“RED, MEET Veena. 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. A bit of money, huh? Whatever your guess might be, I guarantee the actual amount is way higher.”
“Half a million,” Veena suggested.
“Honey, please.” Red waved his hand like he was trying to swat away the very notion. “Archie wished he owed me only half a million bucks. He was into me for about a million three.”
“Wait, wait,” Cooper said. “One point three million just to you alone?”
“Easily that much,” Red said. “Word was that he owed something like seven million between here and Vegas. Mostly here.”
Cooper whistled in horror or surprise—or maybe both.
“Why didn’t he just pay?” Veena asked. “The man’s contract with the Eagles earned him at least fifty million a year.”
“That’s the funny thing about high rollers like Archie,” Red replied. “They really, really don’t like to pay.”
“And what happens when someone like Archie doesn’t pay?” Veena asked.
“That’s the thing. Nobody would be stupid enough to put out a hit on the GOAT. I mean, that’s just bad for business.”
“Ben E. Franco seemed to think that’s what happened.”
“Ah, Ben E. Franco is full of shit. That guy has been recycling jokes since the days of JFK, and half of those were lifted from Joey Bishop.”
“Okay,” Cooper said. “But let’s take your case, Red—how do you make your displeasure known?”
“Well, for one thing, I stop taking their bets.”
“Let’s say you do that. What’s next? I mean, no offense, Red, but you’re up my ass sideways when I’m, like, a day late.”
“I can’t believe I’m listening to this,” Veena said. “What are you two, thirteen?”
“Small-timers like you, Lamb—no offense—always pay up quick. They know that word travels fast, and if they screw up a few times, they’re done.”
“And with Archie?” Veena asked. “Plenty of people were still taking his bets.”
“Yeah, how could they refuse, right? I mean, they were counting on him paying up eventually.”
“Except he died before he paid up,” Cooper said. “Can’t imagine you’re too happy about being down a million and a half bucks.”
“Eh, it’ll sort itself out. Always does.”
“I don’t think the Mob was so philosophical about being owed millions of dollars by Archie when he was alive.”
“No, they weren’t.”
“So what did they do?”
Red shook his head. “Look, they wouldn’t send a shooter. No way, no how. But they would send someone serious. Someone who specialized in reluctant clients, let’s put it that way.”
Veena leaned forward. “You’re talking about the Quiet One.”