James Swain - Gift sense

Gerry was sorry about Mabel. Valentine couldn't remember his son ever being sorry about anything.

"And Pop, I guess I should be mad at you, but I'm not. I mean, what goes around comes around, you know? I mean, what I'm trying to say is, I guess I'm getting a taste of what I've put you through over the years, and it doesn't taste very good. I'll call you."

The line went dead. He considered playing the message again, just to hear Gerry eat crow a second time, but he erased it instead. Once was more than enough.

He sat on the edge of his bed and thought back to Nick's burying the chip for the Greek, a guy who died owing him lots of money. How far do you go for the ones you love? All the way, he realized.

"Undercard starts in twenty minutes," Nick said, having materialized in Valentine's doorway. "There's a welterweight fighting who I've got money on."

Nick had changed into white slacks and a purple silk shirt, his snowy chest hair contrasting sharply with the jet-black mop on his head. Around his neck hung several thick gold ropes.

"Give me a minute," Valentine said.

Nick let out a disapproving howl when Valentine emerged from the bedroom sixty seconds later.

"You can't go to the fights dressed like that!" his host exclaimed. "You look like a cop! Everybody will shun us."

It was the last set of clean clothes Valentine had.

"I'm open to suggestions," he said.

"Bag everything but the pants," Nick told him. "You can wear some of my clothes."

The clothes Nick had in mind were classic seventies hoodlum attire; a skintight, bloodred silk shirt and a creamy linen sports jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons and wide pointy lapels. Standing in the dressing room in Nick's suite, Valentine grimaced at his reflection in the mirror. Put some grease in his hair and he could pass for one of Moe Greene's henchmen in The Godfather.

Nick tapped his watch. "Let's get moving. I've got two grand riding on my boy winning inside three rounds."

Valentine followed him out of the suite. By the door, Nick stopped and pointed at a framed head shot of Elvis Presley on the bookshelf. The inscription read To Nick-you're the greatest! Elvis.

"I helped him once," Nick explained.

They went into the hall and waited for an elevator.

"How?" Valentine asked.

"I'd just opened," Nick said. "This was back in '70. Elvis worked the main room, packed the place every show. It was like printing money. Cha-ching! One night he was in his suite and he saw something on the TV that got him pissed off, so he shot it. Bullet went through the wall-nearly killed the couple next door."

"What did you do?"

"I had the screen replaced."

"What?!"

"What do you mean, what?"

"You repaired the TV for him?"

"Sure. What else could I do?"

Nick's logic escaped him. Calling the police would have been one solution. Getting him some good psychiatric help another.

"What set him off?"

A blue-haired couple wearing matching polyester outfits stepped off the elevator, their Midwestern voices raised in agitation. The woman, who appeared to be getting the worst of it, wagged a disapproving finger in her companion's face.

"Stop making me out to be the big loser," she said.

"Well," the elderly man said, "you are."

"I lost four hundred playing keno," she practically shouted. "You lost four thousand playing craps."

"Yeah," her companion said, "but I know how to gamble."

The couple disappeared into one of the suites. Nick and Valentine got into the elevator and Nick punched the Lobby button. The doors closed and they started to descend.

"He was watching Robert Goulet," Nick said.

On their way out the door, Nick ducked into One-Armed Billy's brightly lit alcove. The giant slot machine was idle, and the little Greek planted his lips on his favorite employee. Sitting on his stool, Joe Smith chuckled silently.

"Billy was the smartest thing I ever did," Nick confided to Valentine. "Every day, rain or shine, Billy makes money."

"You can't beat that," Valentine said.

Outside, Nick's monogrammed golf cart was parked at the valet stand, a perspiring O'Doul's in the drink holder. Valentine got into the passenger seat, then held on for dear life as Nick floored the accelerator and sped down the Acropolis's front entrance.

The Strip was jammed, the mob rivaling New Year's in Times Square. Nick darted in and out of traffic, hopped a median, and ran a red light, all for the sake of traveling a few short blocks. When they reached Caesars' entrance, he hit the brakes and nearly sent Valentine through the windshield. A line of stretch limousines blocked traffic in both directions. Spinning the wheel, Nick hopped the cart onto the sidewalk with his hand on the cart's Harpo Marx horn.

"I've got a sick man here," he announced to a sharply dressed contingent in their path. "Gangway, folks."

The crowd parted and Nick drove through.

"He doesn't look sick," a man in a tuxedo yelled.

"He married his sister," Nick yelled back. "That sick enough for you, buddy?"

The cart still on the sidewalk, Nick pulled up to the busy valet stand, hopped out, and tossed the uniformed kid a fifty.

"I'll take good care of her, Mr. Nicocropolis," the kid promised.

"You'd better," Nick said.

Valentine followed his host into Caesars plush casino. The tables were jumping, the players wall to wall. Nick did a little jig as they sifted through the crowd, the electric atmosphere putting a noticeable jump in his step. Jay Sarno, the impresario who had single-handedly built Caesars, had themed the hotel after a Roman orgy. It had not been planned as a family destination and never would be one.

Passing a sea of blinking slots, they detoured into a shopping promenade with artificial waterfalls and lifelike statues that shifted poses every few minutes. Pleasant 3-D images lit up the domed ceiling, the air filled with the soothing sounds of a rain forest.

"I hate this crap," Nick swore under his breath. "Casinos are supposed to sell dreams, not illusions. You know what I'm saying?"

Valentine nodded, remembering Sammy Mann's comments about the odds Nick offered. "No magic acts for you, huh?"

"Never," Nick swore.

Signs directed them to a bank of doors, which opened onto a parking lot. The boxing ring sat a hundred yards behind the casino, hemmed in by rows of bleachers that rose straight up into the sky. Nick handed his tickets to an attendant, and a toga-clad waitress escorted them to their seats, which were fifth row center. Then she took their drink order.

"Jay Sarno is the smartest guy who's ever lived," Nick said when their drinks came. "Back in '78 when Atlantic City opened, everyone out here panicked. But not Jay. Instead, he started staging prizefights. Each fight got a little better, then Jay went and staked fifteen million for Leonard-Hearns. What a night that was!"

Valentine remembered the fight well. Sugar Ray Leonard and Tommy Hearns, two undefeated, charismatic boxers, fought in Caesars parking lot for the undisputed welterweight championship. The fight had attracted every major gambler in the world and disappointed no one. Atlantic City never recovered.

Nick clicked his fake beer against Valentine's bottled water.

"Here's to catching Frank Fontaine."

"I'll drink to that," Valentine said.

Two Hispanic flyweights entered the diamond-bright boxing ring. A referee gave them their instructions. The bell rang. The fighters met in the ring's center and whaled away at each other.

They fought to a draw and a chorus of boos. Valentine clapped anyway. Fighting to a draw was considered noble in most parts of the world, even worthy of celebration. So what if the kids stunk? They'd fought their hearts out and deserved something for it.