Wild Card

“A girl I know had a strange thing happen last night,” Mona said. “She picked up a john at the casino. They got into his car, and he was driving her to a motel. The next thing my friend knows, she’s lying on the sidewalk, staring at the stars.”

“She black out?”

“She thinks he knocked her out. She thinks it was the Dresser.”

Valentine turned sideways in his seat. “Did she get a good look at him?”

“Yeah. He was maybe forty, about five-eight, a hundred and sixty, round face.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“She said the john acted like he was sick, asked her to remove his medicine from the glove compartment. Everything after that is a blank.”

“I want to talk to her.”

Mona shook her head.

“Why not?” he said.

“My friend violated her parole. She’s afraid you’ll run her in.”

“Mona, please. Even if its just over the phone. I need to interview her. Who knows what I’ll draw out of her. Maybe she saw the guy’s license plate, and doesn’t remember it.”

“No fucking way, so stop begging.”

“But —”

“She told me everything she remembered, so just listen. The guy combed his hair down, and it made him look different from the guy in the flyer. He wore nice clothes and was a smooth talker. My friend said he smelled like he’d just taken a shower.”

“What about the car?”

“Four-door, white, made in Detroit, maybe six or seven years old. She’s not big on makes. There was one really weird thing. When she opened the glove compartment to get his medicine, she saw this fake finger. It was hollow and made of flesh-colored plastic.”

“Was there something wrong with his hand?”

“She was going to look. The next thing she knew, she was lying in the gutter.”

Valentine digested what Mona had told him. Her hooker friend had seen a lot; his intuition told him there was more. He needed to talk to her friend right now, before the memory faded. He gave Mona a hard look. He liked her, but was ready to sacrifice that friendship if it meant finding a clue that would help catch their killer. Reaching behind his belt, he removed his handcuffs. Then he grabbed Mona by the wrist, and slapped the cuff on. Her painted face turned to horror.

“What are you doing?” she said angrily.

“Take me to your friend, Mona.”

“You can’t just cuff me,” she howled belligerently. “I have rights!”

“I can’t?”

“No, you fucking weasel.”

Valentine grabbed her purse off the seat, and turned it upside down. The usual women’s stuff fell into a heap on his lap. He sifted through it, found a tiny vial of white powder which he assumed was cocaine, and held it inches beneath her nose.

“Do you want me to arrest you?”

Mona drew back in her seat, her ringed eyes filled with tears. “I came here to help you,” she said indignantly.

“Just do as I say,” Valentine said. Then added, “Right now.”

Chapter 34

Mona calmed down during the drive to her friend’s place. She’d been turning tricks for twenty years, and understood the strange dance hookers and cops did in Atlantic City. The hookers hated the cops, but understood that they needed them when johns got rough.

Mona’s friend lived on the ground floor of a depressed apartment building on the south end of the island. Garbage everywhere, the windows barred. Since Resorts had opened its doors, there had been a revitalization in Atlantic City, but it had taken place strictly around the casino: Fresh pavement, new sidewalks, plenty of streetlights, everything spit-shine clean. On the south end of the island where people actually lived, everything was still the same.

Valentine recognized Mona’s friend the moment the front door opened. It was Sissy, the Queen of Visine. Sissy’s speciality was to mickey a john’s drink with Visine, then steal his money when he ran to the bathroom with his ass on fire. He’d busted her several times.

Seeing him at the door, Sissy said, “Oh, Jesus.”

She backed into the apartment, and they followed her in. She wore tight blue jeans, and a tee shirt that said, I’M FROM PITTSBURGH, A DRINKING TOWN WITH A FOOTBALL PROBLEM, and had a strung-out look in her eyes.

“I guess you wanna talk,” she said.

“That’s right,” Valentine replied.

Sissy led them down a hall to the kitchen. A hooker’s life could be summed up by the apartment’s empty rooms, and the grease-stained pizza box on the kitchen table. A radio was playing the Bee Gee’s How Deep is Your Love? Valentine lowered the volume, then pointed at the kitchen table’s two chairs.

“Take a load off your feet,” he said. “Both of you.”

The two women sat down at the table. Sissy emitted a little gasp and started to shake. She picked up a pack of Kools, and fumbled trying to light one. Mona reached out and steadied her hand.

“Tell me about the fake finger,” Valentine said.

“You going to throw me back in jail?” Sissy asked.

“Depends if you cooperate. You realize this guy is a killer.”

“Yeah. I’m one of the lucky ones, huh?”

“You sure are,” he said.

“Think I should go play a slot machine?”

“Slots are for suckers. Now tell me about him.”