James Swain - Gift sense

"Did they say what they wanted?"

"Yeah. They wanted Gerry."

Being a bookie, his son did business with a nefarious group of people, and those two could easily have been customers or even runners for him. Or they could have been thugs sent by Sonny Fontana.

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them Gerry had gone to Florida for a few days, which is what he told me. They acted pissed off and left."

Valentine smiled into the phone.

"Thank you, Yolanda," he said.

Valentine hung up feeling even better about the world. Twenty years earlier, when Gerry had started giving him and Lois problems, they'd gone to a family counselor. What Valentine had learned about himself had been surprising. Adult children of alcoholics, of which he was one, fell into four categories. Some ran away from their problems; others became loners; others made jokes about it. The fourth category, into which he fell, tried to right the world's wrongs in the mistaken belief it will heal their own wounds. Children of these people, he'd learned, often feel neglected or ignored.

So he'd set aside time for Gerry and gotten to know him better. A few hours a week had narrowed the chasm between them. Baseball games, movies, sometimes a long walk on the beach. And although they fought constantly-and probably always would-in the end they'd always come to terms. It was a harsh kind of love, never easy, but what was easy in this world?

Which was why it elated Valentine to know that Gerry had kept his word and had gone to Florida to rescue Mabel.

At eight he went downstairs to try and patch things up with Roxanne. The casino was packed, and as he crossed the floor the drone of a hundred discarded conversations was shattered by the electronic buzzer of a jackpot being paid. As he passed the craps table, a stickman bellowed "Winner eleven!" and the table went wild.

Roxanne was running the front desk. She looked almost radiant, her long red hair tied back in a bun, revealing her perfectly symmetrical Irish face. Slapping his hands on the counter, he wondered how many hot-blooded guys walked into the casino and offered to chuck their jobs and whisk her away to a tropical island.

"Hey," he said, "think you could find it in yourself to give a smelly old guy like me a second chance?"

"Not on your life," she said stiffly. "Get lost."

He returned a minute later with a dozen white roses.

"You're sweet," she said, sniffing the flowers. "But it doesn't make up for not calling me."

"I was going to, but Nick moved in across the hall," he explained. "He grabbed me and I couldn't get away."

"You spent the night with that little prick?" She tossed the flowers at his head, missing by inches. "Goddamn you!"

He picked the flowers off the floor, wondering how he'd lasted so long without understanding the opposite sex. Meeting her gaze, he saw a scowl so mean that it nearly made him run.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'll make it up to you."

She had a customer. Out of the side of her mouth, she said, "I'm going to hold you to that, Tony. Why don't you make yourself useful until I go on my break."

"Sure. What do you want me to do?"

From her pocket, Roxanne removed five silver dollars and slid them across the counter. "Go play One-Armed Billy for me. I was in such a hurry this morning I forgot."

"You play that stupid thing?" he said without thinking.

"Every stupid day," she replied.

They met up twenty minutes later in Nick's Place, which had transformed itself from a sleepy hole-in-the-wall to a jumpin' speakeasy with a jazz band and cocktail waitresses in leotards and more customers than places to sit. Valentine pounced on the first available table and had two cups of coffee waiting when Roxanne came in. She'd let her hair down. She managed to snap around the head of every guy in the place as she crossed the room to join him.

"How'd you do?" she asked.

"Give me your hand," he said.

Roxanne obliged, and he placed three cherries, a slice of orange, and a wedge of lime into her palm.

"I put your money in the slot machine and that's what came out." He smiled and said, "I really did mean to call you."

She put the steaming coffee beneath her nose and sipped. "I fell asleep by the phone. I thought something horrible had happened to you."

Valentine squirmed in his chair. Wounding people he cared about was becoming a real specialty. He put his hand on the table and drummed it nervously with his fingers. He was pleasantly surprised when she placed her own atop his and gave his fingers a squeeze.

"Don't let it happen again," she said quietly.

"I won't."

They listened to the band play "New York, New York." It was one of those songs that could get him stirred up even if a trio of Shriners were blowing it on kazoos, and he hummed along. As the story went, Sinatra was going to name it "New Jersey, New Jersey" until a crowd in Hoboken had booed him offstage one night. What a way to get even.

When the song was over, Roxanne was grinning from ear to ear. She said, "I didn't know you were musical."

"Men have died for having voices like mine."

"But you have rhythm."

"No, I have a pulse."

"Do you play an instrument?"

"Just the radio."

She slapped the table. "You win. Look, I've got to get back to work. How about we have dinner later and make up for last night?"

"I need to hang around tonight, in case Fontaine sneaks in."

"You think he will?"

"It's a distinct possibility," Valentine said.

"So we have dinner here."

"What time?"

"My second shift ends at ten."

Valentine took a deep breath. The fight was scheduled to begin at eight to accommodate everyone back east who'd be watching on Pay-Per-View. Nick would want to get back once it was over, freeing him up. So what if they were light-years apart and probably totally incompatible? She was the real thing, and that didn't come along very often.

Roxanne squeezed his hand. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Ten it is," he said.

"You sure you can stay awake that long?" she teased him.

"Only if I nap this afternoon."

She got up and kissed him on the cheek.

"Sweet dreams," she said.

There was nothing like a pretty woman's smile to start the day. Braving the heat, he walked to the Desert Inn and paid the valet twenty bucks for Nick's loaner. Las Vegas was not a morning town, and he cruised the Strip in a minimum of traffic.

Brother's Lounge was located on a desolate side street named Audrie. As bars went, it was a rathole, its neighbors a pawnshop and a tanning salon, and his shoes crunched broken glass as he entered the dimly lit establishment.

The bartender had a hockey player's blunt, proudly damaged face. His name was Mike, and he wore a ruffled tuxedo shirt with stained armpits and a yellow collar. "Can or tap?" he inquired when Valentine ordered a Diet Coke.

"Can's fine," Valentine said, casing the room. In the back, a guy sat nursing a draft beer; otherwise, the place was empty. He drew a C-note from his wallet and let it float to the laminated counter. "Can you change that?"

"Sorry," Mike said. "It's too early."

"Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?"

"Depends," Mike said.

Valentine nudged the C-note toward him. "There was a guy who used to come in here named Frank Fontaine."

Mike crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You a cop?"

Valentine nearly said no, then stopped himself. He would always be a cop, and this joker knew it. "Retired," he confessed.

"Private dick?"

"Consultant."

"That's a new one."

"Welcome to the nineties."

In the mirror behind the bar Valentine saw the guy in back kill his beer. He was built like one of those behemoths that carried refrigerators on their backs on ESPN. As he strolled out the front door, Mike pocketed the C-note.