And frugal, she'd say.
That, too.
I bet it saves us, what, fifty cents a month on coffee beans, she'd say. Maybe more.
It's all I want, he'd say. Why fix more?
You make being wasteful sound like a crime, she'd say, spooning sugar into his cup, a smile on her face.
Maybe it is, he'd reply.
He sat at the kitchen table and sipped the scalding brew. Coffee just didn't taste right if it didn't take the skin off the roof of his mouth. The phone had rung earlier and he stared at the blinking answering machine. One of the great things about being retired was not having to call people back if you didn't want to. And right now, he didn't want to.
He glanced at his watch. Nearly dinnertime. Yet what he felt like eating was a big breakfast. The diner on Alternate 19 served a good one, twenty-four hours a day, but he didn't like sitting at the counter alone, looking old and pitiful.
Mabel materialized on his back stoop. He unlocked the door and she strolled in wearing canary yellow slacks and a flowered shirt right out of an old Sears catalogue. Because of the heat, she changed clothes several times a day, each outfit more garish than the last.
"I'm going grocery shopping and thought you might need a few things." Opening the refrigerator, she peered at the vacant shelves. "How about some Italian bread to go with your lasagna? Publix has a wonderful bakery."
Trying to put mom-and-pop delis out of business, the local supermarket now sold fresh bread and rolls. They almost tasted like the real thing, so he said, "Sounds great. Want a hot drink?"
"Tea, if you have it."
He put the kettle on, then extracted a ten from his wallet and slipped it into Mabel's shirt pocket.
"What's that for?" she asked.
"Gas money. How was your afternoon?"
"I watched the ball game. The Devil Rays won. It was so exciting."
Among the locals, it was a source of constant amazement that Tampa Bay's new baseball team was capable of winning a single game. Every time they did, it made the front page of both newspapers, with new heroes being christened every day. Valentine found the whole thing very perplexing. He'd grown up bowing to the Yankees, who were expected not to lose.
"I also worked on a new ad," she said. "Want to see it?"
"I'd be flattered," he said.
She produced a square of paper with borders and fancy type, the proud product of a home PC. Old? Tired? Forgotten? Has retirement got you singing the blues? Want to get even with your kids? And all those pesky credit card companies? Enroll today in Grandma Mabel's school of financial insolvency. You too can live like a millionaire. Remember: Dying broke is the best revenge!
"It's different," he said, sliding the ad back.
"You don't like it."
"It doesn't tickle my funny bone. It's…"
"Come on-I can take it."
"I don't know. A little extreme."
"Jokes are supposed to be extreme." Her mind was made up, and she tucked the ad away. "It's going to cost more to run, but Social Security is sending me two hundred extra a month, so it won't be a stretch."
"Then go for it," Valentine told her.
"So what did you do this afternoon?"
"Believe it or not," he said, "I watched the tape I showed you earlier today."
"Still got you stumped?"
The kettle was singing. Valentine fixed Mabel's tea, spooning in a half-teaspoon of honey, and served his neighbor.
"Right now, I've got two theories," he replied, sitting down again. "The first says the guy's reading the dealer's body language each time she peeks at her hole card. In those situations, his winning percentage is unbelievably high."
"Really?" Mabel sounded amused. She sipped her tea. "What does she do-stick her tongue out each time she has blackjack?"
"It's a little more subtle than that."
"Try me."
"Well, there are two types of dealers: those who want you to win and those who don't. If a player can peg which type of dealer he's got, he has an advantage."
"You're losing me. Why do certain dealers want you to win and others not? Why should the dealer care?"
"Tips," he explained. "The ones who want you to win expect a tip when the night is over. The ones who don't are usually so jaded that no amount of money will make them happy. They want the players to lose because it makes them feel good."
"And the dealers give their feelings away by their body language?"
Valentine sipped his coffee and nodded. "They're called tells. Poker players use them all the time. I've never seen them used at blackjack, but there's always a first time."
"He'd have to be very good, wouldn't he?"
"Damn good."
"What's your second theory?"
"The girl is signaling him."
"How?"
"I have no earthly idea."
"How can that be a theory if you don't know how it's being done?"
"Because it's logical," he explained. "Experience says lean toward the simplest theory. Maybe she's doing it with her eyes or her lips or the way she flares her nostrils. I'd have to see her in person to know for sure."
"So the girl's guilty?"
"It's a distinct possibility."
Mabel put her cup down, her eyes fixed on the blinking answering machine. Valentine fidgeted uncomfortably.
"Not to change the subject," she said, "but have you spoken to Gerry lately?"
"He called over the weekend," he mumbled.
"Did you have a conversation, or did he have to leave a message on that horrible machine?"
If Mabel had a flaw, it was her unwillingness to let sleeping dogs lie. Six months before, he'd lent his son fifty thousand dollars to buy a bar in Brooklyn, New York. His son had been in and out of trouble over the years, and Valentine had always begrudgingly bailed him out. The bar, Gerry had promised him, would be a new beginning. So when Valentine had gone to visit a few weeks ago, he'd been shocked to find Gerry sitting at a desk in the back room, running a bookmaking operation. "You're early," his son had quipped, a phone pressed to his ear. Removing his belt, Valentine had whipped his son's butt good-and had not talked to him since.
"What's so horrible about my machine?" he asked.
"You need to change the message."
"I like the message. It's me."
"Are you going to answer the question or not?"
"You know," he said, "when you talk like that, you sound just like my dearly departed wife."
"I'm sorry. Would you please answer the question?"
"I was out in the backyard."
"Did you call him back?"
"I haven't gotten around to it."
"Tony, I'm ashamed of you."
"That makes two of us."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"I'm ashamed I dislike my son as much as I do."
"Then why won't you call him?"
"He's not worth it," he said, ending the conversation.
Valentine escorted Mabel down the front path to her car, an old Honda Accord with a vanity plate that said spoofs. She got in, and as he closed the door for her, she said, "At least listen to your machine."
"All right, all right," he said.
"And call your son."
"No," he said as she drove away.
Going inside the house, Valentine hit the Play button on his answering machine.
"Hey, Tony-Wily here at the Acropolis. Love the message. I've got a big problem, buddy, and I need your help."
Valentine winced. He hated it when total strangers called him buddy. Pal was acceptable; Hey, friend, okay; Yo, chief, borderline; but never buddy.
"Believe it or not," the pit boss went on, "the guy on the tape showed up again. He started beating us, so we tossed him. Our head of surveillance watched the tape and decided our dealer was signaling him. We had her arrested this afternoon. We showed the tapes to Gaming Control, and they're not convinced. They think we should drop charges." The pit boss coughed nervously. "It's a real fucking mess. I'd like you to fly out here and have a look. I know this is spur of the moment, but my ass is on the line."