James Swain - Gift sense

Nick blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"Somebody did this with some oranges stuffed into a nylon stocking," Valentine explained. "It's an old trick, causes lots of bruises." To Nola he said, "Didn't they?"

Nola stifled a pathetic little sob. Nick put his arm around her, shielding her from Valentine's accusation.

"Tony, you're a real asshole," Nick said.

Valentine's face grew hot. He stood up and pointed a finger at Nick. "Five minutes, like we agreed."

"Yeah," Nick said. "Five minutes."

"I'm calling the cops in five."

"Five minutes," Nick repeated. "Now just get the hell out, okay?"

"Sure."

Valentine went to the door. He'd done what he'd been hired to do. Now it was time to extricate himself from Nick's crazy world and go back to his own. His son needed him, and so did Mabel. And he desperately needed them. He opened the door and stepped outside.

The loudmouthed announcer had said that Holyfield had taken more punishment tonight than most boxers endure in a lifetime, but none of the blows that had bounced off the champ's skull were as unexpected as the one that awaited Valentine in the parking lot. It snapped his head straight back and he took a few wobbly steps backward. Then he collapsed in the open doorway of room 66-A.

His eyes snapped open to the sound of Nola's screams, followed by the unmistakable bark of Nick's toy.38. A punch followed, bone hitting bone. Nola's screams stopped and were replaced by the sound of someone choking the life out of her. Clutching the doorsill, Valentine tried to move his fingers and found them frozen in a spastic claw. Slowly he pushed himself off the floor and staggered back into the room.

Little Hands stood over the bed, holding Nola by the throat.

"Where's Fontaine?" he demanded.

"I… don't… know," she gasped.

"Like hell you don't."

Nick had wrapped his arms around Little Hands's massive leg and was biting him. Little Hands swatted him away like a flea.

"Help us," Nick begged.

Valentine wasn't sure he knew how. Judo was great if someone was attacking you but offered little offense of its own. And Little Hands was a pro and not likely to let Valentine get the jump on him. The best he could try for was getting Little Hands outside, in the hope that someone would pass by and come to their aid.

Stepping forward, Valentine kicked Little Hands in the rump. It was like kicking a piece of rock. Little Hands glared murderously at him.

"You're next," he said to Valentine, while putting the squeeze on Nola.

Valentine kicked him again.

"I'm going to mutilate you, old man."

Valentine's instincts told him to run-only, Nola's face was turning blue, her time running out. He tried another approach.

"Felix Underman said your mother got drunk and screwed a dwarf," Valentine said. "Is it true?"

Little Hands dropped Nola on the bed, the demented look on his face suggesting Valentine had pushed all the wrong buttons. He rushed forward, screaming like a banshee, and Nick pulled the rug out from under him. Little Hands fell forward, catching himself on the TV.

The force of his body turned the TV on and porno filled the screen. A naked woman was on a bed with a black guy, who for some reason wore a sombrero. Their screwing bordered on violence, and it seemed to make Little Hands go crazy. He made another mad-bull charge at Valentine.

Most contract killers are proficient in the martial arts, but whatever training Little Hands had went out the window. Valentine grabbed the collars of his open shirt and threw him sideways into the wall. Then he elbowed Little Hands in the face. He heard cartilage break, and Little Hands sank to the floor.

Valentine retrieved Nick's.38 and aimed it at Little Hands. The giant man rolled over, his face sheeted with blood, and pointed at the TV just as the guy with the sombrero started to climax.

"Turn the TV off," he cried. "Please, turn it off!"

Valentine had never seen a guy lose his marbles over dirty movies. Maybe in prison, the state could get a psychiatrist to drill a hole in Little Hand's head and find out what was wrong with him.

"How did you find us?" Valentine said.

"Turn it off!"

Nola, who'd been lying motionless on the bed, rose and went to the TV. Finding no knobs, she said, "I can't turn it off."

"Kick it," Valentine told her.

She did and the screen slowly faded, the sombrero vanishing like a sunset. Valentine turned to Little Hands and said, "You got your wish."

"Mr. Underman called me," he whimpered, a disturbed little man lurking beneath his tough-guy surface slowly emerging. "I went to Caesars and saw you leave. I took a chance you were on to Fontaine and I followed you here."

"Anybody with you?"

Little Hands shook his head. "I work solo."

The TV came back on. Same woman, new guy, real small, almost a midget except for his organ. Little Hands covered his face, screaming like he was being stuck with a knife.

"Jesus Christ," Nick muttered. "What should we do?"

Valentine backed out of the room. As long as the porno was on, he didn't think Little Hands was a threat to anyone.

"Call 911," Valentine said. "Let the cops deal with him."

The longer Valentine was retired, the more he understood why people hated the police. All of the sterotypes were unfortunately true, especially the one about a cop never being there when you needed one. Nick, sitting in the back of the Caddy with Nola, dialed 911 on his cell phone for the third time.

"The dispatcher says every cop on duty is at Caesars," Nick said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. "Some kind of riot."

"Any idea how long it's going to take?"

Nick asked the dispatcher, then reported, "She says a half hour, maybe longer."

"What happened?"

"She doesn't know."

Valentine turned on the radio. The loudmouthed announcer was back, talking by phone to a reporter at Caesars. Loudmouth said, "Can you tell us what happened that led to the melee between corners?"

The other reporter said, "In round five, Holyfield got his act together and started to use his jab. He opened up a cut over the Animal's left eye. The Animal got frustrated and took a shot at Holyfield after the bell. Holyfield retaliated with a short uppercut. I was a few rows back and heard the punch land. The Animal had been warned for fouling, and I think the last one got Holyfield really angry."

Loudmouth said, "Did the melee start then?"

The other reporter replied, "No, it happened when the Animal couldn't continue and the ref declared Holyfield the winner. Then the corners started to tango."

Loudmouth said, "And the fight spilled into the crowd." To which the other man said, "Like a brush fire."

"Holyfield won," Nick said gleefully. "We win!"

Valentine groaned. He'd torn up a ticket worth three grand. That would teach him to gamble.

Nick's cell phone rang. It was Wily. Nick listened intently, then killed the power.

"Wily's shitting in his pants," the little Greek said. "He's got three big hitters doing a number on us, and he thinks one is Fontaine. I gotta get back to my casino."

"We can't leave Little Hands," Valentine said.

"Then do whatever you gotta do," Nick said.

Valentine went back to 66-A and poked his head in the door. Little Hands was on the bed. The porno was still on and every moan of pleasure was driving him that much closer to insanity. Valentine silently shut the door. Then he had an idea.

His eyes swept the near-empty lot and settled on a bloodred Mustang with a souped-up engine, the bumpers adorned with stickers from Gold's Gym. He smashed the driver's window with a rock, then got in behind the wheel. The ashtray was filled with inhalers. This was definitely the right car.

Intent on disabling the engine, Valentine pulled the lever that popped the hood, then noticed a suitcase sitting on the passenger's seat. He popped the clasps and let out a whistle. It was full of the stuff dreams are made of.