They turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard. The Acropolis stuck out like a dwarf standing among giants. Maybe that was it; just like any other bully, Sonny had chosen to rob the littlest kid on the block.
"I heard some disturbing news," Higgins said as they waited at a light. "Someone in town put a contract out on your life."
Valentine turned sideways in his seat.
"No one wanted to take it. Whacking tourists is a no-no. I put the word out on the street that you were an ex-cop, and if anyone even tried, I'd make them pay."
"Thanks, Bill."
"So here's my question," Higgins said. "Is there someone in town who hates you that much, or is this Sonny's doing?"
"It's Sonny," Valentine said.
"You guys got something personal going on?"
"Yeah."
"Mind filling me in?"
"Back in '84, a mob Sonny was running ripped off Resorts International in Atlantic City. There was a detective on duty who got wise and chased them outside. Sonny and his boys beat the detective to death. I got there too late."
"This detective a friend of yours?" Higgins asked.
"My brother-in-law," Valentine replied.
The light changed and Higgins drove a hundred yards to the next red light. Throwing the car into park, he said, "So this is personal."
"You bet."
"Mind telling me what you plan to do if you catch Fontana?"
"That all depends."
"On what?"
"Where and when I catch him."
"You're saying you'll kill him."
"It could happen."
The light turned green, but Higgins wasn't going anywhere. Eyeing Valentine, he said, "Do that, and I'll arrest you, Tony."
"I'm sure you will, Bill," Valentine said.
Nola Briggs's injuries were not as serious as first believed. Her wrist was only sprained and her ribs were badly bruised; she was back in the city jail cooling her heels when Underman finally got to her.
A plate of two-inch Plexiglas separated Underman from his shell-shocked client. It was obvious she'd been through a war, and he found it hard to imagine someone so small and helpless taking down four of Las Vegas's finest. He'd completely underestimated her, which he supposed had been his first mistake.
"I'm afraid I've got some bad news," Underman said, knowing no other way to put it. "The police would like to give you their own polygraph test."
"Can they do that?"
"No. But if you don't, Judge Burke won't release you."
"What do they want to ask me that I haven't already told them?" she said, massaging her bandaged arm. "How many times can I say I didn't do anything?"
"Nola, listen to me-"
"No, you listen," she said, her eyes burning a hole through the protective glass. "I didn't do anything, and they know it."
Underman paused as a burly female guard escorted a prisoner into the adjacent booth. When the guard was gone, he brought his face to the plastic and placed his mouth against the oval wire mesh that allowed them to talk.
"Nola, I had a very unpleasant thing happen to me in the courtroom this morning," he whispered. "I stepped on a land mine. I discovered I wasn't really representing an innocent blackjack dealer. I was representing an accomplice of Sonny Fontana, probably the single most hated individual in the state of Nevada. No attorney in his right mind would do that, at least not one who had his practice based here. You set me up, you little bitch."
Nola began to speak, then stopped, her mouth moving silently up and down. "Sonny Fontana? Why are you bringing him up?"
So she knew him. Underman forged ahead. "The money you used to pay me. Was it yours?"
"No," she mumbled.
"Damn you," he swore angrily. "That's the Acropolis's money, isn't it? I know how the casinos work. The numbers on those bills are in consecutive order so the GCB can trace whose bank account it ends up in. It's tainted, and you knew it."
"No," Nola sputtered, beginning to tear up. "I swear-"
"I'm going to the judge and tell him I want off this case unless you come clean with me," Underman said, his eyes spitting venom. "You understand what I'm saying? I'm going to tell the judge that you paid me with the casino's money, stolen money, and that will be that."
"You can't do that," she cried. "You're my attorney."
"Not for much longer."
"Mr. Underman-"
"Come clean, or I'm going to walk. The choice is yours."
Nola drew closer, the tip of her freckled nose touching the plastic, desperately trying to win him back. "I didn't do anything. Everything I said to you before was true."
"That's a clever play on words," he said. "'Didn't do anything.' That's what the examiner asked when you were polygraphed. 'Did you do anything, Nola?' Well, maybe you didn't do anything, but that still doesn't mean that you didn't participate. Here's a question. Have you ever known a man named Sonny Fontana?"
"What if I have?"
Underman pushed his chair out of the booth and motioned for the guard.
"Please," Nola hissed through the wire mesh. "Don't leave me high and dry, Mr. Underman."
Her attorney glared at her. "The truth, Nola. What does it take for me to hear the truth? Do you know him or not?"
"I did know him. He's dead."
"No, he's not. He got a face-lift, and now goes by the name Frank Fontaine."
"What?!"
Nola's hand went to her mouth, the shock on her face all too real. The female guard waddled over. She weighed two hundred pounds and was shaped like a bowling pin. Underman said, "Please. I need another minute with my client."
The guard scowled. "Don't use me as leverage, mister."
"No, ma'am," Underman replied.
The guard waddled back to her high chair and sat down.
"That bastard," Nola swore under her breath. "He used me."
Underman dragged his chair back into the booth.
"You're saying Fontana set you up," he whispered.
Nola nodded her head savagely.
"And you never saw it coming."
"Not until you just told me."
"How long have you known him?"
"Too long."
"How long is that?"
"Since we were kids."
"Were you involved?"
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, were you in love with him?"
Nola let out a bitter laugh, the sound shaped by a lifetime of hurt and betrayal. She dug a nasty-looking hankie from her pocket and honked her nose into it.
"Was I 'involved'?" she said, mocking him. "Hell, Mr. Underman, I was married to the son of a bitch."
14
B arely seventeen, Nola Briggs was married on a rainy Saturday morning in a Catholic church on the south side of the Bronx. The priest, Father Murphy, had at first said no-he did not marry children-then changed his mind when Sonny slipped him a C note, and he forever bonded them in holy matrimony.
"I wish I didn't have to leave," Sonny said as they stood on the church steps. "You know that, don't you?"
"Yes," Nola replied. "I know that."
"I'm sorry it has to be like this," he said.
"So am I."
"I'll come back for you. I promise. I will come back."
"Stop saying it, then."
Nola twirled the gold band encircling the third finger on her left hand. Rain spit on their heads. She had wanted her wedding day to be the Sound of Music; instead, it was On the Waterfront. Sonny took his leather jacket off and covered her shoulders. She shut her eyes as he kissed her on the lips, wishing the moment would last forever.
The shrill blast of a car's horn ruined the moment. Sonny's father, Elvis Fontana, owner of Elvis's House of Billiards, sat in a rusted-out Lincoln across the street, looking homicidal. He pointed at his wristwatch and mouthed the words Hurry up.
"I'll call you every day-and write letters," Sonny promised, holding Nola in his arms. "I swear. Every day."
"Sure you will."
"Don't make it sound like that. I wouldn't have asked you to marry me if I didn't mean it, would I?"