Wild Card

The dead mackerel had started to melt, and he followed Nucky into the kitchen and tossed it into the rubbish. Nucky offered him a glass of lemonade. Valentine took a glass of water instead, and drank it in one long swallow. Then he put his hand on Nucky’s shoulder. The old gangster was pushing seventy and was still hard as a rock.

“Vinny Acosta is running things, isn’t he?” he said.

“That’s right,” Nucky said.

“Can’t have two bosses in town, can we?”

“I’d worry about your own problems, I was you.”

“Your problems and my problems are the same.”

Nucky was working on a pink lemonade. He held the glass to his lips and stared out the window onto his spacious back yard. There was a swimming pool and a bocce court and a big piece of cement from the old 500 Club that contained hand prints and signatures from all the famous celebrities who’d ever worked there. The club had been Atlantic City’s last good time until burning to the ground six years ago.

“You got something in mind?” Nucky asked.

“Yes.”

“Spit it out.”

“Tell me how Vinny Acosta is ripping off Resorts’ casino. I want to nail this son-of-a-bitch, and I think you do as well.”

Nucky put his glass down and laughed under his breath.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just because things go bad doesn’t mean I turn into a giant rat. I took an oath when I joined the mob. Sealed it in my blood. I’ll never go back on my word.”

“Then send me down the right path. Come on, Nucky. For both our sakes.”

Nucky poured the rest of his lemonade into the sink. “You want to talk to someone who knows about the scam? Go talk to your father.”

“My father?”

“That’s right. He knows what’s going on.”

“You told him?”

“He figured it out himself. He’s a smart guy, Tony. You need to make peace with him.”

Every time he got together with Nucky, his old man came up. The problems between them were none of Nucky’s business, not that he could convince Nucky of that. Upstairs, the stereo had gotten stuck on Elvis singing Don’t be Cruel, and so had Zelda, her voice husky and raw. Living with her had to be hell, yet it was obvious that Nucky loved her. It made Valentine think of his relationship with his father. Did he still love him? Somewhere, deep down in his soul, he imagined that he did.

They went to the foyer. The old gangster offered his hand, and Valentine shook it.

“I protected you for as long as I could,” Nucky said.

“Thank you. Say goodbye to Zelda for me.”

Nucky patted him on the shoulder and opened the door. Buttoning up his coat, Valentine ventured outside into the cold.

Chapter 44

Valentine drove until he found a gas station with a payphone, dropped a dime and called the surveillance control room at Resorts. Fossil answered, and Valentine asked him to find Doyle. Thirty seconds later, Doyle picked up the line.

“I’m out for the morning,” Valentine said. “Cover for me.”

“Sure thing. Something wrong?”

“I need to find my father, and have a talk.”

“Good luck,” his best friend said.

Valentine got back in the Pinto and drove north on Pacific Avenue. The island’s proximity to the ocean made it a magnet for storms, and a freezing rain began to pelt his windshield. The storm was intense, and soon water was flowing on the curbs. Fearful of stalling out, he straddled the double line.

The island had three flop houses, all situated on its north end. They were all the same: Unwashed men, many drunks or drug addicts or simply insane, slept on narrow cots in large, dormitory-style rooms. It was ugly, yet he’d come to understand the comfort the houses offered, the men having nowhere else to go.

By ten o’clock, he’d visited each of the flop houses, and come up empty. There were only so many places his father could be. Driving to the Boardwalk, he parked on the south end. The streets were deserted, the rain keeping everyone indoors. Getting out, he popped the trunk, and removed his police-issue rain slicker. He fitted the slicker on, then walked to the Boardwalk and headed north, the Resorts’ sign in the distance illuminating the otherwise dreary day.

Chained pushcarts sat outside the casino’s back doors. Valentine stuck his head into each one. In the last, an old man was snoring beneath a blanket. Lifting the blanket, Valentine found his father sleeping soundly with an empty bottle of Old Grand Dad cradled in his arms. He remembered taking a sip as a kid. It had been like licking a six-volt battery.

“Hey, Pop,” he said.

His father didn’t respond. Valentine took the bottle away, then pulled him out of the pushcart. His father didn’t weigh much anymore, and Valentine threw him over his shoulder like a fireman, and headed down the Boardwalk to his car. His father continued to snore, his sleeping undeterred.

He took his father to a flophouse named The Majesty. It was no better than the others, except the owner went to AA, and did not allow alcohol or bad language. He gave the owner ten bucks, then found an empty cot in the back of the room, and gently laid his father on it. There was a furnace here, and it was warm.