Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [74]
“I brought an old friend with me,” Vinny said. “You remember Gerry Valentine, don’t you, Pop?”
Angelo Fountain had come to the United States on a boat from Italy, and had brought with him manners and class. He killed the TV with a remote, stood up, and graciously stuck out his hand. “Of course I remember. Tony Valentine’s boy.”
Gerry shook his hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“And you as well. Are you still running an illegal bookmaking operation?” Angelo Fountain asked.
There was an edge to his voice that made Gerry hesitate. He took out a business card, and handed it to the older man. “I gave up the rackets, Mr. Fountain. I’m working with my father now.”
Angelo Fountain removed his bifocals to study the card. In his late seventies, he wore a navy blue suit overlaid with a faint windowpane check. His spread-collar shirt was light blue, his necktie a soft red, as was his matching pocket foulard. He’d always dressed like a head of state, even though he rarely left the neighborhood.
“I thought your father retired,” Angelo said.
“He did,” Gerry said. “My mom passed away, and he went back to work as a consultant.”
“How long you work for him?”
“It’s going on six months.”
The older man’s face softened. “You like it?”
That was a loaded question if Gerry had ever heard one. His father could be a bear, and sometimes drove Gerry nuts. But it was an honest business, and he could tuck his daughter in at night knowing he wasn’t doing things she might someday be ashamed of.
“Love it,” Gerry said.
Angelo Fountain brewed a fresh pot of coffee and served his guests. Gerry had the foresight to ask him to make two extra cups, and took them outside to the two detectives parked by the curb.
“Service’s improving,” Marconi said.
Gerry grabbed the Yankees cap off the backseat. He hadn’t wanted to bring the cap into the house and just stick it under Mr. Fountain’s nose. Going back inside, he found Vinny and his father practically at blows.
“You’re a bum,” his father said.
“Says who?” Vinny replied.
“Every single person on this island.”
“I’ve never been convicted of a single crime,” his son protested.
“You and O.J. Simpson,” his father said.
Gerry made Vinny squinch over and sat down between father and son on the couch. They stopped arguing, with Angelo glaring at his son.
“Mr. Fountain, I need your help,” Gerry said, handing him the cap. “This baseball cap turned up during a case. Vinny thinks you might be able to tell me who stitched it.”
Angelo Fountain examined the receiver and LEDs sewn into the cap’s rim. His hands were small and fine-boned, the skin almost translucent. A minute passed. He was taking too long, and Gerry guessed it was someone he knew and didn’t want to snitch on. The locals were famous for closing ranks when it came to protecting one another.
“I wouldn’t have come here, and put this imposition on you, if there wasn’t a good reason,” Gerry said.
Angelo Fountain looked into his visitor’s face. “And what might that be?”
“The man who had this cap made has a contract on my father’s life.”
“Ahh,” Angelo Fountain said.
Another minute went by. The older man put his hand on Gerry’s knee, gave it a friendly squeeze. “I like your father. He’s a good man. I’ll help you out.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fountain.”
“A tailor on the island made this baseball cap. I recognize the stitching,” Angelo Fountain said. “This tailor was in prison, made friends with some bad people. When he got out of prison, he started taking jobs from these people.”
“What kind of jobs?” Gerry asked.
“Tailoring jobs. To help them steal from the casinos.”
“Steal how?”
“I’ll show you.” Angelo Fountain went to the other side of the living room, pulled open a drawer on a cabinet, and returned holding a paper bag that he dropped on Gerry’s lap. “This tailor gets a lot of work from these people. Sometimes, he asks me to help out. I always say no, but he still comes by.”
Gerry removed the bag’s contents. There were several cloth