"Gerry's wonderful," she said, the word melting on her tongue. "Nobody else hates him like you."
That was a lie. Valentine gave her Gerry's ex-wife's and ex-girlfriend's phone numbers and suggested they start a support group. The Puerto Rican woman cursed him and the line went dead.
Valentine sat on the bed and felt his blood pressure rise. As criminal endeavors went, being a bookie required a lot of social skills, and he could see his son being good at many other things, like selling real estate or cars or even stock. It wouldn't be hard to make the switch; it just took desire.
Ten minutes later he called Gerry's saloon again.
"Gerry just came back," Pee Wee informed him. "You want to talk to him?"
"You're psychic," Valentine said.
"Hold on."
When Pee Wee returned, his voice was subdued. "Gerry's in his office on the other line. He asked me to ask you if you had a conversation with a young lady on his cell phone."
"I most certainly did," Valentine said.
"Oh, man," Pee Wee said. "Why'd you give Yolanda those phone numbers?"
"Because he deserved it."
"Hold on."
"Pop, you're killing me," Gerry said moments later, barely able to control his anger. "I've got this crazy bitch on the other line who wants to castrate me on account of something you said. What the hell's wrong now? I thought we had a truce."
When did one conversation constitute a truce? His son was going to have to grovel a lot more before things would ever be right between them. Feeling something inside him snap, Valentine lost control of himself.
"Son of mine, you are one useless piece of garbage. What a mistake I made thinking you had changed. You know that crazy ad you helped Mabel write? Well guess what, meatbalclass="underline" She got arrested for mail fraud. She's sitting in a holding cell down in Clearwater not knowing where to turn."
"Mabel got arrested?" Gerry said. "Geeze, that's too bad."
Too bad? He lost it. "Let me tell you what's too bad. Too bad is when I call the police and have them close you down. Too bad is when I stop bailing you out every time you land in jail."
"Pop, stop it," Gerry said, the edge leaving his voice. "I was just trying to have fun with the old bird. She's a little off in the head, you know? I mean, she's wasting her money running those ads, thinking people care. She gave me a business card. Mabel, Queen of Spoofs. I mean, come on."
"People do care," Valentine bellowed at him. "I care! Just because she's retired doesn't mean she can't make a statement. You think Mabel no longer matters? Well, let me tell you something: She matters plenty. She's decent and strong and God-fearing and likes to make people laugh. I can't remember the last time you embraced any of those things, Gerry."
"Stop it, Pop."
"You hurt my friend, you little shit."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."
"You've run out of sorrys."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I want you to fix the problem."
"What are you talking about?"
Valentine glanced at his watch. It was nine p.m. East Coast time and probably too late for his son to catch a plane. He hated the thought of Mabel spending the night in jail, but he saw no other solution. He said, "I want you to fly down to Clearwater tomorrow and bail Mabel out of jail. Then the two of you need to get out of town. Go on a cruise or something. I'll pick up the tab."
"What?" his son said, growing belligerent. "Why don't you help her? She's your friend."
"Because you messed up her life," Valentine barked. "It's called cause and effect. You make a mess, you clean it up. That's the way the world works. Irresponsible little pricks like you are what throws everything out of whack."
"That's right," Gerry said, "blame me for the world's problems."
"You'd better do as I tell you."
"Or what?"
The words left his mouth before he had a chance to catch them. "Or I'll never talk to you for as long as I live."
Gerry coughed. "You mean that?"
Valentine cleared his throat. He'd stepped over the imaginary line that he and Gerry had drawn in the sand a long time ago. They'd been sparring since his son was a teenager-over twenty years-and they'd always remained somewhat civil, until now.
"Yeah," Valentine replied. "I do."
"Jesus Christ," Gerry said.
There was a long silence. Finally his son spoke.
"All right, Pop. You win."
Another silence. Again, it was his son who broke it.
"I'm on the next plane."
"You better be," his father replied.
Valentine was hanging up when there was a knock at his door. Through the peephole he spied Bill Higgins cradling a cardboard box in his arms. He ushered his friend into the suite.
"Wow," Higgins said. "This is some setup. Is Nick comping you?"
"Of course he's comping me," Valentine said.
"You know what they say," Higgins said. "There are a lot of free things in this town, only nobody can afford them." Taking the lid off the box, he dumped its contents onto the dining-room table. "I stopped by Longo's office and got the evidence. He asked me to bring everything back tomorrow, the case still being open."
Higgins pulled up a chair and together they sorted through the evidence. Valentine remained standing, still reeling from his conversation with Gerry. It would be just like his son not to come through. And that would be it, the end of the line. Somehow, he'd always imagined a reconciliation between them, the years of butting heads finally put to rest, the bond between them stronger than it had ever been. Deep down, that was what he had always wanted.
Higgins gave him a funny look. "You okay?"
"I've felt better," Valentine replied. "What have we got?"
"Usual crap. The wiretaps are worth listening to."
From the box Higgins removed a cassette tape and popped it into the tape player he'd brought with him. "We caught Fontaine leaving a message on Nola's answering machine. Call came from a joint called Brother's Lounge. What you're about to hear is Nola trying to call him back and having an acrimonious conversation with the bartender."
Higgins hit Play and they listened to an agitated Nola Briggs calling Brother's Lounge and asking the bartender for Fontaine.
"Sounds like Fontaine was harassing her," Valentine said.
"It does, doesn't it?" Higgins said.
"Anyone talk to the bartender?"
"Yeah. He says Fontaine was a regular until last week."
"You give him a polygraph?"
Higgins scratched the late-afternoon stubble on his chin. "No. But that's not a bad idea, come to think of it."
"Mind if I talk to him first?"
"Go ahead. Only you've got to share with me whatever he tells you."
"Share's my middle name," Valentine said.
"Good," Higgins said. "Then maybe you'd like to tell me what happened at Sherry Solomon's place earlier."
Valentine felt something catch in his throat. Sherry had called Longo and lodged a complaint, and Longo had called Higgins. The question was, who were the police going to believe, a snitch or an ex-cop?
"Nothing much," he lied. "Why?"
"She said you leaned on her. Is that true?"
"I was just poking around."
"Do it again, and Longo will bust you."
"Sorry."
They sorted through the rest of the tagged evidence. Most of it was junk, scraps of paper, scribbled phone messages, the usual bills. In the bottom of the box, Valentine found Nola's diary. He started reading. Every day had an entry, even if it was only a sentence long.
"Anyone study this?" he asked.
"One of Longo's detectives went through it," Higgins replied. "He found seven entries Nola wrote during her trip to Mexico. It's the same story she told us at the station."
"You're saying she's telling the truth."
"The evidence sure looks that way. You still think she's guilty?"
"I sure do," Valentine said.