Wild Card

Chapter 58

The hookers eating breakfast at Harold’s House of Pancakes gave Valentine a hero’s welcome the next morning, with plenty of kisses and hugs. He was blushing by the time he slipped into a booth, and a gum-chewing waitress took his order.

Fuller and Romero came in a few minutes later, and sat across from him. Through Banko, he’d learned that the two FBI agents were facing an official reprimand from their bosses for leaving Atlantic City while Hollis was still on the loose. They were both in hot water, and facing uncertain futures.

Normally, Valentine wouldn’t have cared. They had made their beds, and now they had to sleep in them. Only there was unfinished business that needed attending to, and he had decided that Fuller and Romero were the perfect pair to make things right.

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Valentine said.

Fuller put his elbows on the table. “In case you haven’t heard, we’re screwed.”

“Come to mention it, I did hear that. This could change things.”

Fuller glanced at his partner, then back at him. “Change things how?”

“Make you look good.”

“How the hell are you going to do that?”

“When I got the job to police Resorts’ casino, I thought I was supposed to keep cheaters out. But then I found out something worse was going on. A skim was happening right in front of my nose. A hundred grand a day out the door.”

“Mafia?” Fuller said.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“It’s their speciality.”

“This may be their crown jewel. Resorts makes twenty million a month profit. Fifteen percent of that money is used for comps to lure high rollers. It’s the same formula used in Las Vegas, only we’re not Las Vegas. Las Vegas is in the desert. Atlantic City is a two hour drive for fifty million people. We don’t need to give away anything. Only the auditors don’t realize that.”

“So the mob is stealing comp money,” Romero said.

“That’s right.”

Fuller acted skeptical. “Where’s your proof?”

Valentine removed the Prince’s address book from his pocket along with the write-up of the skim which he’d planned to send to the newspaper. He slid both across the table. “The address book contains the names of the runners. The ringleader is a New York mobster named Vinny Acosta. Every day, a runner goes into the casino, and draws a credit line at the cage for a hundred grand. He plays for a while, then cashes the chips, and leaves with the money. The loss is shown on the books as paying for comps.”

Fuller took his time reading through his notes. Holding the page which described how the loss was being hidden by Resorts’ bookkeeping department, he said, “This reads like a big job.”

“It is,” Valentine said.

Fuller put his elbows on the table, and lowered his voice. “Let’s make sure we’re all on the same page. You want the FBI to set up a sting, tail these people, tap their phones, and put all the pieces of the puzzle together.”

“That’s right. Think you can handle it?”

“That’s what we do every day.”

“I know that.”

Fuller leaned closer. Romero leaned in as well.

“So what’s the catch,” Fuller said, sounding skeptical.

“I want you to do it my way,” Valentine said.

A couple of hookers took the table next to theirs, and the three men went outside to the parking lot to finish their conversation.

“My way,” Fuller said. “Isn’t that one of Sinatra’s songs?”

Fuller was trying to be funny, and maybe to an outsider it was funny. A bunch of Mafia goons had come to town, and stolen millions of dollars right in front of everyone’s noses. It sounded like a script for a movie, only the script included too many lives being destroyed. There was nothing funny about any of it.

“Here’s the deal,” Valentine said. “When you make your bust, you’re going to tell the media a story. You happened to be visiting the casino, and spotted Vinny Acosta. Knowing he was mafia, you put a tail on him, and discovered he was up to no good. Everything you learned from that point on came as a result of your own brilliant detective work. The Atlantic City police weren’t involved, and neither was I.”

Romero understood, and nodded his head. Fuller didn’t, and said, “You want to be left out of the picture?”

“Correct.”

“And all the credit goes to us?”

“Right again.”

“Why?”

“Because I live here, you idiot.”

Fuller got it. “That shouldn’t be too hard,” he said.

Valentine had said everything he wanted to say. Fuller and Romero started to thank him, and he waved them off. He hoped he never saw either of them again.

The FBI agents got into their Chevy. Valentine tapped the windshield with his knuckles, and the driver’s window came down.

“How long will the sting take to organize?” Valentine asked.

“These things take time. At least a few months,” Fuller said.

“Call me the day before you make the bust.”

“Will do.”

He stepped away from the car, and they drove away. The wind was blowing hard off the Atlantic and the tip of his nose had gone numb. He’d parked the Pinto next to the building, and he got in and stuck the key into the ignition. The engine rolled over once, then made a sound like a dying animal drawing its last gasp. Cursing, he got out and gave the car a good kick, then went inside the restaurant, and called his wife for a ride.