Wild Card

Chapter 45

He drove away from the flophouse shaking his head. His old man thought the mafia was stealing free rooms. So much for the power of alcohol.

The storm had not let up. Sitting at a light, he listened to the oddly soothing sound of the windshield wipers beating back the rain. A car in his rearview mirror caught his eye. A white Ford Fairlane, idling a block behind him. As the light changed and he pulled away, so did the Fairlane. The image of Luther lying dead on the beach flashed through his mind. He drew his .38 and lay it across his lap.

The Fairlane followed him into the casino’s employee parking. The Pinto didn’t have much pep left in it, and he had to floor it to put any room between himself and the other car. He circled the lot and came to an open area. He slammed his foot on the break, and felt the rear wheels lock. As he turned the wheel, he released the brake, and the Pinto did a smooth one-eighty. He punched the gas, and headed straight toward the Fairlane. The driver of the Fairlane bailed, and hit his brakes hard. As the car came to a screeching stop, Valentine jumped out of the Pinto holding the .38 with both hands.

The Fairlane flashed its lights, and the driver’s window lowered. Valentine walked over to the vehicle. Sitting behind the wheel was Mike Hatch, a detective on the force, and a guy he’d known since grade school. Hatch was shaking in fear.

“Why are you following me?” Valentine asked.

“Who said I was following you?”

“I did.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“You’re a lousy liar. Out with it.”

“Banko’s orders,” Hatch said.

Valentine put his gun away, knowing he was screwed.

Banko’s office seemed unusually cold. Sitting in a chair that faced his superior’s desk, Valentine saw why: The window behind the desk was cracked open, and winter had invaded the room.

“You’re damn right I had you followed,” Banko said, standing behind his desk. Hatch stood against the wall, avoiding Valentine’s stare. “You’re an officer of the law. You start acting weird, its casts a bad light on the entire department.”

Weird. It was a better description than crazy, and Valentine felt himself relax. Picking up the pad on his desk, Banko read aloud. “Three mornings ago, you walked out of the station house with a prostitute, went to her car, and were seen handcuffing her. You drove with her to another prostitute’s apartment, where you spent —” He glanced at Hatch, and the detective held up three fingers “ — thirty minutes inside. You got to work around noon. Two days ago, you went to the Rainbow Arms, then went and visited a psychiatrist. Again, you got to work about noon. Today, you visited Nucky Balducci, then were seen taking a homeless man to a flop house.” Banko looked at the clock on his desk. It was nearly noon, and his eyes fell on Valentine’s face. “Your job is to police Resorts’ casino. How can you be doing that when you’re on the street?”

“I can explain,” Valentine said.

Banko dropped the pad, and leaned on the desk with his fists. “You can explain disobeying my orders? That’s not an explanation I care to hear. You’re acting weird, Tony, and I don’t like it one bit. It’s making me nervous.”

Valentine struggled for something intelligent to say. Banko pointed at the door, and Hatch walked out. “I’m suspending you, with pay,” Banko said when Hatch was gone. “I want you to see a shrink, and get these issues ironed out. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have let you return to the force so quickly after the shooting at the Rainbow Arms.”

“You think I’m crazy?”

“No, just someone who needs help.”

Banko went to the door, and held it open. Valentine pushed himself out of his chair, thinking of Vinny Acosta and the person behind the voice and all the other people in town who wanted him out of the way. They’d gotten their wish, and he realized he had no one to blame but himself.

That night, sitting on the couch in Valentine’s living room, Doyle tried to make light of what had happened. “It’s no big deal. You see a shrink, talk about how your mother had you in diapers until you were eighteen, and get a clean bill of health in a couple of weeks. People expect cops to have emotional problems. It comes with the territory.”

“You think I have emotional issues?”

“No, no. It’s just what people expect, that’s all.”

Doyle and Liddy had brought dinner over to cheer him up. Liddy’s famous Irish stew, mashed potatoes, mixed green salad, and vanilla ice cream. By the time they’d started eating dessert, Valentine had started feeling like his old self.

In the kitchen, Liddy and Lois were dividing up the leftovers; then it would be their turn to clean the dishes. Valentine glanced at his partner. The job affected everyone differently. For Doyle, it showed in his face. His boyish exuberance was still there, only now it was masked by flecks of gray hair and worry lines.