Gift sense

6

The Acropolis was just as Valentine remembered it-an old-fashioned gambling joint with a silly motif that had endeared itself to enough old-timers to keep it afloat. It had nothing to recommend it over the new kids on the block except lots of character, and that didn't count for much these days.

It was after three when he checked in and found two messages awaiting him at the front desk. He read the first while riding the elevator to the fourth floor, his nose twitching at the fifty-year-old bellman's repugnant cologne. It was from Wily, and his chicken scratch had not improved. From what he could make out, the pit boss wanted him to touch base once he'd gotten settled, and he had left his pager number.

The elevator doors parted and he followed the bellman down a twisting hallway with as many turns as a carnival fun house. His room was adjacent to the service elevators, and as the bellman unlocked the door, Valentine peered over his shoulder into a depressingly dark space with as much charm as a cave.

Valentine parted the blinds as the bellman described the amenities. He had a wonderful view of a gray concrete wall.

"Where's the toilet?" he inquired.

"You're in it," the bellman replied.

"What are you, a comedian?"

"Right," the bellman said. "I carry bags for exercise."

He was funny in a pathetic way, so Valentine tossed him a five-dollar bill. The bellman stuffed it into his vest without a hint of gratitude. After chaining the door, Valentine peeled off his clothes and took a shower.

There was a special ugly to Las Vegas, and his bathroom was a monument to it. Neon blue walls clashed with a urine-colored sink and john, the moldy shower curtain a map of ancient Greece. After a few minutes, the hot water ran out and he found himself dancing under the bone-chilling spray. Getting out, he heard the phone.

He took his time getting dressed. Being retired had its privileges; not hurrying was certainly one of them. When he went into the bedroom, the message light on the phone on the bedside table was blinking like a beacon on a stormy night. He sat down on the rock-hard bed and dialed voice mail. An automated voice greeted him and soon he was listening to his message.

"Hi, Tony. It's Mabel. Glad to see you made it in one piece! I know how you hate flying. Listen-Gerry came by earlier, and he was hopping mad when I told him you'd flown the coop. I guess he had a big weekend planned with his father… Anyway, to make a long story short, I'm going to the ball game with your son this afternoon. He was going to scalp the tickets, and I said hey, I'm great company. So we're going. I hope you don't mind."

"Jesus H. Christ," Valentine muttered. Gerry and Mabel on a date. The thought made him shudder.

"I like your son, I really do," she went on, as if anticipating his reaction. "I know he's put you through a lot of grief, but I just can't be mean to him. I hope you understand."

"Not really," he said.

"Anyway, the real reason I called is, I'm going to scrap the 'die broke' ad. You were right-it doesn't work. I mean, it's clever, but so are most five-year-olds. The good news is, I've come up with something really funny. By the time you get this message, I'll have faxed it to the hotel, so if you don't mind, I'd like you to take a look at it and give me a call. I'll be waiting by the phone. Ta ta."

Valentine hung up remembering the time he'd tried to take Gerry to see the Yankees in the play-offs only to have his son say no and go off with his dope-smoking friends. It had been some of the bitterest rejection he'd ever tasted. What goes around comes around, he supposed.

He felt the room tremble as the service elevator docked next door. Two Mexican chambermaids got out, chattering loudly as they pushed a squeaky laundry cart down the hall. He could hear every syllable. The phone rang again.

"Mr. Valentine, this is Roxanne at the front desk," a friendly female voice said. "I have a fax for you."

"I'll be right down," he said. "And Roxanne, I need to be put into a new room."

"New room?" She sounded offended. "What's wrong with the room you're in?"

He lowered his voice. "I found a body under the bed."

"A body?"

"Yeah. I think it's Jimmy Hoffa."

"Well," she said, her fingers tapping a computer keyboard, "let me see what I can do."

On the long walk back to the elevator Valentine took stock of the carpet's muted orange and red checkerboard design. He'd read several studies conducted by casinos to quantify the effects of really bad carpet. The goal was to find out which patterns were so upsetting to the human eye that it actually coaxed a customer into looking up from the floor and into the eyes of a dealer or gleaming slot machine. The idea was to trigger impulse play. No one had ever determined if it really worked.

On the way down, he remembered the second message in his pocket, and he unfolded the fax that had been given to him when he'd checked in. Valentine, You old fuck. Take some advice from a friend and stay retired. No job is worth dying over, is it, pal?

"What the hell," he said aloud.

The elevator doors parted, but Valentine did not get out. Over the years, he'd been threatened by several hustlers, and a couple had actually tried to do him harm. The doors closed and the elevator rose on its own accord.

Soon he was back on the fourth floor. He punched the Lobby button and again descended, then read the fax again. Whoever had sent it knew him well enough to know he was retired. Had Bill's snitch told everyone in town he was visiting? Or had someone he'd once busted in Atlantic City spotted him at the airport and overheard his curbside conversation with Bill? Whatever the answer, he was going to have to stay on his toes or risk going home in cargo instead of first class.

To reach the front desk, Valentine had to pass through the casino, and he stopped briefly to get the lay of the land. The casino floor was designed like a hub of a wheel, with the gaming tables and slots in the center of the wheel, and all other destinations flowing from that center. A person couldn't get anywhere inside the Acropolis without passing through the wheel, and, it was hoped, dropping a few dollars. Twenty-five years earlier, every casino in Las Vegas had been designed this way. He suspected that today, the number was less than a handful.

Roxanne awaited him at the front desk. She was a vivacious gum-chewing redhead with muted brown eyes, his favorite kind of girl. She pegged him right away and said, "I thought Jimmy Hoffa was buried in Giants Stadium."

"That's Walt Disney," he said.

"I thought Walt Disney was being kept in a refrigerator down in Orlando."

"That's Adolf Hitler."

She slid the fax across the marble counter.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

Valentine grinned. "Where're you from?"

"I was raised in New Jersey. I came out here five years ago."

"I'm a Jersey kid, too. You mind the heat here?"

"It's okay so long as you don't wear any clothes."

Valentine's eyes grew wide and she grinned. He sensed that she was enjoying this as much as he was. How many years separated them? At least thirty. It was nice to see he could still ignite a spark, however brief.

"You in for a convention?" she asked.

"I'm doing some work for the casino."

"You don't say."

"Listen, I need to ask you a favor. If my son calls, could you tell him I checked out?"

Roxanne raised an eyebrow. Her pleasant tone vanished. "You don't talk to your own son?"

"No," he said, "and neither should you."

"And why's that? He murder someone?"

"It's nothing like that."

"If he didn't murder someone, why can't you get over it?"

It was Jersey logic if he'd ever heard it. There would be no winning with this young lady, so he retreated from the front desk. Frowning, she went to wait on another customer, casting him an evil eye as he hurried away.

He slipped into the lobby bar for some privacy. It was called Nick's Place and was cozy dark. The bartender stood behind his empty bar polishing a highball glass. He looked about Valentine's age, rail thin and silver-haired, and did not get annoyed when Valentine ordered a glass of water with a twist of lemon.

"Sparkling or Evian?" he inquired politely.

"Tap, if you have it."

The bartender treated it like any other drink, setting the glass on a coaster and sliding it toward him. It was the first classy thing Valentine had seen anyone in the Acropolis do, so he tipped the man two bucks.

He unfolded Mabel's fax on the bar. Why had Roxanne assumed that he should be civil to Gerry? What gave her that right? Sipping his drink, he perused Mabel's latest assault on the funny bone. Tired of the same old grind? Enroll today in Grandma Mabel's school for begging. Become a pro. Special classes for TV evangelists and career politicians. Learn the pitch and never work again. Mabel Struck President Emeritus