Funny Money

33 The Death of Tony Valentine

The stairwell groaned beneath Valentine’s size twelves. The building that housed Yun’s dojo had been ancient when he’d first started taking classes. At the second floor landing he stopped. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open and poked his head in. The dojo was a large, high-ceilinged room with padded walls. A naked bulb shone over the locker room door.

Only bare feet were meant to walk on the dojo’s parquet floors, and he left his shoes by the door. Crossing the dojo, he drew the .38 from his pocket. Opening the locker room door, he stuck his head in.

The room was long and narrow, with lockers on both walls and showers in back. His teacher sat bound to a chair. The Mollos stood behind him. Big Tony, his right hand in a cast, was holding a Louisville slugger. Seeing Valentine, he took a cut at Yun’s head. His teacher ducked, the baseball bat whistling past his skull. Joey, his face swathed in white tape, called, “Strike one!” Little Tony pranced around like a demented court jester.

Valentine’s heart started to race. “Is this necessary?”

“Top of the ninth, two out, tying run at third base,” Joey said, egging his brother on. “Count on the batter is no balls, one strike.”

“This is for breaking my hand,” Big Tony said. He cocked the bat like Joe Morgan of the Cincinnati Reds, flapping his right arm as the pitcher started to throw the ball, his muscles twitching in anticipation.

“Don’t do it,” Valentine said.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I won’t pay you.”

That got Big Tony’s attention. He lowered the bat. For the first time, Valentine became aware of Yun’s breathing. It was abbreviated, his teacher slowing his heart beat in an attempt to stay calm.

“You brought the money?”

“Don’t have it,” Valentine said.

“Then how you gonna pay us?”

He took the Mercedes keys from his pocket, and let them dangle from his forefinger. “You can have my car.”

Big Tony eyed the logo. “You got a Mercedes?”

“SLK 600 coupe.”

“How many miles?”

“Sixteen thousand.”

“Leather interior?”

“No, plastic. Of course it’s got a leather interior. You ever driven one?” Big Tony shook his head. “It’s almost as nice as getting laid.”

“Put the gun in one of the lockers.”

“Do we have a deal?”

Big Tony nodded.

“I didn’t hear you,” Valentine said.

“We have a deal,” Big Tony said.

Valentine put the .38 in a locker and shut the steel door. He’d been tapping into Neanderthals’ wavelengths for years, and knew how the Mollos thought. Before anything else, they wanted their money. He watched Big Tony untie Yun.

Yun joined Valentine by the door. Valentine tossed the keys across the room. Big Tony plucked them out of the air. He showed the keys to his brothers. And then he kissed them.

“What about the title?” Big Tony asked.

“I’ll send it to you,” Valentine said.

The Mollos followed them out of the locker room, with Little Tony doing a cartwheel as he came through the door. Joey now had the bat and pointed it in Yun’s face.

“You’re one lucky Chinaman,” Joey said.

Laughing, they disappeared into the stairwell. Valentine touched Yun’s arm. “You okay?”

Yun rubbed his arm where it had been tied. “Whose car you give them?”

“Archie Tanner’s.”

“Oh, wow,” his teacher said.

Blaring rap music disrupted their conversation. They went to the dojo’s wall of windows and stared down. The Mollos had piled into the Mercedes and were hooting and hollering like teenagers. The car rocked up and down like a carnival ride.

“He got insurance?” his teacher asked.

“Of course he’s—”

Valentine’s eyes shifted to the other end of Ashton. Parked at the corner was a white van, its engine running. The driver’s window came down. An arm emerged, holding what looked like a transistor radio.

The Mercedes pulled onto the street. Sitting in back, Little Tony had lit a joint. Big Tony turned, poised to take it from him. And that was the image that remained in Valentine’s head when the car exploded.

A brilliant white flash followed, momentarily blinding him. His knees buckled. When he looked down at the street again, the Mercedes was in a thousand pieces. And the white van was gone.

Ashton resembled a war zone. Little Tony lay on the sidewalk and was now much littler, the lower half of his body gone. Joey lay beside him, his torso consumed by flames. Big Tony lay nearby, his head the color of a roasted chestnut. He was still breathing. Valentine took off his overcoat, and slipped it underneath Big Tony’s head. Then he died, and Valentine put his overcoat back on.

“You didn’t tell me somebody was trying to kill you,” Yun said.

“It’s been that kind of week.”

“Turned out okay,” his teacher said.

“What do you mean?”

“This was your car. Cops come, I tell them one of these guys was you. Let them figure out which one. You dead, at least for a little while. That gives you advantage.”

“Over who?”

“Whoever trying to kill you.”

A police car’s siren pierced the frigid night air. Being dead gave him another advantage as well. The police would stop looking for him. He touched his teacher’s arm.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“I miss you, too, Tony boy.”

Sprinting up the stairwell, Valentine hurried across the dojo to the locker room. Chances were, the cops would ask Yun to let them inside the dojo, just to poke around. He retrieved the .38 from the locker. Opening a window, he climbed out and jumped.

His knees did not approve. Soon he was hobbling down a deserted street. The sirens had awoken every stray dog in town. Their howling was spooky, like a chorus of lost souls that had decided to have a sing-along. A car snuck up from behind, its headlights capturing him in two perfect spheres of light. It was a checkered cab. He got in.

The driver was one of the legion of old-timers that served Atlantic City’s streets with class and distinction. Flipping the meter on, he said, “Your wish is my command.”

“Blue Dolphin motel.”

“A fine establishment.”

The driver drove two blocks north, then started to make a left off Atlantic. Valentine barked his displeasure. “Hey buddy, I grew up here. Where you going?”

“There was a shooting on Atlantic. The police have the block closed off. My dispatcher told me to avoid the spot.”

“Where on Atlantic?”

“Right outside the Burger King.”

The Burger King was across the street from the Drake. He’d told Anna to stay on the beach, and remembered all the junk food wrappers he’d seen in their apartment. He brought his face up to the bullet-proof glass. “Did your dispatcher say what happened?”

The driver looked at him in his mirror. “You a cop?”

“Ex.”

“I thought you looked familiar. Dispatcher said some foreign guy walking out of the Burger King got shot by someone in a van.”

“How did your dispatcher know it was a foreign guy?”

“That’s what the dispatcher heard over the police dispatch. You want me to take you there?”

“I thought you said the street was blocked off.”

“I know a back way,” the driver said.

Valentine found the Croatian’s white van parked on a side street next to the Drake. He walked up the path to the motel’s front office. Inside, he saw the manager reading the paper and smoking a cigarette. He went in.

Atlantic City being a gambling town, everyone had a price. For the manager at the Drake, all it took was a fifty dollar bill to reveal the Croatians’ room number. They were staying in number 33, second room from the very end.

Valentine walked down the unlit path to the room. Knocking, he stepped to one side and drew his gun. Juraj Havelka cracked the door an inch. With bloodshot eyes he stared down the .38’s barrel, then backed into the room.

“We have company,” Juraj said.

Valentine shut the door behind him. Anna sat on the floor, watching the news on the TV. She slowly rose.

“They killed Alex,” she said.

Valentine looked at Juraj. “Your brother?”

“Yes,” Juraj said.

Anna put her arms around Juraj’s shoulders. She’d been crying so hard that her eyes looked like busted panes of glass. “Alex and I went to get dinner. He was crossing the street with the food. A car pulled up with two men inside. There was a shot and Alex sank to the ground.” She stared at the carpet. “I ran.”

“That was a smart thing to do,” Valentine said.

Her eyes met his. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Please shut up,” Juraj said angrily.

On the TV, a reporter appeared. He was standing on a street corner talking to Yun. Valentine moved closer to the set. The reporter said, “Can you tell us what happened here tonight?”

The camera panned to show the smoldering remains of Archie Tanner’s Mercedes, the twelve-cylinder engine a molten mass. Big Tony and his brothers were covered in yellow tarps. Valentine pointed at the screen.

“That used to be my car,” he said.

“They are after you, too?” Anna asked.

“Yes.”

Juraj was unmoved by the pictures on the TV.

“Too bad my brother was not so lucky,” he said.