Page 95 of Lion & Lamb

There are no blind spots, no hidden corners—nothing is left to chance. If you ever want to record a few minutes of your life in complete detail (and from multiple angles), simply walk onto the main floor of a casino.

But Cooper and Veena weren’t feelingthatkind of watching.

When casinos watch you, it’s like a mama bird making sure you aren’t trying to run off with one of her chicks. This was a different kind of watching. More like a bird of prey sizing them up for the kill.

“Am I crazy,” Cooper said, “or do you feel all kinds of eyes on us?”

“Oh, good. I thought it was just me.”

“Well, Ben E. did say the Mob was well aware of our activities. I’m sure they’re all wondering why we just checked into Caesars on Monday afternoon.”

“Maybe we just can’t say no to the slots,” Veena said.

“Ben E. would have a crude double entendre to share off that one.”

“And you don’t?”

“I think I’m hungover. Let’s get settled, then go have an early cocktail with Red Doyle.”

“Didn’t you just say you were hungover?”

“No better way to avoid crashing to the ground than by pulling back on the stick.”

“Your best friend Ben E. would have a crude joke about that one too.”

“I think he’s my new hero.” As Cooper spoke, the phone in his jacket pocket vibrated. “Hold on. Got a message from Victor.”

REPORT TO C. LAMB BY V. SUAREZ

Monday, January 31

(Sent with encryption and red-flagged, with delivery confirmation)

A quick heads-up, boss. I know you’re in AC with Ms. Lion. Just keep your eyes open. I confirmed this with three different sources (including the New Jersey Turnpike Authority): Mickey Bernstein’s in AC too.

Chapter102

“RED, MEETVeena. We’re working the Archie Hughes case together.”

“Yeah, yeah. Before I say a word, if the two of ya are secretly recording me right now, that would be a violation of New Jersey law.”

“Come on, Red,” Cooper said, “I wouldn’t do you dirty like that. Besides, Jersey has a one-party consent law. We wouldn’t need your permission.”

“You for sure would do me dirty,” Red replied. “I’m giving the lady the benefit of the doubt.”

“We are not recording this conversation, Mr. Doyle,” Veena said.

They were sitting in the cocktail bar of a hotel originally known as the Boardwalk Regency; it was one of the area’s oldest hotel-casinos, opening in 1979, just after gambling became legal in Atlantic City. There had been a dizzying series of owners over the years and flirtations with a dozen different themes and styles, each one trying to find the secret mix of ingredients that would lure Philadelphians to AC instead of Vegas. None of them quite worked, so now the place was capitalizing on its old-school status—1979 was all the rage again, apparently.

Red Doyle had grown up in Atlantic City, and it showed. His prematurely aged face seemed chiseled from granite and cured with years of alcohol and tobacco. He was off the cigarettes now, though; he contented himself with his whiskey sour. Veena had already polished off a glass of chardonnay and ordered another. Cooper stuck to a mug of Yuengling Lager.

“I need your confirmation on something,” Cooper said.

“Unofficially,” Red said. It was a demand, not a question.

“As always,” Cooper said. “We know Archie owed quite a bit of money around town. We’re trying to figure a ballpark estimate.”

“Heh. Abitof money, huh? Whatever your guess might be, I guarantee the actual amount is way higher.”

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