Inside Straight (12 page)

"It'll help."

I stood. "Thank you."

Went to the door, but had to stop.

The doctor looked at me. "Something else?"

"Probably nothing, but I'm up for a job on the cruise ships, and I wondered if this would keep me from getting the job."

"Eczema? No."

"It's not that serious?"

Click-click. "No, not at all. Just do your best to avoid triggers like smoking, drinking, that sort of thing."

"I don't do either."

"Oh really?" Another double click. "Well then, you should be fine." He nodded at the prescription. "Remember: sparingly."

"Thank you, I will."

I didn't. By the time I reached the chemist, I was half-insane with the itch. I was three steps out before I'd cracked the cap on the tube and rubbed a good couple of grapes into my red, irritated skin.

Then, tired and sticky, I continued on to work.

The night shifts grew worse as the foul weather forced more punters into the Riverside. It was hot and damp and grumpy, punters elbow-to-elbow at the tables and a majority of the staff were too inexperienced to cope properly. There were a few kick-offs, more than a few camera checks, and all the while I kept an eye on proceedings, wondering where I was going to find that one clue that would bring inspiration. I watched the staff close up the tables for the night. Counted them off in my head. The same number, give or take, every night. And then I watched them head off to the changing rooms and staff room to grab their stuff, knowing full well they'd go up to the restaurant area. While they did that, I timed it roughly in my head as I went into the count with two dealers, an inspector and Jacqui.

I went to close the count room door and it stuck for a second. I fiddled with it, and it sprang back open.

Jacqui looked confused. "Graham?"

"It's not closing." I gave the handle a quick jostle and then pushed it properly shut. It clicked. I pushed it again to make sure it stayed closed.

"We ready?"

I nodded and joined the dealers and inspector over by the count table. I tuned out their chatter as they dumped the boxes onto the table, counting them off. I watched Tintin and the Spaniel in the cash desk. I saw the movement on the monitors in there – they had two cameras, one outside the count room door and one trained on the gaming floor. They were covered on both sides. I shook my head. Then I looked back at the count room door. I went over to it and tried it again.

Jacqui watched me.

"Sorry. I just wanted to make sure it was still locked."

"Is it?"

"Yeah, I think so."

I returned to the table, got on with the count.

The inspector was holding court. "What about Jerry tonight, eh?"

"What a fuckin' joke." This from a new dealer, acting like an old hand.

"
Give us me fuckin' chips!
" The inspector's breath smelled like stale coffee. I shifted away from him.

"Yeah, get 'em yourself, they're down the chipper."

I pulled tenners out into piles. They were talking about Jerry Grant. He was an accountant, apparently. Used to tell the dealers all about the odds, and how he had them all worked out because he used to work for JP Morgan. But Jerry was an emotional gambler for a man who professed a clinical mind and an iron nerve, and when he lost – which was often – he was prone to acting out. Luckily for the staff, the worst Jerry ever did was shout and scream, and that was amusing more than anything else – that impression the dealer just did hit it pretty much on the nose – a high squeal of a voice, edging onto indignant tears. I had to smile, which caught their attention.

"You ever get Jerry over at the Palace, Graham?"

"A couple of times. It wasn't his kind of club, though. He likes sympathy. And I think Jeff played it well tonight. Just be stone with him and he'll come round."

"You're a hard man. Them and us, eh?"

"It's them
or
us."

The dealer snorted a laugh. Something wet appeared on his top lip before he wiped it away. "Old school."

"If that's old school, what's the new school?" I looked at Jacqui. "Did I miss a meeting or something?"

She smiled. "You're supposed to be providing a service, Graham. Did nobody tell you?"

"Oh, I see. We're customer service operators now, are we?"

She turned the smile to the pile of money in front of her. "That's correct."

"Thought as much." I nodded. "Just means we have to smile as we steal."

The new dealer laughed again. It was starting to grate.

Jacqui put a pile of twenties next to me. "Now you're just being cynical."

"That is my factory setting, right enough."

It was Jacqui's turn to laugh now. I was keeping everyone in stitches, it looked like. I wondered if there was a lack of oxygen in the room. That, or they were patronising me for some reason.

We carried on the count like that, having an odd, gentle laugh and a joke around. And it began to feel warm in the count room, especially when Jacqui's hand brushed mine over the money. Later, when the Spaniel had tagged the sacks and we let the floor staff go and get changed, I caught Jacqui watching me.

"What?"

"You've loosened up a bit."

"That so?"

"Yeah."

I smiled at her. "I didn't mean to."

She wagged a finger back at me. "Watch yourself, Graham. You might actually enjoy yourself one of these days."

"Heaven forfend."

"I think so. I think you might actually be getting more comfortable here. What do you think?"

I couldn't exactly tell her the truth, but she did have a point – I no longer cared what people here thought of me, and there was a part of me that no longer cared if the casino made any money. So if that came across as me looking settled and comfortable, then so be it. "I'm no longer as uptight as I once was, no."

"The Palace was a stressful place to work, was it?"

"The place? No. The
people
..."

"You're talking about Dave Randall."

"How did you know?" I smiled. "It's nothing, really. He's just incompetent and untrustworthy."

"Is that so?"

"Why do you think I'm here?"

"I needed cover. I asked around, and Dave said you'd had—"

"A bad night at the tables? Listen, I've had worse before, and I dare say I will again. These things happen. Dave's just looking after Dave, and he's not afraid to let someone else take the fall for his poor management."

She cocked her head, looked at me with narrowed eyes. "You know something? I'm not quite sure what to make of you, Graham Ellis."

"I'm sure you'll come up with something."

"I'm sure I will." She put a hand on my arm. "Listen, I'm glad you're here, Graham. Really. You've been a godsend. And I want you to know that you're a valued member of staff. Properly. And nobody's going to put you in harm's way here."

I laughed. I couldn't help myself. It sounded funny.

"What's—"

"No, it's not you." I shook my head. "Really. Thank you. It's a relief thing, that's all. I've just – you're right, I haven't been comfortable here for a long time and now I feel like I'm fitting in a bit more, you know? I'm glad to be here, too. And thank you. You've made the transition a lot easier."

We went out into the corridor. We were alone. The other staff must have been waiting out by the restaurant. The count room door closed behind us.

"So ..."

"So." I looked around. "I should probably go and get my coat. Do you have yours?"

"It's in my office."

"Okay, then."

I started up the corridor, wondering what I'd just missed, because it felt like I missed something there. A pause, perhaps, where I should have said something I didn't, or done something that I had no clue what it was. I shook it off and pushed into the locker room, but stopped halfway through.

There was a breeze. I went back out into the corridor and carried on down to the staff room. The breeze came from the kitchen. I went in, turned on the lights. The strips flickered and then caught. I could hear rain. I went through the kitchen, deserted and pristine, and out to the back door, which was standing wide open. I stood in the doorway for a moment and looked at all the cars in the car park. Saw the taxis start to assemble to take some of the staff home, and I suddenly felt a chill that stuck me like a stiletto blade.

I turned off the lights and stood in the dark for a minute, my brain ticking over.

It came to me then. All of it. Everything from the first footstep to the final scream.

I closed the kitchen door, returned to the locker room and grabbed my coat. I felt around in my pocket for the disposable mobile and in the silence of the locker room I scrolled through to the one contact number and pressed dial.

The Costa was packed with buggies and young mothers most weekday mornings and today was no exception. I sat at the back of the place with a copy of the Guardian, a grande hot chocolate with extra cream and a white chocolate and raspberry muffin that was too solid to be fresh. Some afro-tinged jazz played on the speakers, but nobody really heard it. I watched the mothers and their kids when I wasn't pretending to read. Everywhere I looked, some toddler was mashing something squidgy into the table top and squirming around in their seat. Used to be, kids followed their mothers and fathers to pubs. This was a whole generation growing up in coffee shops. I didn't know if that was a good thing. Then I didn't know if I cared. Probably not.

I sipped my hot chocolate. The cup vibrated against my lip. My hand was shaking. I put down the cup, pressed my palm flat against the table and held it there until the tremors disappeared. My fingers came away sticky. I rubbed them with one of a mound of napkins I'd taken from the dispenser.

When I looked up, Pollard was halfway through the doors, another man behind him. The man was the leader from the other night, the rat. As he entered he looked around as if checking for exits. Outside, I saw the car that I assumed was Pollard's ride. It was large, silver, looked expensive, but I didn't know the make. His way of travelling incognito, obviously. The rat went to the counter and ordered as Pollard smiled and squeezed his way through the pushchair jungle to get to me. He scraped a chair and sat opposite. He stared at me, didn't say anything. I wanted my hot chocolate, wanted to cover my mouth which threatened to break into a hysterical grin, but I didn't dare in case the trembles started again.

"So. Coffee shop."

I nodded. "Yep."

"You don't drink, do you?"

"No."

"Used to, did you? Bit too much?"

I shook my head. "I never got the taste for it."

He narrowed his eyes, then smiled. "I suppose I should be grateful. Got enough pissheads already work for us." He glanced across at the counter. The rat was being served. "He's hungover, that one. Thinks I don't know, but I do. I know everything about the people that work for me. And that's the only thing
you
need to know."

"I don't work for you."

"You do now."

I didn't say anything.

Pollard leaned back in his seat. "What was it changed your mind?"

"What do you think?"

"Jez? Don't be daft. He didn't do owt to you."

"He was part of it. I'm not going to lie."

"He can be persuasive."

"He can be physically threatening, yes."

"Physically threatening? Our dog's done shits bigger than him." Pollard laughed. "They transferred you permanent, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"Thought as much. You're a better man than that."

"Yeah. Clearly." I couldn't say it without smiling.

"Give your conscience a shake, will you, son? Might not feel like it now, but you're doing the right thing." He shifted around in his seat, nodded to the mothers. "Busy in here."

"Well, yeah, I thought that would be best."

"Plenty of witnesses, is it?"

"Who're busy with their children, yes."

"There's a Starbucks up the way."

"Which is always full of students, who would probably be a bit more interested in what we're talking about. Only thing this lot are interested in are themselves and their kids."

"So what are we talking about?"

Jez came over with two coffees – one latte and one cappuccino. The cappuccino was apparently Pollard's.

He regarded it. His lip curled. "Is there a fuckin' war on?"

Jez pulled up another chair. "Sorry, Barry."

"Never put enough chocolate on it. Wouldn't get this shit at Starbucks."

I took the opportunity to pull a wedge out of my muffin. "Starbucks would have burned the coffee."

"That right?"

I nodded as I chewed. "High turnover, low standards."