Wild Card

Chapter 22

Every town in the state of New Jersey had at least one fancy restaurant that was run by the mob. Hoodlums had to eat somewhere.

The restaurant in Atlantic City which bore this distinction was called Lou Sonken’s. Although the cuisine was northern Italian, the interior resembled a French bordello, with naked statuary and red carpeted walls hung with paintings of plump nudes. No cop Valentine knew had ever eaten there.

He parked in a vacant lot across the street, then jogged over in the shadows, trying to avoid the valets, most of them were thugs just out of prison who needed work. He slipped inside the front door, and was spotted by the maitre d’, a weasel in an ill-fitting tux. As he tried to enter the restaurant, the maitre d’ blocked his way.

“I’m sorry, but we’re booked solid,” the maitre d’ said.

“Go back to your little stand,” Valentine said.

“But—”

“Or I’ll arrest you.”

The maitre d’ retreated, and Valentine walked down a foyer covered with photos of Lou Sonken shaking hands with every mafia kingpin who’d ever stepped foot in Atlantic City. Entering the restaurant, his eyes canvassed the dimly lit room. Nucky Balducci’s bald head popped up like a buoy in a sea of slime. He sat at a corner table, inhaling a plate of clam linguine. Luther sat beside him, gnawing on a pork chop. As Valentine approached, Luther rose up in his chair. Valentine put his hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder, and drove him into his seat.

“One word out of you, and I’ll cuff you,” Valentine said.

Luther’s mouth clamped shut. Nucky continued to twirl linguini on his fork. “Why don’t you pull up a chair, and join us,” the old gangster said.

Valentine borrowed a chair from a nearby table without asking the diners if they minded. As he sat down, his legs hit the table, disturbing the two men’s drinks. Luther reached out and stilled both glasses.

“How you been?” Nucky asked.

“Shitty.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Valentine took out his wallet, and dropped it on the table so his detective’s badge was showing. Nucky glanced at it.

“You here on business, huh?”

“You’re psychic.”

“Want something to eat?”

“No. Do you know my partner, Doyle Flanagan?”

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Doyle says he could stop all the break-ins and burglaries in this town by putting four guys in jail. Four guys do all the jobs.”

“No kidding,” Nucky said.

“Doyle says it’s easy to tell which burglar is which. One always drinks a beer and leaves the empty. Another’s into lady’s underwear. The third pisses on bathroom floors. I won’t tell you what the fourth does, too disgusting. Problem is, we never have enough evidence to put them away.”

Nucky put his fork down. “What does this have to do with me?”

The rest of the diners had started to file out of the restaurant. Valentine glanced up at the smokey mirror hanging behind Nucky’s shaved head. In its reflection, Lou Sonken and two big waiters stood in the doorway, waiting for Nucky to call them in. Valentine turned around in his chair. “Get back in your cages,” he told them.

Lou and his apes did not move.

“Do as he says,” Nucky ordered them.

The three men went away. Nucky leaned into the table and dropped his voice.

“Explain yourself, will you, Tony? The suspense is killing me.”

“My house got broken into this afternoon. The guy who did it wasn’t one of those four guys. And he was looking for something.”

“You think I know?”

“You run this town, don’t you?”

Nucky balled up his napkin and tossed it onto his bowel of unfinished pasta. “You’re not wearing a wire, are you?”

Valentine rose an inch out of his chair.

“Okay, calm down. Luther, take a powder, will you?”

The bodyguard excused himself from the table. When he was gone, Nucky explained the situation. “You’ve been seen around town with a couple of feds.”

“So?”

“People are getting nervous.”

“I’m helping the FBI find a guy who’s murdering hookers.”

“That’s the story everybody’s heard,” Nucky said.

“You don’t believe it?”

Nucky snorted contemptuously. “Who gives a shit about dead hookers? Take my advice. Stay away from those FBI guys. It’s making plenty of people nervous.”

“Did you order someone to break into my house?”

“No,” Nucky said.

“Then who did?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Tell me who they are, Nucky, or I’ll run you in.”

“You’ll do what?”

“You heard me.”

Nucky’s bald head turned beet red. He suddenly looked like a pressure cooker ready to explode. “You’re serious.”

“Damn straight,” Valentine said.

Nucky rose from the table, and motioned for Valentine to follow him. They walked through the empty restaurant and down the foyer, turned right at the maitre de’ stand, and entered the nightclub. It had been modeled after the Moulin Rouge, with a serpentine bar, a stage that mechanically moved up and down, and bar stools covered in zebra skin, their stripes highlighted by an ultra-violet light. The club was empty, except for the ancient mixologist, an old Sicilian named Arthur who’d been there since the beginning of time. They shouldered up to the bar.

“A Budweiser, Arthur,” Nucky said.

“Of course. And for your friend?”

“Tap water,” Valentine said.

Arthur smiled like Valentine had made a joke and he thought he was supposed to smile.

“Turn the TV on,” Nucky instructed.

“You wanna watch anything in particular?”

“I want to see the news.”

A big color TV hung from the ceiling behind the bar. Arthur climbed up on a chair and turned the set on. Then he poured their drinks.

“Talked to your old man lately?” Nucky asked.

“Leave him out of this,” Valentine said.

Nucky shrugged and sipped his beer. “I thought you were gonna drop by, see Zelda.”

“She still in her room?”

“Yeah.”

“You want something for her to do?”

Nucky perked up. “You got any ideas?”

“She can help clean up my goddamn house.”

The news came on. It was from a station out of Newark. One of the newscasters was a woman in her late thirties, the other a man about the same age. They spoke to the camera without acknowledging each other. It was like watching a marriage on the skids. After five minutes, a story about a killing came on. Nucky pointed at the screen.

“Here we go,” he said.

“South Philly crime kingpin Giuseppe “The Gip” Scarfone was killed by a car bomb in the God’s Pocket section of Philadelphia this morning,” the woman reporter said, standing on a Philly street corner with a scarf around her neck. “The bomb was so powerful that pieces of Scarfone’s sharkskin suit were found on a rooftop a block away. Also in the car were Antonio and Salvatore Andruzzi, known in law enforcement circles as The Twins. According to police, it is believed the killing was in retaliation for the slaying of Paul “The Lobster” Spinelli in New York two days ago.”

Nucky nudged Valentine with his elbow.

“You hear that?”

“What about it?” Valentine said.

“Guys that did that, same guys that broke into your house,” Nucky said. “You want my advice? Stay away from those feds. You’re scaring people, Tony.”

The old gangster finished his drink, and then he was gone.