Funny Money

36 The Four Kings Approach

Valentine needed a car.

Kat drove him to the Hertz lot at Bader Airport, and he rented a Mustang. As he turned the car on, Van Morrison’s “Tupelo Honey” came blaring out of the radio’s speakers.

He parked next to Kat’s Saturn and got into her car. Kat was on her cell phone telling the principal at her daughter’s school why she was pulling Zoe out. She hung up.

“What a pencil dick. Zoe’s already missed so many classes, what difference will another day make?”

He took out his cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Is that a little question or a big question?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do I mind if you smoke in my car, as in right now, or do I mind if you happen to smoke, as in all the time?”

He showed her the two remaining cigarettes in his pack. “I’ve got these to go, then I’m back on the wagon.”

“Go ahead.”

He lit up, then exhaled a dark plume. When the cigarette was nearly gone, Kat spoke.

“You haven’t told me what you’re going to do.”

No, he hadn’t. He’d told Kat what he wanted her to do, which was fly to Florida with Zoe and hole up in his house until this thing played itself out. It was the best he could offer, and he’d been relieved when she’d said yes.

“You don’t want to know,” he said.

“Tony...”

He filled his lungs with smoke. Knowing it was one of his last cigarettes made it taste that much better. He stared across the lot into the rental car office. “I need to find out how The Bombay’s getting ripped off. Frank Porter knows, so I’m going to make him tell me.”

“Make him how?”

“I’m going to use the Four Kings approach.”

“It sounds ugly.”

“You ever been to Fremont Street in Las Vegas?”

“I’ve never been west of the Mississippi.”

The cigarette was nearly out. He smoked it until he tasted the filter, then snuffed it in the ashtray. “When people think of Las Vegas, they think of the Strip, and all the big casinos. But the original Las Vegas is on Fremont Street. Locals call it old downtown. The casinos here are old-fashioned joints.

“The Four Kings is one of the better ones, a member of the ‘All Right to Be Bright Club.’ The interior is light and tropical. Old- timers dig the food and the lounge shows. There are some high rollers, but mostly it’s just the motor coach market.

“Anyway, the Four Kings has a strict policy about cheating. It’s been in force for years, and every crossroader who’s ever worked Las Vegas knows about it. If you get caught cheating, they drag you into the back room. And in that back room there’s a wall. The wall was originally white, but it hasn’t been painted in forever.

“The wall is covered in crossroaders’ blood. By the time you leave that room, some of your blood gets added to that wall. That’s the deal. If you’re new, it’s usually just a punch in the mouth. But if they’ve seen you before, watch out. The Four Kings approach.”

“That’s brutal,” she said.

“It is. And you want to know something?”

“What?”

“It works. The Four Kings has been ripped off the least of any casino in Nevada, probably any casino in the world. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not advocating beating up criminals. I’m just telling you what works with crossroaders. You have to threaten them, and then you have to be willing to back it up.”

“Is it really necessary?”

He took her hand with both of his. “They killed my best friend, and they tried to kill me. And now they’re after you and Eddie. You’re goddamned right it’s necessary.”

He followed Kat to her daughter’s school. Soon Zoe came out. A skinny waif, too much makeup, and a boy’s haircut made up the package. She got into the Saturn and immediately started arguing with her mother.

Valentine followed them to the exit for the New Jersey Turnpike. The Saturn went up the long entrance ramp, then stopped. He saw Kat turn and wave good-bye. He waved back.

How Frank Porter had saved his house in Pheasant Run from his ex-wife was one of the great mysteries of New Jersey.

Frank had bought five acres of wooded paradise twenty years before, then saved his dough and built his dream house, a two-story A-frame with a wood deck sitting off the second story. Designed like a Swiss chalet, the house was a favorite gathering place and had hosted many Sunday afternoon football parties.

Valentine inched the Mustang up the long, sloping driveway. Halfway up, he pulled off the road and got out. The underbrush was heavy, and the car got swallowed by the forest.

He knew Frank’s schedule about as well as his own. Today, a Friday, was one of Frank’s off days. Usually, he stayed at home, tinkering in his shop or working in the yard.

The climb up the gravel driveway got his heart going. The wind was blowing through the trees, creating a thousand whispers. It was strange, but he did not feel apprehensive. The tip of the A-frame appeared above the treetops. Then the rest of the house took shape. Up in Frank’s study a light was on.

He went around back and entered the two-car garage.

The door leading into the house was unlocked, and he cracked it an inch. Strains of B.B. King floated through the downstairs. A long time ago, Frank had played a mean blues guitar, then one day upped and quit. New priorities, Valentine remembered him saying.

He walked through the laundry room and into the kitchen. The kitchen had an island in its center, and on it sat a large coin counting machine, with thousands of dollar coin-wrappers arranged neatly behind it.

He walked down a hall and entered Frank’s study. The TV set was on, Baywatch competing with B.B. Frank was riding a stationary bike while talking into a cell phone. Their eyes met. Valentine made a hurry-up motion with the .38.

“Got to go,” Porter said into the phone. Then he climbed off the bike. Unshaven, wearing a jogging outfit with sweat pancakes staining both arms, he looked a hundred years old.

“Put the cell phone down,” Valentine said.

“You think I’m going to make a move?”

“You heard me.”

“Sure. Just don’t shoot me.”

Porter’s desk sat next to the bike. He placed the cell phone on a stack of books, and Valentine saw his fingers imperceptibly twitch. The .38’s burp was louder than he expected, like a firecracker exploding in his hand. The bullet tore through the books. Porter jerked his hand into the air.

“Oh, Jesus,” he cried.

Valentine walked around the desk. Hidden behind the books was a .357 Magnum. He made Porter sit on the couch, then pulled up a chair. Porter buried his face in his hands.

While Valentine waited, he stared at the wall behind them. It was covered with autographed sports junk: footballs, baseballs, group pictures of every Super Bowl winner of the past ten years. The last time he’d been in Frank’s house, none of it had been there.

“Tell me why you did it,” Valentine said.

Porter reached for the box of Kleenex sitting on a side table. He stopped when he saw the .38’s barrel move.

“Real slow,” Valentine said.

He tugged a Kleenex out of the box and blew his nose. “That’s a good question. The money, I guess. That, and it was a sure thing.”

“How is stealing a sure thing?”

“It is when you’re stealing from a crook.”

“You mean Archie?”

Porter nodded. “Brandi approached me last summer. She said Archie was skimming money off The Bombay. I said, ‘So what?’ and she said, ‘He’s vulnerable. We can rip him off, and he won’t call the cops.’ So I said, ‘Who’s we?’ and she said, ‘Everybody on the graveyard shift.’ ”

“So you were the last in.”

Porter blew his nose again. “Yes. I don’t know if I would have gone along if so many people weren’t involved. But I did.”

“How does the Desert Storm gang fit into this?”

Porter looked surprised. “You did your homework.”

“Answer me.”

“The Desert Storm gang is the core of the group. It includes Sparky, Brandi, Gigi, and Monique. They do the legwork, like getting the money out of The Bombay and laundering it. They also keep everyone else in line.”

“And they’re the ones making the bombs.”

“Yes.”

“Whose idea was it to make the Croatians into patsies?”

“Mine. Just in case something went wrong, we could point the finger at them.”

“Was it your idea to buy a white van that looked like theirs?”

Porter nodded. “But then they started bleeding us, so I had a bright idea. I wanted to see if Archie really was scared of the police, so I hired Doyle, knowing he’d sniff out the Croatians right away. Doyle did, and I told Archie.”

“And Archie told you to keep the cops out of it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Valentine rose. “Get up.”

“Where are we going?”

“To have a talk with the district attorney.”

Porter remained sitting. “You’re not going to help me out?”

“No.”

“I thought we were friends...”

“Get up,” Valentine repeated.

A funny look flickered across Porter’s face. Like he was adding up his options. Then his hand dove under the cushion. Valentine shot him in the chest.

Porter flew over the chair, his legs going straight up into the air. An automatic pistol fell out of the cushion and onto the floor. Valentine crossed himself, then walked around the chair. Kneeling, he pulled back Porter’s sweatshirt. He was wearing a Kevlar vest, the slug lodged in the indestructible material.

There was a bottle of Evian in the drink holder on the bike. He poured it on Porter’s face. His friend blinked awake.

“Two guns. You expecting someone?”

Lying on his back, Porter nodded.

“Double-cross your partners?”

His friend didn’t say anything.

“I’d like to meet them.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Porter said.

He marched Porter downstairs to the basement and tied him to a support beam with a piece of rope. “I want to know how Archie’s skimming The Bombay.”

Porter was sweating profusely. “You and everybody else.”

“You don’t know?”

He shook his head. “It’s Brandi’s ace in the hole. If the gang gets busted, she’ll turn state’s evidence and use it as leverage.”

“She tell you that?”

“Fuck, no,” Porter said, “I figured it out myself.”

“One more question.”

“What.”

“Who killed Doyle?”

Porter looked at the concrete basement floor.

“Don’t ask me that,” he said.

Valentine considered pistol-whipping him. Or beating him up. Only this was Porter, a guy he’d known for over twenty years.

Instead, he went upstairs and searched the house. In the master bedroom he found a suitcase packed with tropical clothes. On the dresser, a ticket to Guatemala and a passport.

He dumped out the suitcase and ripped open its walls. Stacks of hundred dollar bills spilled out. He marched down the basement stairs clutching the money to his chest. Opening the furnace, he fed a stack to the flames.

“Tony, please don’t do that,” Porter begged him.

“Who killed Doyle?”

Porter stared at the money, then back at him.

“I want the name of the person who detonated the bomb that killed my partner,” Valentine said.

“They wouldn’t tell me who did it.”

Valentine fed the rest of the money to the flames.

Porter’s driveway was over a quarter-mile long, most of it on an incline. Valentine walked to where his rental was parked and slipped into the forest. Finding a stump, he sat down, then laid the double-barreled shotgun he’d found in Frank’s closet on the ground.

Twenty minutes later when the white van appeared at the bottom of Porter’s driveway, he was deep in thought.

Of the scores of hustlers he’d busted over the years, only a handful had ever tried to kill him, and that was to avoid going back to prison. But the majority hadn’t put up a fight. He supposed it had to do with the fact that they were professional criminals, a group that, for the most part, had few illusions about life. Amateurs were different when it came to crime. They had dreams, and were often willing to kill to keep those dreams alive.

The van came up the hill at a fast clip, its occupants hidden behind the tinted windshield. When it was a hundred yards away, he picked up the shotgun, and stepped into its path.

The squealing of brakes echoed across Pheasant Run. He raised the shotgun and aimed at the windshield. Then hesitated. The van retreated, its back end swerving first to the left, then to the right. Lowering the barrel, he shot out both front tires.

The driver lost control. Valentine watched the van veer off the drive and go crashing through the forest. Flipping on its side, it started to roll. He entered the forest to the sound of screams.

Two hundred yards off to his left, the van lay upside down, its tires spinning furiously. The windshield had imploded and thousands of silver dollars had spilled out, engulfing the car’s occupants.

The coins were so thick he had to clear a path. Seeing a hand, he dug until he was looking at an upside down face. It was Monique. Her mouth was open, her eyes lifeless.

He dug some more and found Gigi behind the wheel, her pretty face sheeted in blood. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Help me,” she whispered.

Valentine checked her pulse. It was good and strong. He was no doctor, but had a feeling she’d make it if an ambulance got to her before the bitter cold did her in. Her eyes opened wide.

“Please,” she whispered.

Kneeling, he brought his lips next to her ear.

“Who killed Doyle Flanagan?”

“I can’t...”

“Tell me.”

“Will you help...”

“Tell me.”

She whispered a name in his ear. Rising, he started to walk out of the forest and back to his rental.

“Please...” she called after him.

The wind whistled through the trees, their branches carrying the words to a song. She’s as sweet as Tupelo Honey. She’s as sweet as honey from a tree. He knew every word by heart, because Doyle had sung that song every day of his life. He felt his hands start to tremble and realized it had nothing to do with the cold.