, his heart racing out of control.

He drove to an all-night grocery and parked between two delivery trucks. Inside, he bought cigarettes and fired one up once he was back in the car. Filling his lungs with smoke, he felt himself start to calm down.

Man, that tasted good.

So good, that he smoked two more before taking out his cell phone and dialing Davis’s number. The detective answered on the first ring.

“An arrest warrant’s been issued for you. You’re considered armed and dangerous. Did you really stick a gun in the fireman’s face and make him take off his clothes? What were you thinking?”

“Porter’s men were trying to kill me,” Valentine said.

“You made the scam?”

“No.”

“Do you know any more than you did before?”

“No.”

“I want you to turn yourself in,” Davis said.

“What?”

“You’re out of control.”

“I am?”

“You’re suffering from dementia, Tony. Running around town knocking women down and carrying a hot gun. Do you think that’s normal behavior? For Christ’s sake, you introduced me as Richard Roundtree yesterday.”

Valentine watched two police cruisers pass by. When they were gone, he blew out a monster cloud of smoke. “I’m not nuts.”

“It’s your only defense,” the detective said.

Davis was right. It was the one defense that would probably keep him out of prison. But if he pleaded insanity, there would be a price. He’d have to close his business and spend the rest of his days doing... nothing.

“Good-bye, Eddie,” he said.

His cell phone rang when there were three cigarettes left in his pack. He stared at the face. Caller Unknown. Answering it was a risk — cell companies could trace any phone in seconds — but he did so anyway, hoping it was Mabel or his son, wanting desperately to hear a friendly voice.

“Mr. Valentine?”

His prayers were answered. It was Brandi.

“I’m on the other line with Archie,” she said. “He heard what you did at The Bombay tonight. He wants to know what happened.”

Valentine put one of the last cigarettes in his mouth but didn’t light it up. He chose his words carefully. “Tell Archie a gang of employees is ripping him off. Frank Porter is one of the ringleaders. I was trying to nail them. They got wise, and tried to kill me.”

Brandi put him on hold, then came back. “Archie wants to know why you ran from the police.”

“Because there are police involved.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Yes,” he lied.

She put him on hold again, then came back. “Archie said not to worry. He’s taking his private jet home tonight. He wants you to come to my apartment and lay low until he arrives. He says he’ll get everything straightened out.”

Her tone was businesslike. He liked that. She gave him her address, and he realized he knew exactly where she lived.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

Brandi lived in the Reserve, a pricey high-rise condominium overlooking the ocean. Ten years before, Valentine and his wife had looked at a one-bedroom and found they couldn’t afford to pay the monthly maintenance fee, let alone the mortgage.

He drove to a movie theater several blocks away and parked behind the brick building. He got out of the car and stripped out of the fireman’s uniform.

He hiked up Arctic Avenue, the stiff ocean breeze fighting his every step. It felt ten degrees colder than the last time he’d been outside, and he wondered if his body was trying to tell him something.

A block before the condo, he ducked into an alley. At its end was a fire escape, which he climbed to the roof. Back when he was in uniform, he’d climbed this building many times while chasing suspects, the view the best around.

Standing on the roof brought back a flood of memories. He stared up and down the street. None of the original businesses were open anymore. Gone was the baker and the shoemaker and the pet shop. Not good businesses to run in a casino town.

The building he stood on had once housed a sausage factory. Two chimneys stuck out of the roof like buck teeth. Standing in their shadows, he stared across the street at Brandi’s condo. Through the front doors he could see into the lobby. The night guard sat at a desk, reading the paper. There was no one else around.

The guard got up to stretch. He was in his thirties, square-faced with curly hair. Night guards were usually old geezers like him. The guy was too young for this kind of drudgery. Taking out his cell phone, he dialed 911 and made his second false report of the night.

Having nothing better to do, he timed the fire trucks. They reached the condo in six minutes flat. That was why people loved firemen. Because they knew how to hurry.

Three trucks and a pair of ambulances crowded the front entrance. The night guard came outside, followed by a half dozen cops who’d been hiding in a back room.

He stared at the condo’s glass walls, trying to guess which unit Brandi occupied. And wondered why a woman who had everything money could buy would get involved in something like this. It was one more piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

He thought he saw her looking down from the top floor. The penthouse. He dialed her number.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Brandi?”

“Mr. Valentine?”

“Nice try,” he said.