Wild Card

Valentine felt his body melt into the cushions. The meal was taking its time settling in his stomach. The phone rang. Upstairs, he heard Gerry bound down the hall to answer it. “Hey Pop it’s for you,” his son called out.

He glanced at his watch. A quarter of ten. No one called this late except pesky salesmen. He pushed himself off the couch, went to the head of the stairs.

“Tell whoever it is to call back,” he said.

Gerry appeared at the head of the stairs. He’d stopped sleeping in his PJs a few weeks ago, and wore his skivvies. “It’s Mrs. Mink. She wants to talk to you.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No, but she sounds upset. I just think she’s crying.”

Valentine glance at Doyle, and saw his partner bounce off the couch. “I’ll take it in the kitchen,” he told his son.

In the kitchen he found Liddy and Lois standing at the counter, popping lids on Tupperware containers. The phone hung from the wall, and had a long extension cord. Picking it up, he heard Gerry hang up, then said, “Gloria, this is Tony. Is everything okay?”

Gloria Mink sobbed into phone. “No!”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s got a gun.”

“Who’s got a gun?”

Lois and Liddy’s heads snapped.

“My husband,” Gloria said, her voice cracking. “He started drinking whiskey this afternoon. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. Then he started breaking dishes and pictures and other things. Then he went and got the gun.”

“Where is he now?”

“In his study. He told me to leave the house. He’s going to hurt himself. He blames himself for what happened. Please help me. Please.”

“Did you call 911?”

“No.”

“Gloria —”

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “Please come over and talk to him. You’re the only one who will understand. Please, Tony. Before he shoots himself.”

The Minks lived on the south end in a split-level ranch house. The area had an unusual reputation; it was predominantly lower income, yet had consistently produced the island’s best athletes. Gloria was at the door when they arrived, and had pulled herself together. As they went in, she grabbed Valentine’s sleeve and looked into his eyes.

“I tried,” she whispered.

At the funeral Valentine remembered thinking how the loss of her son had robbed her of her beauty. Now, something else was being taken away.

“Where is he?”

“In the study. Please bring him back.”

“I’ll try,” Valentine said.

Doyle remained with Gloria in the living room while Valentine crossed the house. He’d been to the Mink’s house several times for Sunday afternoon football parties, and remembered the study being right off the kitchen, the rooms separated by a swinging wooden door. He found the door, and tapped on it with his knuckles.

“Go away,” a voice said drunkenly from the other side.

“It’s Tony Valentine. Can I come in?”

“Get out of my god damn house,” Mink shouted through the door.

Valentine decided to take a chance, and pushed the door open with his toe, and stuck his head through. Mink sat behind a desk on the other side of the room, and looked drunker than a sailor on a Saturday night.

“Hey, buddy,” Valentine said.

“Don’t buddy me,” Mink snapped.

“You mad at me?”

“Go away. Now.”

“Come on. Let me in.”

Mink grunted drunkenly. Valentine took it as a yes, and entered the study. He saw Mink put his hands onto the desk, and ball them into fists. Both of his hands were caked in dried blood. An empty whiskey bottle sat on the blotter; beside it, an automatic pistol. Valentine held his palms out so Mink could see he was not carrying a weapon.

“I need to talk to you,” Valentine said.

“Really? And for the past few months, I thought you were avoiding me.”

“Can I sit down?”

“Go ahead.”

Valentine took a chair from the wall and pulled it up to the desk. Next to the chair were the display cases Mink had built to house Marcus’s impressive collection of football trophies. Mink had smashed the glass in each case.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Valentine said.

“You said that at the funeral. Do you have any idea why my son is dead?”

Mink’s head sagged forward, and he looked like he might pass out. Valentine reached across the desk, took the revolver, and placed it on the floor between his feet. Mink stared at the spot where the revolver had been.

“No. Why don’t you tell me?”

Mink continued to stare at the spot. “Marcus knew,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“A few weeks ago, I told Gloria what really happened at the Rainbow Arms that night. Marcus was supposed to be at basketball practice, but he came home early, and overhead us talking. My son knew I was dirty. Do you know what that means?”

Valentine swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “No.”

“I had no traction with the boy. I couldn’t control him.”

“What did Marcus hear?”

Mink banged his blood-stained hand on the desk. “That his father went along for the ride. That his father wanted to be one of the boys. That his father was weak.”

“Is that what happened?”

Mink took a deep breath and nodded.