Funny Money by James Swain

his watch. Eleven-eighteen.
    Two minutes later, the European's accomplice entered the bar, her wool cap flecked with snow. She stopped and ordered a draft beer, then came to the booth and slid onto the other seat.
    â€œHello,” she said.
    Close up, she was even prettier than he'd expected. But what struck him was her smell. She smelled of cigarettes, or more precisely, a few thousand cigarettes, her teeth stained from years of abuse. She removed her cap and shook it out on the floor.
    Valentine kept looking at the two exits, waiting for one of her partners to come in.
    â€œI'm alone,” she informed him.
    â€œYou got a name?”
    â€œAnn.”
    â€œWhat do you want, Ann?”
    â€œAre you always so . . . direct?”
    Only with thieves,
he nearly said. “Yes.”
    Ann pulled a square of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and slid it across the table. His eyes scanned the page.

    Wanted!!!

    For the murder of Doyle Flanagan and stealing money from The Bombay. If you see either of these individuals inside the casino, alert a pit boss or security immediately. These people are armed and extremely dangerous.

    Do Not Attempt To Apprehend
    These Individuals!!!!!!

    Beneath the screaming type was Ann's picture, lifted off a surveillance tape, another of her partner. Not good shots, but she was so pretty, it would be easy to spot her. He slid the flyer back.
    â€œLet me guess,” he said. “You didn't do it.”
    She took a long swallow of beer. It left a wet mustache on her face that she did not seem to notice.
    â€œNew Jersey has the death penalty, you know.”
    â€œWe are not murderers,”
she said. “Your friend was involved in something else.”
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œIt is the only logical explanation. We are being turned into—what is the expression?”
    â€œFall guys,” he said.
    â€œYes,” she said. “Fall guys.”
    â€œBut you
are
ripping off The Bombay.”
    â€œRipping off?”
    â€œStealing.”
    â€œYes, yes, we are doing that. But we did not kill your friend. We would never do such a thing. You must believe me when I say this.”
    Valentine drank his soda. He got the feeling Ann was being sincere, which could only mean one thing. Her partners had planted the bomb in Doyle's car without telling her.
    â€œWhy should I?” he said.
    She took another swallow of beer. “The Bombay hired you to investigate Doyle Flanagan's murder, yes?”
    â€œThat's right.”
    â€œAnd you are an ex-policeman.”
    â€œRight again.”
    â€œYou have an open mind, yes?”
    Valentine shook his head. She didn't understand, so he spelled it out for her. “Doyle Flanagan was my partner
and
my best friend. Did your sources tell you that?”
    Ann leaned over the table.
“The night your partner was murdered, we were playing blackjack at The Bombay.”
    â€œProve it.”
    She killed the beer and her cheeks grew flushed. “As you are probably aware, we play at tables which are not being monitored by surveillance cameras.”
    â€œSo there's no film,” Valentine said.
    â€œNo. But a member of our team did cash in our winnings—”
    â€œâ€”and since the cage is always being filmed,” Valentine finished, “your partner would be on tape.”
    She slapped her hands on the table. “Exactly!”
    â€œHoney, all that tells me is that
one of you
was in The Bombay that night.”
    The Chatterbox's front door banged open. A dozen uniformed men stormed in, bringing an arctic wave of cold air with them. They ripped off their fireman's jackets and bellied up to the bar, loudly ordering pitchers of beer.
    Ann's eyes went wide. Seconds later she was out of the booth and beating a path toward the back door. Wearing his soda, Valentine ran after her.
    â€œTry to keep it civil,” the bartender called out.
    Ann hit the back door like a truck. The door swung open,