Wild Card

In the corner of his yard sat an ugly concrete bird bath. The previous owner had left it because it was too heavy to move. He stared at the spot in the ground where he’d buried the Prince’s address book, and, just a few nights ago, the surveillance tape from Resorts. The ground around the bird bath was undisturbed. He felt his heart beat return to normal, and turned back toward the house. He had to deal with this right now, or he had to walk away. There was simply no other choice.

He crossed the yard and saw Lois step onto the back porch.

“I want to know who did this to us,” she said.

“Nucky Balducci,” he replied.

Chapter 22

Every town in the state of New Jersey had at least one fancy restaurant that was run by the mob. Hoodlums had to eat somewhere.

The restaurant in Atlantic City which bore this distinction was called Lou Sonken’s. Although the cuisine was northern Italian, the interior resembled a French bordello, with naked statuary and red carpeted walls hung with paintings of plump nudes. No cop Valentine knew had ever eaten there.

He parked in a vacant lot across the street, then jogged over in the shadows, trying to avoid the valets, most of them were thugs just out of prison who needed work. He slipped inside the front door, and was spotted by the maitre d’, a weasel in an ill-fitting tux. As he tried to enter the restaurant, the maitre d’ blocked his way.

“I’m sorry, but we’re booked solid,” the maitre d’ said.

“Go back to your little stand,” Valentine said.

“But —”

“Or I’ll arrest you.”

The maitre d’ retreated, and Valentine walked down a foyer covered with photos of Lou Sonken shaking hands with every mafia kingpin who’d ever stepped foot in Atlantic City. Entering the restaurant, his eyes canvassed the dimly lit room. Nucky Balducci’s bald head popped up like a buoy in a sea of slime. He sat at a corner table, inhaling a plate of clam linguine. Luther sat beside him, gnawing on a pork chop. As Valentine approached, Luther rose up in his chair. Valentine put his hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder, and drove him into his seat.

“One word out of you, and I’ll cuff you,” Valentine said.

Luther’s mouth clamped shut. Nucky continued to twirl linguini on his fork. “Why don’t you pull up a chair, and join us,” the old gangster said.

Valentine borrowed a chair from a nearby table without asking the diners if they minded. As he sat down, his legs hit the table, disturbing the two men’s drinks. Luther reached out and stilled both glasses.

“How you been?” Nucky asked.

“Shitty.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Valentine took out his wallet, and dropped it on the table so his detective’s badge was showing. Nucky glanced at it.

“You here on business, huh?”

“You’re psychic.”

“Want something to eat?”

“No. Do you know my partner, Doyle Flanagan?”

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Doyle says he could stop all the break-ins and burglaries in this town by putting four guys in jail. Four guys do all the jobs.”

“No kidding,” Nucky said.

“Doyle says it’s easy to tell which burglar is which. One always drinks a beer and leaves the empty. Another’s into lady’s underwear. The third pisses on bathroom floors. I won’t tell you what the fourth does, too disgusting. Problem is, we never have enough evidence to put them away.”

Nucky put his fork down. “What does this have to do with me?”

The rest of the diners had started to file out of the restaurant. Valentine glanced up at the smokey mirror hanging behind Nucky’s shaved head. In its reflection, Lou Sonken and two big waiters stood in the doorway, waiting for Nucky to call them in. Valentine turned around in his chair. “Get back in your cages,” he told them.

Lou and his apes did not move.

“Do as he says,” Nucky ordered them.

The three men went away. Nucky leaned into the table and dropped his voice.

“Explain yourself, will you, Tony? The suspense is killing me.”

“My house got broken into this afternoon. The guy who did it wasn’t one of those four guys. And he was looking for something.”

“You think I know?”

“You run this town, don’t you?”

Nucky balled up his napkin and tossed it onto his bowel of unfinished pasta. “You’re not wearing a wire, are you?”

Valentine rose an inch out of his chair.

“Okay, calm down. Luther, take a powder, will you?”

The bodyguard excused himself from the table. When he was gone, Nucky explained the situation. “You’ve been seen around town with a couple of feds.”

“So?”

“People are getting nervous.”

“I’m helping the FBI find a guy who’s murdering hookers.”

“That’s the story everybody’s heard,” Nucky said.

“You don’t believe it?”

Nucky snorted contemptuously. “Who gives a shit about dead hookers? Take my advice. Stay away from those FBI guys. It’s making plenty of people nervous.”

“Did you order someone to break into my house?”

“No,” Nucky said.

“Then who did?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Tell me who they are, Nucky, or I’ll run you in.”

“You’ll do what?”

“You heard me.”