Funny Money

40 Big Mac, Large Fries

Bruno, Davis’s German shepherd, had been in K9 for ten years. Then they’d retired him. And because the police were senseless, he was supposed to be taken to the pound and put to sleep. It was what happened to a lot of K9 dogs.

Davis had been the one who’d taken Bruno on his final car ride. On the way, he’d gone to his house and put the dog inside the garage. Then he’d driven to the pound and explained to the man on duty how Bruno had escaped when he’d let him out to pee.

“Happens a lot with K9 dogs,” the man had said.

Which had made Davis feel better, knowing he wasn’t the first cop who’d broken the rules to save an animal that had been more loyal than most of his partners. When he’d gotten home, Bruno had greeted him like there was no tomorrow, like he’d known the score.

Which was why finding the dog shot dead with a piece of pant leg in his mouth had snapped a chord in Davis. He would never own another dog like Bruno. It was that simple.

The attorney general’s telephone call had come at a few minutes past eleven. Hanging up, Davis had gotten his Sig Sauer, then kissed his girlfriend good-bye. Getting in his car, he’d driven to his own house, which was only a few blocks from his girlfriend’s. He’d pulled up behind Coleman and Marconi’s unmarked Chevy and killed the engine.

Coleman and Marconi had been parked beneath a streetlight in front of Davis’s house since eight, waiting for him to come home. Davis flashed his brights, then got out, holding the Sig Sauer loosely by his side.

Coleman and Marconi stepped out of the Chevy. They’d also drawn their weapons, the barrels pointed at the ground.

“Hey,” Marconi said, like nothing was wrong.

“Hey,” Davis replied.

They’d had a beer together once. Marconi had told him about getting bit in the face, and all the taunting at school. Davis had felt sorry for him and paid for their drinks.

“Which one of you shot my dog?” Davis asked.

The detectives stared at him.

“Say what?” Marconi said.

“You heard me.”

Coleman made a move. Davis shot him and Marconi before either man could get off a round. Something he’d practiced for years, but never figured he’d have to use. Or ever wanted to.

The detectives lay bleeding in the street. Lights went on up and down the block. Davis went over and disarmed them, then pulled back both mens’ pant legs. A white bandage was taped to the side of Marconi’s left ankle. A spot of blood had seeped through the dressing.

“Figures,” Davis said.

Valentine awoke as the jet started to land, his ears popping. He saw Archie sitting across from him, talking on a cell phone. Why was it only in dreams that he did the things he wanted to?

They landed at Bader Field, the snow-covered landscape a grim reminder of winter’s presence. The jet taxied to the runway’s end where three unmarked police cars waited.

As Archie stepped off the plane, a detective offered him a coat. Davis, dressed in blue jeans and a North Carolina University sweatshirt, approached with his credentials in hand. “We raided The Bombay twenty minutes ago and started arresting your employees. The TV reporters showed up not long after. I figured you’d want to speak to them first.”

“Couldn’t you have arrested them at home,” Archie said, stamping his feet on the frozen ground. “Did you have to turn it into a fucking three-ring circus?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Tanner, but I’m not in public relations.”

“Don’t get cute with me,” Archie said. “Where the hell is the attorney general, anyway? Did the governor send any of his people? Where is everybody?”

Valentine glanced at the men sent out to meet Archie. All cops. The governor and the attorney general hadn’t sent anyone because being associated with Archie was about as wise as shaking hands with a leper, a fact that everyone on the tarmac seemed to appreciate except Archie.

“I made the governor of this fucking state,” he spouted indignantly. “Did any of you know that? I bankrolled his last campaign and put him into office, the ungrateful rat bastard.”

There was not enough ground for the cops to stare at. Only Davis seemed unmoved by Archie’s tirade, his broad shoulders holding firm against the punishing wind.

“I’m sure you did,” the detective allowed.

“You dissing me, detective?”

“Just telling you the way things are,” Davis replied. He pointed to the three cars parked beside the runway. “Let’s go.”

Had Valentine not known better, he would have thought the president was in town. Hundreds of police sawhorses surrounded The Bombay, choking traffic for blocks. Behind the blockade, Atlantic City’s finest were conducting the largest single bust in their history, with hundreds of handcuffed prisoners waiting in line to be carted off to jail.

The local media had set up camp, the talking heads basking in artificial light as they told their stories. Seeing Archie step out of a car, they converged like sharks, only to be repelled by Davis and the other detectives. Archie ducked into The Bombay with Valentine by his side.

The casino was a shambles, with chairs and gaming tables smashed to bits. Slot machines had been destroyed, roulette wheels cracked in half, the legs taken off craps tables and used to bash in the casino’s expensive decorations. Instead of going quietly, Archie’s employees had wrecked the joint.

A gang of dealers and pit bosses had barricaded themselves in the Hard Count room. The police had tried to talk them out, and when that hadn’t worked, brought in a battering ram to knock down the door. Valentine watched the police do their thing. Had he missed something when he’d looked at the Hard Count room through Porter’s computer? He tried to imagine what.

Then the door came down.

“Kill them,” Archie shouted.

The police nearly did just that. Using their billy clubs, they beat the dealers and pit bosses senseless.

When the employees were subdued, Valentine went into the room. The scales and coin-counting machines had been smashed. Buckets of coins had been dumped on the floor. He knelt down and picked up a handful. It was both Funny Money and the real stuff.

Then he noticed a sign on the wall. It read This Scale, Funny Money Only. How simple, he thought.

Then he heard someone say his name.

Davis stood in the doorway, grim-faced. Valentine followed him out of the Hard Count room. In the casino, the dealers and pit bosses had been handcuffed and were being led away in a line. Archie was with them, kicking his employees and cursing.

Outside, it had started to snow, the flakes swirling around Davis’s Thunderbird in miniature cyclones. The detective drove away with his windshield wipers on their highest setting.

Valentine assumed they were going to the police station. Davis would want to sit him down in front of a tape recorder and explain what had happened so the prosecutors would be clear on exactly what crimes had been committed. It was a common procedure, something he did all the time.

Only the exit for the police station came and went. When Davis put on his indicator five miles later, Valentine didn’t have a clue where they were headed.

The Thunderbird skidded down an icy road. Through the whirl of snow, Valentine saw a pair of familiar golden arches. It was the McDonald’s where Doyle had bought the farm. A pair of police cruisers were parked in front, their bubbles acting like strobe lights in the storm.

“The manager called it in twenty minutes ago,” Davis explained. “He asked that we keep it quiet, seeing that Doyle got murdered here last week.”

Davis pulled into the lot and waved at one of the cops. The uniform walked over, blowing steam off his coffee. He had the face of a fifteen-year-old. Lowering his window, Davis said, “Tell me you didn’t touch anything.”

“No, sir,” the uniform said. “We left it just like we found it.”

Davis edged the Thunderbird around back and parked. He removed a flashlight from the glove compartment and led Valentine across the lot to where Frank Porter’s mini-Mercedes was parked.

The flashlight’s beam found Porter sitting behind the wheel. On his lap sat a cardboard tray. In it, a Big Mac, large fries, and a thick shake. Still clutched in Frank’s hand was the gun he’d eaten for dessert, the slug having passed through the back of his skull and painted the rear window. The burger was half-eaten, and Valentine wondered what had caused Frank to lose his appetite and decide to end things. What sudden insight had made him wake up and realize the horrible things he’d done?

He went to the bushes and threw up.

“Jesus!” Davis exclaimed.

“What?” he gasped.

“He moved.”

Valentine took the flashlight from Davis’s hand. Opening the driver’s door, he shone the beam onto the dead man’s face. Porter had fallen onto the wheel and appeared to be grinning. Valentine closed his eyes with his fingertips. The flashlight caught a piece of paper sticking out of Porter’s pocket.

“Go ahead,” Davis said.

Valentine held the paper so they could both read it.

Valentine put the note back into Porter’s pocket. Then whispered in his friend’s ear.

“You stupid bastard,” he said.