Gift sense

21

Valentine didn't sleep much knowing that Mabel was in jail, Roxanne was angry at him, and he and Gerry had come close to never speaking again. While doing ceiling patrol at three A.M., he realized that his propensity for angering the people he cared about most had gotten steadily worse since Lois's death, and he came to the sad conclusion that his unerring ability to find the negative in everything came from missing Lois as much as he did. And so he made others suffer.

He got up for good at six, ordered coffee and some plain white-bread toast from room service, then got on the horn and started making noise. It was nine o'clock back east, and he located the captain of the Clearwater police without much trouble. Luckily, the captain remembered a cruise ship gambling case Valentine helped the department solve, and he promised to move Mabel into a private cell once he got out of a staff meeting. As a rule, cops didn't lie to other cops the way they lied to practically everyone else, and Valentine hung up feeling better than he had before making the call.

Breakfast came, and he munched on toast while watching the sun rise. It was going to be another brutally hot day, and down the block he saw bare-chested men putting the finishing touches on the outdoor arena that had been erected behind Caesars Palace for tonight's extravaganza. He had seen many prizefights, but never one in Vegas, where probably every member of the audience, except him, would have a financial stake in the outcome. He had never placed a bet in his life and did not think tonight's bout would be any different. But it would still be fun to watch.

The food lifted his spirits, and at six-thirty he began trying to reach his son with a renewed sense of purpose. He'd done a real number on Gerry the night before and had probably made him feel a lot more guilty than he should have. It was time to fall on his sword and start over. He felt certain Gerry would let him.

Only… he couldn't find his son. No one answered at the saloon, and Gerry's cell phone emitted a frantic busy signal. He waited a few minutes, then called Gerry's cell phone again. This time Gerry's Puerto Rican girlfriend answered sleepily.

"This is Tony Valentine. I'm looking for Gerry."

He heard the phone hit the floor, then cursing. When Yolanda came back on, she was on fire. "Jesus Christ. Can't I get a decent night's sleep once in a while? First, some guys bang on my door; now, his old man's looking for him. I work late, you know."

Valentine mumbled a lame apology. "You work in a club or something?"

"A club? You think I'm a stripper?"

The sun was streaming into his suite, and Valentine covered his face with his hand. "No. I figured you were a bartender or a waitress. Gerry owns a bar, so I assumed that was how he met you."

"You think I hustle tips?"

He took a deep breath. "I didn't say that. Look, I didn't mean to offend you. Your name's Yolanda, isn't it?"

"That's right."

"So what do you do, Yolanda?"

"I'm an intern at Bellevue."

It was Valentine's turn to lose the phone. Retrieving it, he said, "You're studying to be a doctor?"

"That's right," she said icily. "Not your usual Puerto Rican success story, huh?"

"I didn't mean that."

"Sure you did, Tony. Because I'm Puerto Rican, you took me for some lowlife. Gerry was the same way when we first met."

"No, I didn't," he said forcefully. "I was just surprised to hear that my son is seeing someone who didn't flunk out of high school."

Yolanda let out a laugh. "Gerry likes them stupid, huh?"

Valentine wanted to say, "No, they like him," but he decided to shelve the line. As voices on the phone went, she sounded trustworthy, what the Jews called a mensch, and he said, "Used to. Listen, you said some guys were banging on your door."

"That's right."

"You know them?"

"Never seen them before," she said.

"Can you describe them?"

"Sure. Big, Italian, midthirties. One didn't talk; the other had a zipper scar down the side of his face. Kind of scary looking."

"Did they say what they wanted?"

"Yeah. They wanted Gerry."

Being a bookie, his son did business with a nefarious group of people, and those two could easily have been customers or even runners for him. Or they could have been thugs sent by Sonny Fontana.

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them Gerry had gone to Florida for a few days, which is what he told me. They acted pissed off and left."

Valentine smiled into the phone.

"Thank you, Yolanda," he said.

Valentine hung up feeling even better about the world. Twenty years earlier, when Gerry had started giving him and Lois problems, they'd gone to a family counselor. What Valentine had learned about himself had been surprising. Adult children of alcoholics, of which he was one, fell into four categories. Some ran away from their problems; others became loners; others made jokes about it. The fourth category, into which he fell, tried to right the world's wrongs in the mistaken belief it will heal their own wounds. Children of these people, he'd learned, often feel neglected or ignored.

So he'd set aside time for Gerry and gotten to know him better. A few hours a week had narrowed the chasm between them. Baseball games, movies, sometimes a long walk on the beach. And although they fought constantly-and probably always would-in the end they'd always come to terms. It was a harsh kind of love, never easy, but what was easy in this world?

Which was why it elated Valentine to know that Gerry had kept his word and had gone to Florida to rescue Mabel.

At eight he went downstairs to try and patch things up with Roxanne. The casino was packed, and as he crossed the floor the drone of a hundred discarded conversations was shattered by the electronic buzzer of a jackpot being paid. As he passed the craps table, a stickman bellowed "Winner eleven!" and the table went wild.

Roxanne was running the front desk. She looked almost radiant, her long red hair tied back in a bun, revealing her perfectly symmetrical Irish face. Slapping his hands on the counter, he wondered how many hot-blooded guys walked into the casino and offered to chuck their jobs and whisk her away to a tropical island.

"Hey," he said, "think you could find it in yourself to give a smelly old guy like me a second chance?"

"Not on your life," she said stiffly. "Get lost."

He returned a minute later with a dozen white roses.

"You're sweet," she said, sniffing the flowers. "But it doesn't make up for not calling me."

"I was going to, but Nick moved in across the hall," he explained. "He grabbed me and I couldn't get away."

"You spent the night with that little prick?" She tossed the flowers at his head, missing by inches. "Goddamn you!"

He picked the flowers off the floor, wondering how he'd lasted so long without understanding the opposite sex. Meeting her gaze, he saw a scowl so mean that it nearly made him run.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'll make it up to you."

She had a customer. Out of the side of her mouth, she said, "I'm going to hold you to that, Tony. Why don't you make yourself useful until I go on my break."

"Sure. What do you want me to do?"

From her pocket, Roxanne removed five silver dollars and slid them across the counter. "Go play One-Armed Billy for me. I was in such a hurry this morning I forgot."

"You play that stupid thing?" he said without thinking.

"Every stupid day," she replied.

They met up twenty minutes later in Nick's Place, which had transformed itself from a sleepy hole-in-the-wall to a jumpin' speakeasy with a jazz band and cocktail waitresses in leotards and more customers than places to sit. Valentine pounced on the first available table and had two cups of coffee waiting when Roxanne came in. She'd let her hair down. She managed to snap around the head of every guy in the place as she crossed the room to join him.

"How'd you do?" she asked.

"Give me your hand," he said.

Roxanne obliged, and he placed three cherries, a slice of orange, and a wedge of lime into her palm.

"I put your money in the slot machine and that's what came out." He smiled and said, "I really did mean to call you."

She put the steaming coffee beneath her nose and sipped. "I fell asleep by the phone. I thought something horrible had happened to you."

Valentine squirmed in his chair. Wounding people he cared about was becoming a real specialty. He put his hand on the table and drummed it nervously with his fingers. He was pleasantly surprised when she placed her own atop his and gave his fingers a squeeze.

"Don't let it happen again," she said quietly.

"I won't."

They listened to the band play "New York, New York." It was one of those songs that could get him stirred up even if a trio of Shriners were blowing it on kazoos, and he hummed along. As the story went, Sinatra was going to name it "New Jersey, New Jersey" until a crowd in Hoboken had booed him offstage one night. What a way to get even.

When the song was over, Roxanne was grinning from ear to ear. She said, "I didn't know you were musical."

"Men have died for having voices like mine."

"But you have rhythm."

"No, I have a pulse."

"Do you play an instrument?"

"Just the radio."

She slapped the table. "You win. Look, I've got to get back to work. How about we have dinner later and make up for last night?"

"I need to hang around tonight, in case Fontaine sneaks in."

"You think he will?"

"It's a distinct possibility," Valentine said.

"So we have dinner here."

"What time?"

"My second shift ends at ten."

Valentine took a deep breath. The fight was scheduled to begin at eight to accommodate everyone back east who'd be watching on Pay-Per-View. Nick would want to get back once it was over, freeing him up. So what if they were light-years apart and probably totally incompatible? She was the real thing, and that didn't come along very often.

Roxanne squeezed his hand. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Ten it is," he said.

"You sure you can stay awake that long?" she teased him.

"Only if I nap this afternoon."

She got up and kissed him on the cheek.

"Sweet dreams," she said.

There was nothing like a pretty woman's smile to start the day. Braving the heat, he walked to the Desert Inn and paid the valet twenty bucks for Nick's loaner. Las Vegas was not a morning town, and he cruised the Strip in a minimum of traffic.

Brother's Lounge was located on a desolate side street named Audrie. As bars went, it was a rathole, its neighbors a pawnshop and a tanning salon, and his shoes crunched broken glass as he entered the dimly lit establishment.

The bartender had a hockey player's blunt, proudly damaged face. His name was Mike, and he wore a ruffled tuxedo shirt with stained armpits and a yellow collar. "Can or tap?" he inquired when Valentine ordered a Diet Coke.

"Can's fine," Valentine said, casing the room. In the back, a guy sat nursing a draft beer; otherwise, the place was empty. He drew a C-note from his wallet and let it float to the laminated counter. "Can you change that?"

"Sorry," Mike said. "It's too early."

"Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?"

"Depends," Mike said.

Valentine nudged the C-note toward him. "There was a guy who used to come in here named Frank Fontaine."

Mike crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You a cop?"

Valentine nearly said no, then stopped himself. He would always be a cop, and this joker knew it. "Retired," he confessed.

"Private dick?"

"Consultant."

"That's a new one."

"Welcome to the nineties."

In the mirror behind the bar Valentine saw the guy in back kill his beer. He was built like one of those behemoths that carried refrigerators on their backs on ESPN. As he strolled out the front door, Mike pocketed the C-note.

"You know that dude?" Mike asked.

"No-should I?"

"He's looking for Fontaine, too."

Valentine spun around in his chair, wishing he'd gotten a better look at the guy. "Did he say why?"

"Said Fontaine owes him money."

"I wouldn't want to owe money to a guy that big."

Mike popped a can of Diet Coke and poured it into a plastic mug. He put a big head on it, which Valentine found insulting. He was sure Mike was capable of pouring a soda without making it look like a root beer float.

"Look, I'll tell you exactly what I told the cops," Mike said. "Fontaine came in a few times, mostly to use the phone. Never drank anything hard. Always left a fat tip."

Valentine waited. "That's it?"

"He liked to play video poker."

"He win much?"

"Hell, he never lost."

"Which machine?"

"Get out of here," Mike said with a laugh. The cordless phone beside the register warbled. Mike took the call in the kitchen.

After five minutes, Valentine realized Mike wasn't coming back. He finished his soda while reflecting on how little a hundred bucks bought these days. Instinct told him that Mike knew more than he was telling; the problem would be getting him to flip. Maybe a subpoena would do the trick, or Longo's doing a number on him. He threw a few pennies on the bar, just to piss Mike off.

On his way to the john, Valentine found the video poker machines. Video poker was a tough game to beat consistently, and he patted both machines down. A dime-size hole had been drilled into each, and he guessed Fontaine had found a way to rig the machines' silicon chips to pull up specific cards. It was one more headache for Bill Higgins to deal with.

The johns were crudely marked POINTERS and SITTERS. Valentine went through the appropriate door and the smell nearly knocked him over. Taking a deep breath, he soldiered up to a urinal.

As he'd aged, taking a piss had started to feel about as good as having sex, and he was lost in the moment when he heard someone barrel into the room. Jerking his head around, he saw the big guy hovering menacingly behind him, his eyes glazed over like he'd just inhaled a popper.

"Yeah?" Valentine said.

He put his hand on Valentine's face and pressed it into the wall. Valentine kissed the condom dispenser above the urinal, his nose pressing the button for a ribbed Black Mambo.

"Let me see your hands," he said.

"I'm pissing, for Christ's sake."

"You heard what I said."

"What are you trying to do," Valentine said belligerently, "make me wet my pants?"

Valentine's head banged the condom dispenser. Hugging the urinal, he said, "Look, pal, I'm sixty-two years old and wearing a pacemaker. Unless you came in here to kill me, how about cutting out the rough stuff?"

"I heard you asking the bartender about Fontaine," the big guy said. "Tell me what you know."

"Sure," Valentine said. "But first let me breathe."

"Stick your hands out."

Valentine obeyed and the big guy frisked him like he knew what he was doing. Then he reached around and grabbed Valentine's dick, shook it, and shoved it into his trousers and yanked up the zipper. Valentine had never had a guy handle his balls before, and once he got over the initial revulsion, he decided it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Close, but definitely not the worst.

Valentine felt the guy relax. Dropping his arms, Valentine grabbed his assailant's fingers and pushed the guy's thumb back at an unnatural angle. His attacker corkscrewed to the floor, the pain ripping through him. Valentine stepped away from the urinal.

"What's your name?"

"Al," his attacker gasped, gnashing his teeth.

"Why are you looking for Frank Fontaine, Al?"

"Because…"

"You want to kill him?"

"Let go of my thumb!"

Valentine did the opposite. The bigger they were, the harder they screamed. Al was no exception.

"You the guy who squeezed his head in a door in Tahoe?"

Al nodded that he was.

"Who're you working for, Al?"

"I can't tell you that."

Valentine bent his thumb back a little more. As thumbs went, it was awfully small, and he noticed how freakishly small Al's other fingers were as well, the tiny appendages attached to an even smaller hand. The rest of him looked normal, at least what was visible.

Al screamed some more. The bathroom door swung open and Mike stuck his head in. The bartender blinked, then blinked again. Valentine shot him a murderous glance.

"Where've you been hiding?"

"I was on the phone. Jesus, I thought he was killing you."

"Thanks for the concern," Valentine said.

"You want me to call the police?"

Valentine looked at Al. "How about it? You want to have a chat with the boys in blue?"

Al shook his head. He was clutching his wrist with his other hand, trying to stop the pain from spreading to other parts of his body. Judging by the agonized look on his face, it wasn't working.

"I'll take that as a no." To Mike he said, "I'll try to keep the screaming down to a minimum."

"Sure," Mike said.

He left, and Valentine said, "Who're you working for?"

"I can't tell you," Al said. "They'll kill me."

"Like this is better?"

When Al didn't respond, he gave the thumb a little more juice. Al's face turned crimson and his eyes popped out like a comic-book character.

"How about their initials?" Valentine said. "Tell me their initials, and I'll figure it out."

"F. U.," Al whispered.

"What's that?"