Funny Money by James Swain Page A

and Valentine saw her run into the parking lot, then suddenly stop, looking in both directions. Had her ride gone and left her?
    Being old definitely had its advantages. For one, people were always underestimating his physical prowess, and Ann let out a scream when he grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her like a top. He started to shake her.
    â€œTell me where your partners are,” he said.
    â€œDo not . . . be stupid.”
    That got Valentine mad. She was the stupid one. Any other hustler would have left town. He started to reply, then felt something hard tap the back of his skull.
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    He awoke on an icy metal floor, his wrists handcuffed to an exposed hot water pipe. Voices danced around him; three men and a woman. The cold floor was doing a number on his bowels, and he fought the urge to soil himself.
    He tried to make out the conversation but couldn't place the language. Not Turkish or Greek or Albanian but similar, from that part of the world. He cracked an eye open, and got a look at the other two males who made up the gang. Late thirties, gaunt, with sallow complexions, their faces without humor.
    The room they had brought him to was filled with litter. Mostly beer cans but also shattered crack pipes, and he guessed he was in an abandoned warehouse on the west side of town.
    Ann stood in the room's center. She'd changed into sweats and wore a Walkman around her neck. She came over and knelt beside him. Coming out of the earphones was Vivaldi's
The Four Seasons.
Her hand touched his brow.
    Valentine opened his eyes. “Hi.”
    The gang circled him. Taking out a penlight, the European shined the tiny beam into Valentine eyes. Then he said something reassuringly to Ann.
    â€œGood,” she said in English.
    Valentine rattled his handcuffs against the water pipe. “Would you mind undoing these? I'm not going anywhere.”
    â€œOnly if you'll tell me something,” the European said.
    â€œWhat's that?”
    â€œI want to know how you spotted me in the casino.” Then he added, “No one else has.”
    â€œThese first,” Valentine said.
    The European took out the keys and opened the cuffs. Pushing himself into a sitting position, Valentine leaned against the wall and watched the room spin.
    â€œOut with it,” the European said.
    â€œYou cut your own hair, don't you?”
    The European nodded. “We take turns.”
    â€œWell, it shows.”
    â€œYou're saying my hair gave me away?”
    â€œAfraid so.”
    â€œYour country is filled with strange-looking people. And so are your casinos. Why would I stand out?”
    Valentine tried to think of a delicate way to explain it. Some of the worst-dressed human beings could be found in American casinos. Only these people did not play at the five thousand dollar blackjack tables. They played keno and the quarter slot machines. The gamblers at the five-thousand-dollar tables wore Rolex watches and had hundred dollar haircuts. They had dough, and they flaunted it.
    Valentine said, “Well, it's like this. You look . . .”
    They were all staring at him.
    â€œPoor,” he said.
    The European winced. Valentine had hit a nerve.
    â€œYou haven't been in this country long, have you?”
    The European put his hand on Valentine's shoulder. “You are a clever man, and if we keep letting you talk, I'm sure you'll find out plenty about us. So, shut up.”
    â€œYou bet,” Valentine said.
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    They huddled on the other side of the room. Valentine used the break to take deep breaths and try and get his heart to slow down. An old martial arts trick that he'd never been any good at. He saw Ann break away from the group. She came over and knelt down beside him.
    â€œWill you please listen to me,” she said.
    â€œI'm listening.”
    â€œWe have played blackjack all over the world. Eventually, the casino figures out they