“You’re going against the Vipers? You always bet on the dog player?” he asked, referring to the underdog.
I nodded. “Is that a bad idea?” I knew that it wasn’t but wanted to hear what he had to say.
“It’s your money, pal. You do what you want. I’d bet on the Vipers if I were you.” He only said that because he probably knew that the Vipers were going to lose and then he’d end up with my cash.
“Exactly. I’ll give you a check for one-thousand-one-hundred later today. I’ll drop it off at your condo.”
He shook his head and said, “No check. I only take cash. And don’t ever visit my condo. We’ll meet at Talon Park at the Chuck Chutney statue. You can give me the money at four o’clock this afternoon.”
I agreed, pleased with my decision, believing that maybe betting and bad bookies had something to do with Tad Dossner’s murder.