"Hi, Tony," Mabel said. "Well, I guess you didn't get my first message, because I'm still here in the pokey with a hooker with AIDS and some Mexican girl that stabbed her boyfriend to death."
Valentine bowed his head, his forehead touching the cold hospital wall. The captain of the Clearwater police had promised him he'd move Mabel into a decent cell. Wasn't a man's word worth anything anymore?
"The good news is, the judge looks like he's going to make a full recovery," she said. "Not that I wish the man harm, but he had no right to treat me the way he did. Anyway, he's not paralyzed or drooling, so I suppose my prayers were answered."
Mabel had prayed for the judge. Valentine found himself smiling in spite of everything.
"Well, I figure I can take another couple of days of this, and then I'm going to break out of here, ha-ha. Seriously, I'm starting to feel pretty bad. Food is just lousy and I can't sleep. I guess that's why they call it jail. Well, hope all is well with you. Good-bye, Tony, wherever you are."
A dial tone filled his ear. He glanced at his watch. Gerry would be in Florida soon and Mabel would be saved. He played the next message.
"Pop… it's me… Gerry. Listen-I've got trouble."
Valentine cupped his free hand over his ear. He could hardly hear his son, a jukebox in the background spitting out the Stones' "Honky Tonk Woman."
"The operator said you checked out, but when I called back and talked to Roxanne, she said you were still there. Anyway, I hope you get this, because there are two Mafia guys looking for me."
"Sweet Jesus," Valentine said into the phone.
"I went to the saloon to get some cash, and they were waiting for me," his son went on. "I asked them what they wanted, and they said this had to do with you. I threw a table at them and then hightailed it out the back, and I've been running ever since. These guys are acting like they want to kill me, Pop."
Valentine gripped the phone, his heart racing out of control.
"Anyway, I missed my flight. I'm sorry about Mabel, but I've got to watch out for my own rear end. I'm sure you understand. I'm going down to Atlantic City to hide out. I'll call you from there."
Valentine played the message again, this time listening to his son's voice. Gerry was scared. Valentine closed his eyes and said a prayer for his son's safety, then played the final message.
"Hey, Tony!" Nick shouted over the wail of sirens. "Get your butt over to my place. Somebody tried to burn my house down!"
The fire trucks were long gone by the time Valentine arrived at the smoldering palace that Nick called home. Muddy tire tracks crisscrossed the front lawn, the shrubbery trampled beyond recognition. He parked behind Nick's Caddy, got out of his car, and surveyed the damage. Whatever ugly charm the grounds had once was now gone.
A shroud of soot covered the portico and he wiped his feet on the mat before entering. Inside the foyer, he found Nick engaged in a heated discussion with a claims adjustor who was lamely trying to explain why State Farm wouldn't issue a check until the fire marshal had issued a report and ruled out arson.
"Of course it was arson," Nick bellowed at him. "She tried to burn the place down. Hoss and Tiny saw her. Didn't she, boys?"
The two gridiron stars sat at the phallic bar in the living room. Hoss sported a wounded hand, Tiny a line of scratches across his cheek. Both nodded, then stared shamefully at the floor.
"What more proof do you want?" Nick asked.
The claims adjuster glanced rudely at his watch. In an impatient voice, he said, "I meant deliberate arson, Mr. Nicocropolis. If the fire marshal concludes that it was Ms. Solomon who set the fire, your claim will fall under vandalism, which you're covered for. Until then, I can't do anything except put you up in a hotel."
"Put me up in a hotel? I own a hotel, nimrod!"
"Mr. Nicocropolis, just give me a little time, okay?"
"How much is a little?"
"Three, four days."
"That's a little?"
"To get a claim put through, yes."
"Aw, get out of my face," Nick said, dismissing him with a wave of the hand. To Valentine, he said, "Where the hell you been?"
The claims adjustor did not move. Slowly, almost mechanically, he removed his glasses and stuffed them in his shirt pocket, and Valentine got the feeling he was about to do something really stupid. He touched the man's arm.
"Don't," Valentine said under his breath.
The adjustor looked at him out of the corner of his eye, not knowing if Valentine was threatening him or offering advice.
"You work for him?" the adjustor asked.
"Part time."
"Too bad," he said. Then he walked out of the house.
Nick went to the bar and put his hands on Hoss's and Tiny's broad shoulders. There was not enough floor for the two men to stare at.
"How much am I paying each of you boys?" Nick asked them.
"Forty grand," Hoss said.
"The same," Tiny said.
"For what?"
Pulling an O'Doul's from the bar, Nick said, "Think about it," and then led Valentine down the hallway to the master suite. The house had suffered little damage, the blaze being isolated to Nick's chambers. The bedroom door had been splintered with a fire axe, and Nick kicked at it upon entering.
"Sherry went nuts when Hoss and Tiny tried to evict her," he explained. "Locked herself in my bedroom and started destroying my clothes. Real little-girl stuff. Then she came across an album I keep of all the broads I've known. It didn't sit too well."
Valentine canvassed the bedroom and found the album in a corner. It had been used to start the fire, the flame's path easy to trace. Up the curtains, across the ceiling, and down into Nick's dresser, the collection of sharkskin suits and silk shirts going up in one big nova. The flames had taken out the wall, which now offered a nice view of the bocci court in Nick's backyard.
The album was still warm. That the police hadn't tagged it as evidence spoke volumes. Valentine pulled away the cover and thumbed through dozens of melted glossies of Nick's lady friends posed in the buff. Several faces from the hotel popped up, startling him.
"You shot your girlfriends in the nude?" Valentine asked.
"Sure. With my memory being so lousy, I figured I'd better start keeping records."
"They didn't mind?"
"They love it."
"You're kidding me."
"They always want me to shoot their faces. That way, I'll know it was them later. Ha-ha."
"You're kidding me."
"You never took any pictures of your old lady naked?"
Valentine shook his head. If he'd ever tried to photograph Lois without her clothes on, she probably would have shot him.
"You shouldn't be screwing all these women on your staff."
"Oh, for the love of Christ," Nick said. "Don't start preaching to me, okay? Next you'll be telling me how to run my life. I don't want to hear it."
Valentine felt something inside of him snap. The claims adjustor was right: Too bad he had to work for this jerk. Removing his wallet, he extracted Nick's two thousand and threw it at him.
"What are you doing?"
"Quitting," Valentine said.
"What?!"
"You heard me."
"You can't run out on me now. I need you."
"You got yourself into this mess," Valentine said, "and you deserve whatever you get."
Nick's pug face hardened. He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and chewed on it furiously. "You having a bad day or something?"
"It's running neck and neck with yours."
Nick's expression changed. Misery was something he understood all too well. Scooping the money off the floor, he wiped it on his pants, then handed it back to Valentine.
"You win."
"Meaning what?" Valentine asked.
"Meaning I'm sorry."
Valentine put the money back into his wallet.
"I'm still leaving," he told his employer.
"But-"
"You hired me to finger Fontaine, and I did, and now it's time to go."
"But you haven't found Nola…"
Valentine shrugged. His son needed him more than Nola Briggs did, and so did Mabel, and they mattered more to him than all the tea in China. He'd started entertaining the thought of taking a cruise with them and found it oddly appealing.
"She'll turn up," Valentine said.
A tired look spread across Nick's face. His waterbed had not been touched by the flames, and he plopped down on the mattress. Streams of water shot up all around him, soaking the ceiling.
"That little bitch!" he roared.
Valentine got some towels from the bathroom and helped Nick dry off. By the time they were done, Nick was cracking jokes and reminiscing about an old flame who'd tried to run him over with her car. When it came to bad relationships, he had no equal, and Valentine couldn't help but like him, even though he liked practically nothing about him.
"Look," Nick said a few minutes later, residing on the heart-shaped couch, "how about we strike a deal?"
"What kind of deal?"
"If Fontaine is going to rip me off, he'll probably do it tonight-you told me so yourself."
"That's right."
"Without Sammy around, I'm vulnerable. Hang around and I'll pay you five grand."
"I've got to leave, Nick."
"I'm talking about a night's work."
"Sorry," Valentine said.
Nick chewed his unlit stogie, thinking. "You got a seat on a plane?"
Valentine hadn't thought that far ahead; he shook his head no. Pulling out his cell phone, Nick said, "A hundred bucks says you can't find one."
Using Nick's phone book, Valentine called the various airlines. The first plane out was tomorrow night. He'd forgotten that Las Vegas drew the crowds like no other city in the world.
"I lease a private jet," Nick told him. "You want it-it's yours."
"What's the catch?" Valentine said.
"They require twelve hours' notice."
Valentine looked at his watch. It was nearly three. If Nick's jet was the fastest way out of town, then he owed it to Gerry and Mabel to take it. Even if he was ready to pack it in.
Nick poked him in the arm. "So what do you say? Deal?"
"Okay," he mumbled.
Nick punched him in the biceps, sealing the agreement.
Walking through the hole in the wall in Nick's suite, they stood in the backyard and inspected the damage. By the pool, a statue of Michelangelo's David had been castrated with a blunt object. Finding the stone penis in the grass, Nick pocketed it.
"I think you ought to consider putting some special security measures into play at your casino tonight," Valentine said.
Nick eyed him. "What kind of measures?"
"Add more security but tell Wily not to let them on the floor until the casino is packed. That way they'll blend in."
"Okay," Nick said.
"You should also stagger your shifts in the surveillance control room," Valentine said. "Let the team that knocks off at midnight leave an hour early and replace them with fresh people."
"How come?"
"Most scams in casinos go down during shift changes. People are going home; others are coming in. It's easy to get distracted and not watch the monitors for a few minutes. Fontaine knows this."
"You've got this all figured out, haven't you?"
Valentine nodded solemnly. He knew exactly how Frank Fontaine thought-not that it had ever done him any good.
"What about Nola?" Nick said.
"Nick, she's as guilty as the day is long."
Nick winced, his face turning sour. "You're sure?"
"One hundred percent positive sure," Valentine said.
Nick took the stone penis out of his pocket and examined it. His face had a faraway look, the memory of her still haunting him. The penis seemed the perfect metaphor for the life he'd led. He took a running start before pitching it over the hedges.