“That would be my guess.”
“And Crowe and Brown were on their payroll.”
Valentine glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway. The doctors and nurses wore rubber sole shoes, and he didn’t want anyone walking in, and hearing what he was about to say. “This is what I think happened. One the Prince’s girls slept with a mobster, got her hands on the address book, and gave it to the Prince. When the Prince wouldn’t give it back, Crowe and Brown were sent to get it.”
“How were Mink and Freed involved?”
“I think they’re also dirty. We responded to the call in two minutes, and they were already there with their vests on.”
Drops of rain appeared on the window beside Doyle’s bed. His partner stared at them for a long moment, then replied. “How is the mob stealing a million bucks a day?”
Valentine had turned that one inside out. To steal that much money, the mafia would have to be putting their hands in the till. Out in Nevada, that stuff still went on, but this wasn’t Nevada. The New Jersey Casino Control Act required the presence of state agents in the casino’s “count” room at all times, making skimming out of the question.
“I wish I knew,” Valentine said.
Doyle said, “I think we should ask Banko to start an investigation.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Those guys were dirty.”
Outside it had started to storm, and they listened to the wind howl off the Atlantic Ocean. By tomorrow morning, several hundred tons of sand would have moved from one end of the island to the other.
“We don’t have any proof,” Valentine said.
“Investigations have been started with less.”
“We’re talking about three dead cops.”
“So what?”
Doyle hadn’t attended the memorial service for Crowe, Brown and Freed at St. Michael’s. Valentine had been there, packed into the church along with four hundred cops from around the state. Governor Brendan Byrne had given the eulogy, and made it clear how he viewed the three detectives’ passing. “Let it be known, that I know of no braver crime-fighters than these three men,’ Byrne had told the packed cathedral.
“They’re heroes,” Valentine said. “We can’t smear their names without proof.”
Doyle fell silent and resumed staring out the window. Valentine could tell his partner was wrestling with his conscience. Doyle went to Mass every Sunday, had a brother who was a priest. He believed that God watched over him, every day.
“So you want to sit on the address book,” his partner said.
“For now. We need to dig up more evidence to make our case, and tie everything together. Then we’ll go to Banko.”
His partner thought about it some more.
“Okay,” he finally said.
Valentine put his chair against the wall. Lois was at home, holding dinner until he arrived. They tried to eat together whenever they could. He tapped Doyle on the arm.
“I’ll come around tomorrow. Maybe we can get Hilda to smile.”
“You really think working in Resorts won’t suck?”
He didn’t know if policing a casino would suck or not. But it would be better than sitting at a desk sharpening pencils, which was where they were headed if they refused the assignment. His late mother liked to say that life sometimes dealt you bad cards. How you played them was up to you.
“Like I told you. We’ll make it fun,” Valentine said.
Chapter 4
Israel “Izzie” Hirsch had a problem.
Izzie was the captain of a team of card hustlers. As the captain, he maintained the bankroll, scouted out strong games, and after their work was done, cooled out the suckers. Those were his duties, and he did them well.
Izzie’s problem was a woman named Betty Horn. Izzie was not handsome, and women had never been receptive to his advances. Then Betty had come along. She was about forty, and not hard on the eyes. Izzie had picked her up one night in a sleazy bar. Betty was just out of prison for kiting checks, and needed to make some money.
Normally, women didn’t get involved with cheaters. Not even bad women. But Betty was different. She loved to hear Izzie tell road stories, and watch him manipulate playing cards and switch dice. She loved Izzie, or so she said.
Izzie didn’t see the problem, but the other members of the team did. Their names were Josh and Seymour, and they were Izzie’s brothers. Seeing Izzie swoon whenever Betty was around, the brothers knew they had a disaster on their hands. They had tried to talk to Izzie, but getting through to a man who was getting laid wasn’t easy. In the end, they decided to go along with their older brother. It was a decision they’d later regret.
The poker game they had decided to fleece was played in the back room of a bar in Nyack, New York. Each month, five traveling salesman got together and gambled away their commission checks. Izzie, posing as a greeting card salesman, had gotten himself invited to the game, then convinced the others to invite Josh.
For the first two hours of the game, nothing happened. First one player was ahead, then another. At the halfway point they decided to take a break, and Josh offered to get sandwiches from the all-night deli across the street. Taking everyone’s order, he headed outside. The Hirsch’s car was parked across the street. Josh slipped into the passenger seat. Seymour was at the wheel, while Betty sat in the back, smoking a cigarette.
“How’s it looking?” Seymour asked.
“They’re a bunch of real chumps,” Josh said. “They’re using two decks. Red Bicycles, and a deck of blue Squeezers.”
Seymour opened a briefcase sitting on seat. Inside were a hundred decks of playing cards. The brothers worked poker games from the Catskills to New York City, and had collected every deck of cards sold in those markets, including promotional and souvenir decks. Seymour removed a deck of red Bicycles and blue Squeezers, and handed them to his brother. Josh stacked the decks so the players in the first and third spots would take the fall. Turning in his seat, he passed Betty the stacked decks and the sandwich order.
“Just so we’re straight, which pocket of your apron are the decks are going in?”
“You think I’m going to screw up?” Her tone was nasty.
“Just tell me.”
“Red deck in my left pocket, blue deck in my right. Happy now?”
Betty gave him a wink. Josh hated when she flirted with him. He got out of the car, and slammed the door.
Josh returned to a table of roaring men. Izzie was telling jokes. They had grown up in the Catskill Mountains, and Izzie had learned from the best. Josh clenched his right hand into a fist, signaling to his brother that the scam was on.
“Oh man, that was rich,” a lightbulb salesman named Hicks said. “Tell us another.”
“Okay,” Izzie said. “An Iranian living in the United States goes to the doctor, says he doesn’t feel well. The doctor examines him and says, ‘I want you to go home, shit in a paper bag, and leave it out in the hot sun for a week. Then I want you to stick your head in the bag, and take a deep breath. I guarantee you’ll feel better. The Iranian comes back a week later, tells the doctor he feels great. Then he says, ‘But doctor, what was wrong with me?’ And the doctor says, ‘You were homesick.’”
The five salesmen slapped the card table and roared some more.
“I think we should bomb Iran,” Hicks suddenly said.
“Nuke ‘em,” another of the salesmen piped in.
One hundred and twenty-eight Americans were being held hostage in the U.S. embassy in Tehran, and sentiments were running high toward retaliation.
The room grew quiet. Betty stood in the doorway holding a cardboard tray with their sandwiches. She wore tight-fitting jeans, an I LOVE NY sweatshirt, and had a cook’s apron tied around her waist. Even in those drab clothes she was a looker.