Funny Money by James Swain Page B

cannot beat us, and we are eighty-fived—”
    â€œEighty-sixed.”
    â€œThank you. So we go elsewhere. Monte Carlo, Nassau, San Juan. A month here, a month there. It is always the same.”
    â€œI'm not reading you,” he said.
    â€œEventually, we are barred,” she explained. “The casinos figure out they cannot win and throw us out.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œThe Bombay was different. We played and won and kept playing. Each night we wondered, ‘When will it end? When will the house make us leave?' It was too good to be true.”
    â€œYou're saying The Bombay
let
you cheat them?”
    â€œYes.”
    Valentine had heard a lot of ridiculous alibis over the years, but this took the cake.
    â€œWow,” was all he could think to say.
    She stormed out of the room. The other three came over, and the European knelt down. From his leather jacket he removed a familiar-looking Glock and stuck the barrel against Valentine's cheek. Valentine pressed his knees together. He was seconds away from peeing on himself.
    â€œI would kill you, only Ann would never speak to me again,” the European said. “So go back to wherever you live and enjoy your golden years. Understand?”
    â€œYes,” Valentine said.
    The European tossed the Glock over his shoulder. One of his partners caught it. Then he handcuffed Valentine back to the water pipe, and the three men left the room.

15
    RDX
    T hey left him with a long piece of string with a handcuff key tied to the other end. Valentine took his time pulling the string in and freeing himself, not inclined to run after them. Getting KO'd was no fun, especially at his age. He'd feel the effect for days, maybe longer.
    The cold had seeped into his bones. Rising, he took a piss in the corner, then walked around the room. Stopping at a window, he stared at a white van sitting at a traffic light a block away. It was the same van he'd seen outside the IHOP, a real junker. It didn't make sense. They'd stolen six million bucks, why not get a decent set of wheels?
    He found the stairwell and descended cautiously, clutching the railing for dear life. A rat ran past, brushing his ankle. Kicking down a splintered door, he stepped into a backyard strewn with bottles and cast-off tire rims. The building next door looked familiar and he peered over the fence. Two blocks away, he saw the Chatterbox's neon sign. He hopscotched his way to the sidewalk, then started walking.
    The temperature had dropped, his breath as white as freshly fallen snow. At the corner, a woman stepped out of the shadows. It was the hooker from the Chatterbox. She parted her jacket and he saw that she'd stripped down to the red underwear she'd so kindly shown him earlier.
    â€œScram,” he said.
    The Chatterbox was closed. He banged on the front door anyway. The bartender came to his rescue, microwaving him a cup of coffee and giving him an ice pack. Fifteen minutes later he climbed into the Mercedes. He had the key in the ignition when he heard a voice inside his head.
    Never let your guard down.
    Yun had said that to him a hundred times the year he'd gone undefeated. He got out, dug a newspaper out of a trash bin, and spread it on the macadam. Then he looked under the car.
    â€œJesus Christ,” he said.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    Davis arrived with the Atlantic City bomb squad.
    He'd taken Valentine's advice and ditched the Chevy for an immaculate '74 Thunderbird. Driving it, he didn't look like a cop anymore, a fact he seemed to appreciate as much as anyone.
    â€œShe's my baby,” he said. “Bought her secondhand when I got out of high school. Put a new engine in, refurbished the interior. The whole nine yards.”
    He'd brought two cups of police house coffee. Valentine found himself liking the detective again. Sitting in the Thunderbird, they watched the bomb squad defuse the explosive device taped to Valentine's starter and drop it in a bucket