Free Grift Sense by James Swain

you're doing.”
    Higgins slapped Longo on the arm. The blow did not make a friendly sound. “I do. I want her watched twenty-four hours a day. Anything suspicious, call me. Think you can handle that between drug busts?”
    Longo's face reddened; he knew Higgins was going to make him regret his little speech for a long time.
    “Sure thing,” the chubby lieutenant said.

6
    T he Acropolis was just as Valentine remembered it—an old-fashioned gambling joint with a silly motif that had endeared itself to enough old-timers to keep it afloat. It had nothing to recommend it over the new kids on the block except lots of character, and that didn't count for much these days.
    It was after three when he checked in and found two messages awaiting him at the front desk. He read the first while riding the elevator to the fourth floor, his nose twitching at the fifty-year-old bellman's repugnant cologne. It was from Wily, and his chicken scratch had not improved. From what he could make out, the pit boss wanted him to touch base once he'd gotten settled, and he had left his pager number.
    The elevator doors parted and he followed the bellman down a twisting hallway with as many turns as a carnival fun house. His room was adjacent to the service elevators, and as the bellman unlocked the door, Valentine peered over his shoulder into a depressingly dark space with as much charm as a cave.
    Valentine parted the blinds as the bellman described the amenities. He had a wonderful view of a gray concrete wall.
    “Where's the toilet?” he inquired.
    “You're in it,” the bellman replied.
    “What are you, a comedian?”
    “Right,” the bellman said. “I carry bags for exercise.”
    He was funny in a pathetic way, so Valentine tossed him a five-dollar bill. The bellman stuffed it into his vest without a hint of gratitude. After chaining the door, Valentine peeled off his clothes and took a shower.
    There was a special ugly to Las Vegas, and his bathroom was a monument to it. Neon blue walls clashed with a urine-colored sink and john, the moldy shower curtain a map of ancient Greece. After a few minutes, the hot water ran out and he found himself dancing under the bone-chilling spray. Getting out, he heard the phone.
    He took his time getting dressed. Being retired had its privileges; not hurrying was certainly one of them. When he went into the bedroom, the message light on the phone on the bedside table was blinking like a beacon on a stormy night. He sat down on the rock-hard bed and dialed voice mail. An automated voice greeted him and soon he was listening to his message.
    “Hi, Tony. It's Mabel. Glad to see you made it in one piece! I know how you hate flying. Listen—Gerry came by earlier, and he was hopping mad when I told him you'd flown the coop. I guess he had a big weekend planned with his father. . . . Anyway, to make a long story short, I'm going to the ball game with your son this afternoon. He was going to scalp the tickets, and I said hey, I'm great company. So we're going. I hope you don't mind.”
    “Jesus H. Christ,” Valentine muttered. Gerry and Mabel on a date. The thought made him shudder.
    “I like your son, I really do,” she went on, as if anticipating his reaction. “I know he's put you through a lot of grief, but I just can't be mean to him. I hope you understand.”
    “Not really,” he said.
    “Anyway, the real reason I called is, I'm going to scrap the ‘die broke' ad. You were right—it doesn't work. I mean, it's clever, but so are most five-year-olds. The good news is, I've come up with something really funny. By the time you get this message, I'll have faxed it to the hotel, so if you don't mind, I'd like you to take a look at it and give me a call. I'll be waiting by the phone. Ta ta.”
    Valentine hung up remembering the time he'd tried to take Gerry to see the Yankees in the play-offs only to have his son say no and go off with his dope-smoking friends. It had been some of the bitterest