Inside Straight (3 page)

"What kind of proposition?"

"Well, you know, nobody knows for
sure
, but the general consensus is that Pollard was talking about how nice the new club was, blah-blah-blah, how he wished the organisation the best with it and all that, and how
brave
they were establishing a new club in such an untested location. After all, everyone knew that Ordsall was packed with villains, didn't they? And it would such a shame if something happened to the place, especially considering it was Sovereign's flagship—"

"Protection."

"Bingo."

"So what did Rockwell do?"

"Nothing. Just told them no and that was the end of it. He handed his notice in the following week. They had to get Jacqui in from Stockport to cover."

"He didn't go to the police?"

"God, no. Why would he do that?" Nash frowned at me. "The police aren't interested in attempted extortion, are they? Not when it's Barry Pollard. No, they want to get him on drugs or a nice juicy murder or something, don't they? Something that'll stick."

"Sounds like you've been following his career."

"Does it? I suppose I have. Nothing else happens round here, Graham, and it pays to know your punters. And all I'm saying to you is that if you did him a favour today, that's fine—"

"I didn't do him a favour; I paid him what he was owed."

"Hey, whatever you say, Chief. I'm just the messenger."

"I understand. I'll bear it in mind. Thank you. Listen, talking of which ..." I flicked the pit monitor onto AR Two. "You might want to keep an eye on the brown suede jacket. His name's Eamonn Dalry. You know him?"

"No."

"He'll play the outsides on as many roulettes as he can and if your dealers are any good, that's all he'll do. The second he settles at any one table, you can guarantee your dealer's spinning to sections. Give him an hour and he'll strip your float. If it were me, I'd switch out your spinner as soon as he takes a seat. Keep him running."

"Okay." Nash looked confused.

"Or, you know, whatever you think is best. It's your pit." I smiled, one of my extra-special friendly ones that used my canines. "Good luck, Kevin. See you tomorrow."

I left the pit and headed for the locker room. The place smelled of armpits, that sickly toasted smell of unwashed uniforms and something else, a sweetish odour that I couldn't quite place. I opened my locker, grabbed and shrugged into my coat before I went through the pockets to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. Then I closed the door, and the breeze sent that sweetish odour back into my nostrils.

Cannabis.

It wasn't unusual for club staff to abuse drugs. It wasn't unusual for them to do it in uniform, either. We didn't enforce random tests like the cruises did, but it had been a long time since I'd smelled cannabis onsite. If I'd been management, whoever it was would have been out on their ear mid-shift. But then, I wasn't management, was I?

Jacqui appeared in the corridor as I stepped out of the locker room. "You away, then?"

"Thought I would, yeah. You don't need me for anything else, do you?"

"No, you're good to go. How was it? Not too stressful, I hope."

I couldn't tell if she was joking, or if she'd been talking to Dave Randall. "Stressful? No, it wasn't stressful at all. If anything, I could've done with a bit
more
stress."

"Careful what you wish for."

Now that
was
a joke. Of sorts. It warranted a laugh, so I gave her one, weak as it was.

"Okay, well, good. Thanks again for stepping in at such short notice."

"No problem. Glad to help."

Jacqui nodded and moved off towards the pit.

I headed for the back door. Stopped. "Oh, actually, Jacqui, there was one thing—"

"Yes, Graham?"

"If you're going out to the pit, you might want to ask Kevin if he's noticed any odd smells."

"Smells?"

"Like marijuana."

She blinked at me as if she didn't know what marijuana was. Her eyebrows knotted. "Really?"

"I'm not saying anyone's smoking at work, but there's a definite odour of it in the locker room, and it's probably worth keeping a look out. Or a nose out."

"Yes. Thank you, Graham. I'll follow that up."

"Good. See you tomorrow."

She turned back towards the pit. I watched her leave before I continued on to the back door. Sergeant Security held the door open for me, nodded a goodnight. I stepped out into the car park, felt rain spot my face as I headed for my car.

Free at last. One shift down, only another nine to go.

"I know you, don't I?"

I turned to the sound of the voice as Barry Pollard dropped from the driver's side of a large black truck and started walking towards me. He didn't shout, but his voice was still pitched too loud for comfort. I looked back at the club. One of the front-of-house security, a black guy who looked half-asleep, stood just inside the reception doorway.

I decided to keep it quick and polite. "Mr Pollard, isn't it?"

Pollard squinted at me. "I'm sure I know you from somewhere, like."

"We met this afternoon."

"No, I meant before that. You used to work in town?"

More rain hit my face. I rubbed at it. "I normally work at the Palace."

"The
Palace
, that's right." Pollard grinned. Something metallic glinted in his mouth. "I knew you weren't one of that lot. Too fuckin' professional." He pulled a pack of cigarettes and moved in front of me, blocking my path. It was an easy, practised manoeuvre, and it told me that he knew which car was mine. He offered me a cigarette. I shook my head. He lit his own, puffed smoke. "So what you doing in there?"

"Cover."

"For Paul?"

"Yes."

"I heard he was having a baby or something."

"I don't know the details."

"Course you don't." He winked at me. "I'll let you get on."

Pollard moved out of my way, back towards the truck. I watched him.

"Oh, I meant to ask ..." He stopped halfway and turned back. "How long d'you think you're going to be with us, Graham?"

"I don't know."

"As long as it takes?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, do yourself a favour and stay around for a couple of weeks, will you?"

"Why's that?"

"Ask me no questions, son, I'll tell you no lies." He tapped the side of his large, broken nose. Two tiny question marks of smoke appeared and then broke into the night air. "See you around."

I didn't answer. I didn't move. I watched him get into the truck, watched him pull away and wave at me as he passed, watched the truck's brake lights glow blood red at the entrance to the car park and then disappear as the truck turned away.

And there was that feeling again, like I'd done something wrong.

As I turned the key in the ignition, I told myself that it was just nerves that had put a tremble in my hand. Nerves that made me check my rear view mirror to see if I was being followed. Nerves that snatched the leash from my hand and let my imagination run riot.

And nerves, like everything else in life, could be controlled.

The truth was if you worked long enough in this business, punters like Barry Pollard were a regular occurrence. Most of them were harmless – power-trippers, fake gangsters, wannabe bigshots. They just wanted to feel part of something glamorous. Then there were the others, the proper gamblers who thought they could skew the odds and bag themselves a tame pit boss. It was the organisation's fault. Sovereign didn't like to promote the concept of "us and them", because they felt it was too aggressive, and aggression wasn't part of their core brand values – theirs was a friendly casino chain, after all, one short set of legislation away from an honest-to-God
family
casino.

But then this business was a combative business for a lot of people. It
was
us and them. If you asked any long-term employee about their work, chances were they'd come off sounding like a veteran of some dirty foreign war. For some dealers and inspectors it was about the only way they could make sense of their job. Every night they put on their uniform and went into combat, fought tooth and nail until the losers were broke and bitter and the victors bloodied but proud.

I didn't see it like that. I wasn't that dramatic, and it was one of the reasons I'd sneaked up the organisational chart – all that war story stuff was for kids. For me, and for anyone else with a company clothing allowance, our nightly games were little more than a series of commercial transactions. Punters threw their money down and received an adrenalin rush and a three-second dream of financial stability in return. Yes, every now and then, someone would walk out with more money than they'd brought in, but those instances were few and far between. The simple truth of the matter – and one which escaped the attention of a vast majority of punters – was that if casinos made a loss on a regular basis, they wouldn't exist. That didn't stop some punters from thinking they could twist the odds, though. And Pollard, for all his smiles, looked like one of those.

Still, it was nothing I couldn't handle. I'd dealt with worse.

When I reached my flat, I locked the door from the inside, put the chain on, shook the handle to make sure it was secure, then put my coat away and went through to the living room. I turned on the television, checked the box to make sure
Doctor Who
had recorded. It had. I cued it up, then went through to the kitchen to make myself some hot chocolate. I put a mug of milk in the microwave, stabbed the keypad until it read two minutes and then let it hum.

Pollard would be back. I hadn't shut him down properly.

There were reasons for that. He'd surprised me, so I'd acted emotionally. Plus, I couldn't help but be influenced by Nash's nonsense about Pete Rockwell – the man's reputation preceded him. So I didn't assert myself, let Pollard walk all over me. He had authority, even if it was the authority of a tradesman, the kind of confidence that came with knowing how to unblock a toilet. That kind of authority had never shaken me before, and maybe if I'd been a little more prepared, it wouldn't have shaken me then.

Maybe.

I grabbed some jelly teddy bears out of the cupboard and ripped open the bag. A couple of bears dropped onto the counter. They were the first ones to be eaten. There would be no escapees on my watch. I looked at my palm. It was still red and itchy. I reached into the cupboard for my skin cream, squeezed a pea and rubbed it in as I chewed.

I'd had my confidence knocked. The transfer wasn't ideal, and if I was honest with myself, I was probably still a little raw after my run in with Les Beale.

No, let's be brutally honest here: I
knew
I was still raw after what happened with Beale.

Last week, I'd arrived on shift at the Palace to be greeted by a losing pit, thanks to Lorraine, a trainee pit boss who'd realised three hours too late that half her dealers were section-spinning. Word spread, and it wasn't long before a whale named Vinnie Collins had squeezed himself through the front doors to take advantage. By the time I got to the pit, he was on plaques and the roulettes were bleeding.

It was bad, but it was manageable. I'd dealt with worse.

Then there was that double drop on the slots. Sirens wailed wins, wouldn't shut up until I throttled them with the slot key. But it was more annoying than catastrophic, a couple of hundred quid gone in spare change to a Chinese woman who looked like she wanted to kill me with her mind. A part of me suspected she probably could, too, so I was quick about killing the machine and returning to the pit.

She wasn't the only Chinese in the place that night. Chinese punters had a way of making a club seem packed, even if there were only a few in. They were loud, they were animated, they were quick to laugh and scream, they took the mick out of each other and the dealer, and they bought in cheap and stacked the layouts. Some of the day dealers weren't used to the skyscrapers that teetered on their tables and it wasn't long before many of the games resembled Jenga more than roulette. It was only a matter of time, then, before the first tower dropped to the baize and the screaming began, quickly followed by lengthy camera checks and forensic pay-outs. Meanwhile, Vinnie Collins was using those plaques to drain the floats.

And then there was Les Beale.

Les Beale wasn't anyone special. He was a double-glazing salesman. He was an alcoholic. He was a baby in a suit who should have been on a life ban, but Dave Randall was softest with the people who deserved it the least, because he was terrified of conflict. I knew something was building – a good pit boss has an instinct for such things – and I even remembered warning Alan Slater, Beale's perpetually soused mate, to keep an eye on him. Beale had been drinking, after all, and I knew what kind of aggro merchant he was when he'd had a few too many. I would have asked Dave to keep an eye on him too, but he was nowhere to be seen, which was typical on a busy night. Perhaps if he'd been there, he could have stopped Beale from losing his temper on the Caribbean Stud and beating some poor lad half to death.