Sucker Bet

8

It was Running Bear who finally came to Valentine’s rescue.

The chief sauntered out the back door with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Seeing Valentine’s predicament, he charged the alligators lurking around the Honda. For a big guy, he was surprisingly quick, and he grabbed each gator by the tail, dragged it across the lot, and tossed it into the swamp. It was impressive to watch, and Valentine found himself admiring the chief’s technique. He’d seen signs for alligator wrestling shows inside the reservation and had assumed it was a hokey stunt, the animals drugged or without teeth.

Done, Running Bear wiped his palms on his blue jeans. Valentine pointed straight down. “You missed one.”

Running Bear peeked through the open driver’s window. The gator inside nearly bit his head off. The chief staggered backwards, twisting his leg. The gator wiggled through the window and went after him.

Running Bear danced around the gator, then jumped on the animal’s back and started to really wrestle. This gator was a lot more aggressive, and soon the chief was gasping for breath. The gator was also getting tired, and its tail no longer banged the ground. Valentine climbed off the roof of the car.

“May I?”

The chief gave him a puzzled look. “May you what?”

“Cut in.”

The chief had his arms wrapped around the gator’s stomach and was holding the animal vertical to the pavement. “He’s still got a lot of fight left in him,” he grunted.

“So do I,” Valentine said.

They switched places, with Valentine doing the holding. He gently loosened his grip, and the gator started to twist furiously. Using his hips, he body-slammed the animal headfirst to the pavement. The gator stopped twisting and did not move.

“Shit,” Running Bear said. “You wrestle?”

“Judo.”

“Damn good.”

“Thanks. You mind my asking you a question?”

“Not at all.”

“Are all the surveillance cameras in this parking lot broken?”

“Broken?” the chief said. “Why do you think they’re broken?”

“Because someone stuffed an alligator in the trunk of my car and your surveillance people didn’t do anything about it.”

Running Bear took a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his shirt pocket and stuck one in his mouth. Sweat was pouring off his face like he’d just stepped out of a shower. He offered one to Valentine. When it was declined, he lit up and filled his lungs with smoke.

“My boys did this, huh,” he said, blowing a giant plume.

“That’s right. Probably watching us right now.”

Running Bear shot him a glance. “Smooth Stone, you think?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Why?”

“You tell me.”

Running Bear inhaled deeply and expanded his chest. The gator had awakened, and they watched it disappear in the saw grass and then heard its splash as it entered the water. Running Bear said, “I guess you’re not taking the job, huh?”

Valentine nearly said yes, then realized he’d have to return the videotape of Jack Lightfoot, something he had no intention of doing.

“No, I am,” he said.

Running Bear looked at him. “You still want to work for us?”

“I need the money,” he said.

He got into his car. The seat was covered in reptilian slime. Running Bear stuck his face in the open window.

“I’ll deal with Smooth Stone,” the chief said.

Valentine understood. Running Bear didn’t want him calling the Broward police, who would come onto the reservation if he filed a complaint.

“You do that,” he said.

Valentine decided to stay on Miami Beach, the architecture a real time warp for someone of his generation, and was halfway there when he realized he didn’t like the way he was feeling. His heart was beating a hundred miles an hour and the opposing traffic was passing by faster than normal. With his cell phone he found the nearest hospital, and walked into its emergency room and was sitting on a doctor’s table fifteen minutes later. The doctor was a woman, her manner cool and detached.

“Not a heart attack or a stroke,” she informed him when she was done.

He felt himself relax. “Great.”

She wrote something on her clipboard. “Everything is fine except your heart rate. Do you mind telling me what you were doing that got you so worked up?”

“Wrestling alligators.”

“Seriously,” she said.

He showed her the palms of his hands. He’d lost a lot of skin.

“Did you get lost in the swamps?” she asked.

“The gator was in my car,” he said.

The doctor excused herself. Valentine went to the door and peeked outside. At the hallway’s end, she stood talking to another doctor. Florida had a law called the Baker Act, where people acting strangely could be locked up even if they hadn’t broken any laws. Tossing his clothes on, he got out of the emergency room as fast as he could.

Checking into the Fontainebleau hotel, he got a room facing the ocean.

Growing up, he’d known guys who’d bussed tables in Atlantic City in the summer, then went south in the winter to work the Fontainebleau. It had been the only real hotel on Miami Beach, the others simply there to handle the overflow.

He got pretzels from the minibar and went onto the balcony. The beach looked wider than he last remembered, and clusters of mature palm trees surrounded the octopus-shaped swimming pool. Otherwise, the place was still the same.

He was sitting on the bed tugging off his shoes when he remembered Mabel. He’d been talking to her on his cell phone when the gator had nearly taken his arm off, and he’d forgotten to call her back. He picked up the phone on the night table and dialed her number.

“Oh, Tony,” she exclaimed. “I was so worried.”

“A thousand apologies,” he said. Then he told her everything that had happened.

“Thank goodness you’re all right,” she said when he was done.

He felt like a heel. Mabel had done more good things for him in the past year than anyone on the planet. So why didn’t he treat her with more respect? Losing his wife had hardened his heart; he knew that for a fact. But had it also hardened his soul?