Inside Straight (9 page)

My mobile rang. The display showed an unknown number.

I connected. "Graham Ellis."

"How come you're allowed to have a phone in the pit and us lot aren't?"

I looked up and around the gaming floor. It was semi-busy, crowds clustered around tables, a little foot traffic, mostly white punters already flushed with drink and adrenalin. I couldn't see Pollard but there he was, right in my ear. "I can't talk now."

"Course you can't. You've got people coming back off their break. But do yourself a favour, will you? Turn the other fuckin' phone on. We need a talk."

I turned, saw the breakers heading back just as the line went dead. I disconnected and assigned tables without thinking. There were no immediate complaints, or else none that I heard. I still couldn't see Pollard. I turned off my phone and dropped it in my jacket pocket. My face felt hot. I touched stubble, which worried me because I was normally careful about grooming. As my hand came away from my face, I caught a whiff of bad breath. That must have been me, too. I blinked and searched the pit desk for my Gold Spot.

"Everything okay, Graham?"

Jacqui watched me, looked mildly worried. I realised I was sweating and hated myself for it. I wiped one palm on my trouser leg and smiled at her as I flicked the cap from my breath spray. "Yeah, I'm just—" Spray, spray and smile, spray again. "It's
warm
tonight, isn't it?"

"You should be here in the summer. The union rep's out with the thermometer every half hour. How are you getting on?"

"Fine. Most of the tables are up, the only one down is a new open, so it's just teething. Reckon we should be up on the night, but otherwise nothing to report."

"You look tired."

"It's just the changeover. The old body clock just needs to adjust. I'll be fine next week."

"I hope so. I need you fighting fit."

I smiled, and then I saw him. Over her shoulder, up there at the bar. Pollard was watching me, his face stone. The barman put a pint down in front of him. Pollard paid with a note and waved off the change.

"You need any help in the meantime, Graham, just give me a shout, alright?"

I kept smiling while something burned in my throat. Give her a shout? I wished I could.

A wide, toothy smile defined Dennis Mendoza. That, and a musk that smelled of fermenting fruit. "May I call you Graham?"

"Of course, Mr Mendoza."

A finger in the air. "If I call you Graham, you must call me Dennis, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay!" He laughed – a loud, rising trill – even though there was nothing even remotely funny about our conversation. Dennis Mendoza was a tiny Filipino, probably a borderline midget, and the epitome of cruise ship efficiency: compact and immaculate in his crisp slacks and pressed white shirt, both of which sported creases that could cut glass. He was as otherwise bland as his surroundings, a cookie-cutter office in one of the new glass blocks in the city centre. A small window behind him showed a grey sky and rain spots. Between our cheap office chairs was a twisting, hard-weave carpet. The only sign of sunshine and happiness came in the form of a poster of Duchess' biggest cruise ship, the Grand Duchess. There were people on deck, tanned and dressed in white. They were too good-looking to be English.

Mendoza leaned forward. "You must call me Dennis because I am not Mr Mendoza. Mr Mendoza is my father, okay?"

"I certainly hope so."

Another laugh. He hadn't heard that one before. He slapped one tiny thigh. If there was one thing Mendoza liked to do, it was laugh. He laughed when I came into the room, he laughed his way through most of the introduction, he laughed about how small the room was – and how
he
didn't mind, ah-hee-hee-
hee
– and he went on laughing now like some demented pull-cord doll. I couldn't hope to meet his enthusiasm for life, but I had to do my best. After all, this was my escape.

"So." Mendoza's laughter ebbed into a slow chuckle and appeared to turn inwards, putting a sparkle into his eyes as his mouth went straight. "You are interested in working for Duchess, Graham?"

"That's right. Clive Lewis told me you might have some vacancies coming up."

"For experienced staff, yes. Always."

"That's good."

"Not
dealers
." A glimpse of a frown, the curl of his top lip. "Always too many dealers. Dealers, dealers, dealers. Everywhere. And
British
dealers." He made a disgusted sound. "They are always drinking. Or drugs." He shook his head, waved a hand. "I do not like it."

"I don't drink."

A sly look from Dennis. "Really?"

"Really."

"Not even
one
beer, hmm?"

"Not at all. I don't like it."

"Wonderful. We have many, many applicants for dealers, yes. Always too many. But not for pit bosses." A twirled finger that settled on his top lip as he perused my CV. "It is company policy to promote from within, but this is still very difficult. Senior staff, they marry, they have family, they settle down. They do not want to be away from home."

"I'm not married."

"Girlfriend?"

First Jacqui, now him. I was getting sick of people asking me that one-word question. It was probably crossing some sort of line HR-wise too, but after a second's thought I decided that I didn't care. "No girlfriend."

A grin on his face, the first syllable elongated: "
Boy
friend?"

"No, no boyfriend either." I gave him the kind of pleasant smile that was supposed to put his mind at ease about my sexuality as well as my lack of offence at being asked such a personal question. As it turned out, of course I was offended. The only man who didn't mind being called a homosexual was a homosexual. "I am completely free."

"This is good. And so why do you wish to work on our ships, Graham? I see you have not worked on board before?"

"You're right, I haven't. I've been UK-based, land-based, my entire career. The cruises are something I've always wanted to try, and when Clive told me that you were looking for experienced staff, I figured that there was no time like the present."

Mendoza watched me as if he expected more.

"A man can't spend his whole life in Manchester, can he?"

"You want to see the world?"

"I suppose so, yes."

Another laugh, roaring out of him this time, followed by another slap of the thigh. "Of course you do! Everybody wants to see the world! It is a beautiful place! Now, do you have a visa?"

For a second, I thought he meant a credit card, then my brain caught up. "No, sorry, I don't think I do."

"I did not think so." Dennis frowned properly now, thinking. It was a weird sight. "And you have not worked overseas before."

There wasn't much I could do about a visa. When I'd mentioned it to Clive, he told me not to worry. Get the job first and worry about the paperwork later. That was his line, but then this was a guy who'd once spent an entire double shift with his flies down just to win a hundred quid bet. He wasn't exactly trustworthy on matters of procedure and fine print.

"How much notice?"

I snapped back to Mendoza. "From my current place?"

His head was cocked to one side. "Yes."

"None."

Mendoza raised both eyebrows. "Really?"

"I'm working on a temporary transfer at the moment."

"Ah. Good." He nodded, looked at my CV, and scribbled something on a blank part. "We have a cruise for the Canary Islands and Western Europe in October. Would you be free?"

"Yes, absolutely I would." My brain reeled with dates as I tried to work out how long October was from now, how many night shifts I would be expected to do, and when I could logically get a visa.

"I will need to confirm, but you look fit and healthy, yes? No problems?"

"No problems."

"And raring to go?"

"Yes." I grinned.

"Then we will be seeing you soon, I hope."

"I have the job?"

"I will let you know
very
soon."

Laughter. I joined in. Dennis stood. So did I. We shook hands. His disappeared into mine. He kept laughing, a low, liquid chuckle, and I didn't mind it at all now. As he showed me out, I realised that I was shaking.

Outside, rain spotted my jacket. I shrugged into my coat as I walked. I felt like screaming with relief. I was free. Or I would be, certain to the usual rigmarole, which I assumed would be over pretty quickly, given that October was only a couple of weeks away. Worst case scenario, he meant the
end
of October, but that would still be fine. I could still jack the Riverside job and have enough money to live on until I went away. And when I came back, I could go somewhere else in the country, or perhaps just stay on with Duchess. After all, their casino staff jaunts were six months a time. With a little careful saving, I could easily take the other six months off. After all, room and board were provided, so what else was I going to spend my money on?

The more I thought about it, the more the original fear turned into anticipation. By the time I arrived for the night shift, I was almost excited. I didn't let it show, though, and when Barry Pollard came in at ten, I did my best to ignore him. He would've been an idiot not to notice. I didn't care. I would be gone the moment my new friend Dennis called to confirm.

Which reminded me: I needed to speak to Jacqui. I left it until my meal break, and decided to forgo the fried junk they called food and managed to catch Jacqui out on the floor. She was standing by the cash desk, chatting to Tintin when I approached.

"Jacqui, mind if I have a quick word?"

"Sure, no problem." She followed me through the staff door. "What's up?"

"I need to book some holiday time."

"Oh." She looked disappointed, as if she wasn't aware that I was allowed holidays. "How many days do you have?"

"About a week, I think."

She crooked an eyebrow at me. "And when were you thinking of taking off?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe next week? Some friends of mine from the States are going to be in London and I don't get to see them very often, so I thought I'd pop down."

"I don't know, Graham. It's a bit short notice."

"Sorry." I didn't want to play my trump card, but I had to. "You said if there was anything you could do to help, though. And I'll be honest with you, Jacqui, I didn't want to say anything, but I'm not sure I'm ready for the nights yet."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

I looked around as if I was checking for eavesdroppers. "It's not the night shifts
per se
. I don't know. It might just be the transition. I don't think I'm a hundred percent yet."

She nodded to herself. "I suppose I did kind of drop you in it, didn't I?"

"I should have said something earlier."

"No, it's okay. Listen, you take the days, I'll get someone to cover, and we can talk about it more when you get back, alright?"

"Thank you."

"But do me a favour, Graham, okay? Take it easy while you're off. I don't want to put more pressure on you, but you're really the only truly experienced member of staff we have. Even if you're not working at your peak, you're doing a better job than anyone else out there, so I need you to take care of yourself."

I swallowed. My chest hurt. I smiled through my discomfort and said nothing.

"I know about stress, Graham."

"Okay."

"I'm serious. I worked land-based in Odessa for three years, you know."

I looked at her. Odessa wasn't a cushy cruise. I'd heard stories about the Ukraine and they'd all involved gangsters and guns. "I didn't know that."

"I don't talk about it."

"Bad time?"

"And then some."

"I mean, you
hear
things—"

"Only reason I mention it now is so you know I'm not Dave Randall. I do understand. I've been in the shit myself."

I smiled. "Okay."

She smiled too, and I wondered if she knew what a liar Dave was. I wondered if she knew what a liar
I
was. "Listen, enjoy your days off. Get some rest because I'll be working you like a dog when you get back."

"I look forward to it."

I watched Jacqui sway a little as she headed back to the floor and wondered how much of the movement was her heels and how much her attitude. And then I started thinking about things that would get me into trouble if I dwelled on them, so I shook it off and walked away. There were things you didn't do, things that Dave Randall had no compunction about doing over at the Palace, but I wasn't Dave Randall. As Clive put it, you didn't stick your stack near a company chipper unless you were willing to lose the lot.

He was right, even if he'd ignored his own advice on plenty of occasions and still managed to keep his job.

But then I wasn't Clive. I wasn't Dave. I wasn't the kind of man who could get away with something like that. Of course, I would've been lying to myself if I said I didn't find Jacqui Prince attractive, and that a large part of that attraction derived from the fact that she was senior to me in every way, but there were things you pursued and things you left well enough alone. It was entirely possible that she was interested – the way she kept touching me, for instance – but I'd been burned by friendliness and dyslexic readings before, and I couldn't risk being wrong again. Even though I was supposed to be part of a generation that had been brought up by women, I still didn't feel as if I knew much about them. And I'd rather have stayed alone than be branded a creeper again.