4:04 p.m.
“LET’S HIT the boardwalk and think,” Cooper said.
Veena nodded and led the way out of the hotel and onto the nearly empty boardwalk outside. The sky was slate gray, and the winter Atlantic Ocean was restless, pummeling the khaki sand like it had a grudge against it. This was not a place you wanted to be in the off-season. But Cooper liked the salty air, always had, going back to the days when his parents would bring him to AC. The scent brought back happy memories because even the most troubled families could call a truce on vacation.
But something felt off. And not just because they were in Atlantic City in late January. They reached the steel railing on the far side of the boardwalk and looked out over the sand.
“Red knows more than he’s telling,” Veena said.
“To be fair, though, we’ve always had a strange dynamic. He enjoys holding things over me. He’s like a creepy uncle or something.”
“And yet you place bets—large amounts of money—with this man.”
“Hey, you heard him. I’m just a small-timer.”
The boardwalk wasn’t entirely empty. There was a man in a clear rain poncho and a fedora lingering by their hotel’s entrance. Taking a break between shifts at the slot machines, most likely.
“Do we take his advice and leave?” Veena asked.
“Hell no,” Cooper said.
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say. So how do we find these mobsters you claim to know?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Cooper saw the man in the clear rain poncho start walking toward them.
“Cooper?”
Something off about his face. Distorted features, like he was a burn victim and had endured months of skin grafts. Or maybe it was the winter sun playing tricks on Cooper’s eyes.
But then Cooper saw the stranger in the clear rain poncho take aim.
There was no time to cry out. He slammed into Veena with his left shoulder as he pulled the Browning out of his jacket pocket. His intention was to push Veena out of harm’s way—push her all the way to friggin’ Ventnor, if he had to—and return fire on this bastard.
The bad news was that Cooper moved too suddenly and powerfully to stop his own momentum. He fell on top of Veena, and his gun went skittering across the boardwalk.
The good news was that this probably saved their lives, because the man in the clear poncho wasn’t anticipating this and fired above their heads. Bullets sparked against the steel railing.
“Shit!” Cooper yelled. They were defenseless and completely out in the open. The only play he had left was to scramble to his feet and charge at the man. Sure, Cooper might take a bullet. He might take multiple bullets. But if that gave Veena time to find cover, it would be worth it.
Cooper tensed, preparing to sprint. But something grabbed the collar of his jacket and jerked hard. Immediately he was reminded of a seashore attraction: the Hell Hole, a ride where you’re spinning so fast, you almost don’t feel the floor fall away from your feet.
For two seconds, Cooper had no idea how or why he was falling.
When sand exploded in his face, and he saw Veena still clutching the collar of his jacket, he understood.
She had pulled him off the edge of the boardwalk—and out of the line of fire.
Maybe Cooper had saved her life a few moments ago, but she had absolutely just saved his life.
“Thank you,” he said, struggling to catch his breath.
“Thank me later,” Veena said quickly. “Crawl under the boardwalk now.”
They scuttled like crabs under the wooden walkway as bullets chopped into the sand. The killer in the poncho was intent on seeing this job through.
Veena dragged Cooper across the sand, back toward the casino.
“Wait!” Cooper whispered.
He looked up at the underside of the boardwalk. Hazy light poured through the gaps in the planks. Creaks in the wood revealed the gunman’s path. The man knew they were hiding down there, so he was following them, keeping pace with them, lining up his next shot.
There was a peculiar melody cutting through the silence, not far away. The man was whistling a tune. Familiar, yet out of place, given the circumstances. What the hell was it? Cooper wondered.
“Under the Boardwalk”—the Drifters’ hit from 1964. That’s what it was. This scarred-up hit man had a peculiar sense of humor. Cooper Lamb did not want to die under the Atlantic City boardwalk listening to that goddamn song.
He reached for Veena’s arm, but a bullet punched through the boards and cut through the patch of sand between them. The shooter knew exactly where they were hiding!
Veena was digging in her purse, most likely for her phone. He wanted to tell her not to bother—even if the AC police responded, they’d arrive just in time to load his and Veena’s shot-up bodies onto a meat wagon. But he didn’t dare make a sound.
“Cover your ears,” Veena said. She pulled a COP .357 derringer from her purse and started firing toward the boards above them. Blam-blam-blam-blam! She blasted four shots through the weather-beaten wood. A moment later, they heard a heavy thud, like a sack of potatoes hitting the boards.
When enough time had passed, Cooper and Veena climbed back onto the boardwalk and walked up to their assailant. All four bullets had blasted into the man’s chest. Now that Cooper was closer, he could see the man’s face wasn’t scarred. It had been hidden behind a clear plastic Halloween mask.
Veena crouched down and pulled away the mask. Cooper expected to see Mickey Bernstein, but for the umpteenth time today, he realized he’d made the wrong assumption. The man’s face wasn’t familiar to either of them.
“Is this the Quiet One?”
“No idea.”
“Is he the one who tried to shoot you last night?”
“Roll him over so I can see the back of his head; maybe I’ll recognize him,” Cooper said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“I didn’t know you had a gun.”
“I live in the city, what do you expect?”
“You used to be famously anti-gun.”
“I used to be someone who wasn’t on the Mob’s hit list.”