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door behind her, waited a minute, then dialed into voice mail. It was Frank Porter.
    â€œCall me,” Porter said.
    Valentine called him.
    â€œGuess who just waltzed into The Bombay,” Porter said.
    It sounded like the opening line of a joke.
    â€œJimmy Hoffa?”
    â€œThe European. He's already won five grand.”
    Valentine felt his heart start to race. The Bombay was on the north side of town, a good ten-minute drive from his motel.
    â€œI'll be there in five.”
    â€œMeet you by the front door,” Porter said.

10
    The European
    V alentine pulled up to The Bombay's valet stand five minutes later, having run every red light and broken every speed limit in the city. The stand was deserted, and he left the keys in the ignition and hurried in.
    Porter was waiting just inside the front door. Pulling him aside, he handed Valentine a New York Yankees baseball cap.
    â€œThere's a transceiver with an inter-canal hearing aid taped in the rim,” Porter explained. “I'll be able to talk to you from the surveillance room, but no one else will be able to hear me.”
    Valentine put the cap on and adjusted the strap. “Where's he sitting?”
    â€œTable 42.”
    Because The Bombay was so large, Porter had written instructions to Table 42 on the back of a business card. Going over to a Funny Money cage, he took a bucket of the special coins and shoved them into Valentine's hands.
    â€œCarry this. Makes you look like a tourist.”
    â€œWhat do I look like now?”
    â€œAn old cop.”
    Valentine dropped Porter's card into the bucket, reading it while he walked across the crowded casino. The European had picked an out-of-the-way table, close to an exit. By the time Valentine reached it, Porter was talking to him from his desk in the surveillance control room on the third floor.
    â€œHow's the sound?”
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œHe's the third player at the table. See him?”
    The European was not hard to spot; his piles of black hundred-dollar chips towered over everyone else's.
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œHe doesn't see you.”
    Valentine circled Table 42 and sized the European up. He was thin, late thirties, and seemed in a sour mood, which was odd considering the amount of money he was winning. His clothes were nondescript: black pants, black turtleneck sweater, and a black sports coat. And then there was his haircut. It was a bowl job, the kind they used to give guys in prison.
    Valentine sat in front of a Funny Money slot machine and watched the European play. The European won another five thousand dollars, yet did not tip the dealer once. That was odd: Most hustlers tipped the dealer heavily, just to keep them happy.
    â€œDoes this guy ever lose?” Valentine said into his hat.
    â€œNot that I've seen,” Porter said.
    The other players at Table 42 were women. Valentine looked at each one, and spotted the dark-haired beauty from the video Doyle had sent him. She'd dyed her hair red, but the resemblance to Audrey Hepburn was unmistakable. Their eyes met.
    Turning on his stool, Valentine took a handful of coins from his bucket, and started feeding them into the Funny Money slot machine.
    â€œI think I've been spotted.”
    â€œHe's not even looking at you,” Porter said.
    â€œThe woman sitting to his immediate left.”
    â€œYou think they're a team?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œI think you're okay. Keep playing.”
    Soon Valentine was down to his last coin. He fed it into the machine and jerked the handle. Slot machines were for dummies, a chimpanzee having the same chance of winning, and he cringed as the reels fell his way and the grand prize sign started flashing.
    A big-bosomed hostess appeared lugging a bulky cappuccino maker. Panting, she dropped the box into his hands.
    â€œCongratulations,” she said.
    â€œNo thanks,” Valentine replied.
    The hostess snarled at him. “Take it,” she insisted.
    â€œI