Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [73]
“Thanks for the update,” Gloria said.
They watched Zack walk away. Gloria squeezed his hand again. “See?” she asked.
“See what?” Valentine said.
“Every once in a while, the good guys do win.”
Valentine wasn’t so sure. Skins’s loss had put DeMarco back in the leader’s spot. DeMarco was going to win the tournament and the damage would be done. He felt his cell phone vibrate and pulled it from his pocket. It was Bill.
“How much trouble am I in?” Valentine asked his friend.
It was rare for Bill to be at a loss for words. His friend coughed into the phone.
“I just got off the phone with the governor,” Bill said.
“He heard about what you just pulled with Skins Turner.”
“Was he angry?”
“Just a little. You’ve been barred from the tournament.”
34
“This had better be good,” Detective Joey Marconi said, driving south on Atlantic Avenue.
“Yeah,” Detective Eddie Davis said, sitting beside his partner. “You keep us waiting in the parking lot for an hour, this had better be real good.”
Gerry Valentine sat in the backseat of Marconi’s car. He’d started reminiscing with Vinny Fountain inside Harold’s House of Pancakes and not only forgotten the time, but also the two detectives outside, neither of whom had slept in the past two days.
Marconi followed Vinny Fountain’s car on Atlantic Avenue. Vinny drove a souped-up Pontiac Firebird with racing stripes down both sides. Vinny had told Gerry that he could find out who’d made the gaffed Yankees cap found in Bally’s casino. Gerry had told Davis and Marconi, and the detectives had agreed to follow Vinny, but not without letting him know how pissed off they were.
“You have a good breakfast?” Davis asked.
“Just some coffee,” Gerry lied.
“How did you get that jelly stain on your chin?” Marconi wanted to know.
Gerry appraised his reflection in the window. The stain was on the point of his chin. Busted, he thought.
“It’s a birthmark,” Gerry said.
“You’re something else,” Marconi told him.
They drove to Margate City on the southernmost tip of the island. At Huntington Avenue, Vinny hung a left. Marconi followed him, and when Vinny parked on the street, Marconi pulled his vehicle directly behind him. It was a residential neighborhood of two-story shingled houses and small, well-kept yards. Across the street, a dog strained against its chain, barking at them.
“Any idea where we are?” Davis asked.
“This is where Vinny’s father lives,” Gerry said, checking the numbers on the doors. He’d known Vinny since junior high school and had come over here many times. The house looked smaller than he remembered, but so did most things on the island.
“Would you gentlemen mind staying here?” Gerry asked.
Davis and Marconi turned around and shot him wicked stares.
“Better not keep us waiting,” Marconi said, his lips hardly moving.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gerry said.
Vinny’s father, Angelo Fountain, was a professional tailor and ran his business out of the living room of his house, his customers getting fitted in front of a display case filled with black-and-white wedding pictures of Angelo and his late wife, Marie. In the case was also a sign: CHEAP CLOTHES ARE MADE, GARMENTS ARE BUILT.
The TV set was on when they came in, Jerry Springer reading off a card. Angelo was a small, delicate man, and balanced himself on the edge of the couch, a yellow tape measure hanging around his neck. He looked up in surprise.
“Get the hell out of my house,” he said.
Vinny stood in the foyer, unbuttoning his jacket. Gerry hung behind him.
“Didn’t you hear what I just told you?” his father asked.
“I’ve got a visitor with me,” his son said.
“Like that makes a difference? Who did you bring this time, John Gotti?”
“He’s dead, Pop.”
“Then I’m sure it’s someone just like him,” his father retorted. “Every time I turn around, the police are wanting to talk to me about you, or something you’ve done. My son, the professional crook.”
Gerry glanced at Vinny’s profile, wondering what effect this old man’s words were having on him. If the verbal assault