A Chancer

by Kelman, James

  Okay kid, the dealer said, you’ve got fifteen quid – what you doing? Want to withdraw anything?

  Tammas was staring down at the money and made no answer.

  The dealer looked at him. Listen, you were only in for a sixth of what was there – half a quid to Erskine’s two and a half. As it is I’ve had to stick you in a couple of bob to make up the round fifteen.

  Aye, said Deefy. You’ve got to mind there’s a puggy coming off.

  Tammas shrugged. Might as well leave it all in then.

  The previous loser bankoed the money immediately. Tammas won again and the man bankoed once more, on the £30. When he lost he sat staring at the money for some time, he was still holding his wallet in one hand.

  Davie . . . The dealer asked, What you doing?

  The guy looked at him.

  You wanting eh . . . ? The dealer nodded his head at the money on the baize.

  Naw. Davie slid the wallet into the inside pocket in his jacket and got up off his seat, he walked across the floor and out of the room.

  The dealer raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips; he glanced quickly at Deefy and shrugged. Then he put the cigarette in his mouth and taking the puggy from the bank he said to Tammas, You’ve got fifty four quid son.

  Give me a score.

  Once he had passed him it the dealer glanced round at everybody. Thirty four quid lads, all or any part.

  There was an immediate rush from the punters. Apart from the previous loser nobody had managed to get a bet on since the third round of the current bank. Both workers moved quickly trying to see that those who had stuck their money down first were covered, but even so there were a few grumbles. The dealer remained silent. He sat back on his chair smoking, one hand behind his head. Then he put the cigarette in his mouth and leaned forwards, tapped the table and flicked the cards from the shoe.

  The man who had made the largest bet of the punters was given the cards; and he asked for another. The dealer gave him a 2. Tammas turned his and stayed on 4 to win. He inhaled the cigar and coughed, he pulled over an ashtray and ground it out then lighted one of his cigarettes. The dealer was looking at him, indicating the money. Tammas said, Give us thirty; split five for the workers; the rest goes.

  The dealer smiled. He counted the £30 swiftly and passed it over, then he gave Deefy the additional £5. Deefy nodded to Tammas. And the other worker called: Ta son.

  The cards were dealt. Tammas won again and waved his hand when the dealer glanced at him. And the dealer paused a moment, gathered up the money and called: Okay lads, there’s fifty eight quid here says there’s a bet for every one of yous.

  After the initial flurry of money there was a fairly quick dwindling of it. The dealer grinned: I’ll take it in coppers!

  A few of the men laughed, and began digging into their pockets. One of them brought out a ten pound note, some lesser stakes were laid down; then nothing. The dealer glanced at two men who were sitting next to each other. They had not placed a solitary bet since Tammas had taken the bank. The dealer pushed the shirt cuff back off his wrist and he examined his watch, muttering, Could be the last hand this, if we dont get moving soon.

  One of the pair sniffed; the other one nodded, he placed five fivers on the baize.

  Pony’s a good bet, replied the dealer, and he looked round at the rest of the players. Another tenner and we go.

  One of the spectators stepped forwards; his hand came out of his coat pocket and he tossed two crumpled £1 notes onto the table.

  Deefy lifted them and smoothed them and he winked at the guy. Stopped raining anyway Tommy – nice night for a walk!

  The guy laughed. And soon the remaining £8 was taken by different punters. And the dealer was tapping the table and calling: Okay lads, we go . . .

  The major bettor was given the punters’ cards. He looked at them for a couple of seconds before saying: No card.

  Tammas asked for one and the dealer flicked him a 7. That’s it, said Tammas, and he showed his other two – both face-cards.

  The opposition tossed in his cards and shook his head: I’ve got 7 as well!

  Another good paddle! called the worker with the bunnet.

  Him and his fucking paddles, muttered a man.

  Somebody from behind called: You cant beat that boy.

  Then Deefy said. It’s only a draw lads it’s only a draw. Good yin but! He glanced at Tammas and winked.

  The dealer had folded his arms and leaned back on his chair, gazing round at everybody. The conversations going on were quite noisy but eventually those doing the talking began to stop, and to look at the dealer. He sighed and grunted, Is that us got a bit of order at last?

  Once the cards had been dealt the punters’ man glanced at his and made to speak. But before he did so Tammas was upturning his own pair and calling: 9 – natural!

  Deefy grinned and he lifted the cards and put them next to each other on the centre of the table. A good 9, he said.

  The reaction was not as loud as on the paddle; but three men left the game immediately and a couple of others moved away to sit at one of the poker tables. The dealer opened his cigarette packet and lighted a fresh one from the burning end of the old one. He passed one each to the workers, then glanced at Tammas but closed the packet when he saw he was smoking already.

  All the money and the cards were still lying in a heap towards the middle of the baize. Deefy and the other worker had moved their chairs back the way and were conducting a conversation behind the dealer.

  Tammas had borrowed the following morning’s Daily Record from a man and was reading the back pages. After a bit he turned to the racing, and noticed the workers now leaning to take in the cards. They began shuffling for a new shoe. He shut the newspaper and returned it to the man.

  Okay, said the dealer. Much you wanting son?

  Much have I got?

  Hundred and sixteen.

  Tammas frowned at the money on the baize.

  The dealer smiled: Want me to count it? He sniffed and began to do so immediately.

  It’s alright.

  But the dealer continued, sorting it into wads of £20. A hundred and sixteen it is. Much you wanting.

  See what you can get on.

  Okay . . . The dealer paused and smiled before saying: Right you are lads, quite a bit to go now.

  A few grunts greeted this. Then a voice saying: How much exactly Jake?

  Eh . . . The dealer glanced up. It was Erskine back.

  Much is it? For a banko.

  The dealer glanced sideways: You sure you dont want something out son?

  Eh naw, eh what about the workers maybe? Give them the odd six quid. And the puggy as well? What about it?

  Fuck the puggy! The dealer grinned and extracted six singles and passed them to Deefy. Then he smiled at Erskine. You’ve got a hundred and ten.

  Erskine nodded. He had taken a thick wad of notes from his trouser pocket and began counting. But one of the two men who had lost most of the last bet suddenly stood up. Wait a minute, he cried, this is fucking ridiculous. I just done a forty there! A forty – and you’re trying to tell me I’ve not to get a chance to get my money back!

  The dealer stared at him.

  Fuck sake Jake!

  A silence followed. Then Erskine said: Fair enough. Let them get as much on as they like – I’m no bothering.

  Well it’s up to you, said the dealer. But as far as I’m concerned you’ve bankoed the bet. And a banko’s a banko in this club.

  Erskine shrugged.

  The other man nodded and sat down again. He and his mate counted exactly £40 out and deposited it on the baize. Deefy quickly covered it with £40 from the bank. The dealer called: Okay lads, get the money down!

  And wee bets were laid and covered, some of them coin stacks which Deefy and the other worker checked through methodically. As soon as there was a pause the dealer said: Finished. That’s it.

  Seventy two quid, said Deefy.

  Seventy two, calle
d the dealer.

  Erskine nodded: It’s a bet.

  The dealer stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and he dealt quickly, sliding the cards out from the shoe, keeping his right forefinger on each. One of the punters at the front took the cards and kept them face down, neither looking at them nor letting anyone else look at them; he passed them up to Erskine who asked for another. The dealer flipped him a 9, then he glanced at Tammas. Tammas turned his two cards over, two 2’s. Beat it, he said.

  Erskine shook his head. I cant; I cant beat it. He shrugged and tossed in his cards.

  Fucking hell, muttered somebody.

  And somebody else sighed. Apart from that it was silent for several seconds.

  Tammas put his hand in his pocket to get his cigarettes, and noticed he had one still burning in the ashtray, but it had almost burned down onto the tip. He tapped the ash off then ground it out. A cigarette landed beside his hand. It had been thrown by the dealer. Ta, he said.

  The dealer nodded. He turned to the other worker and whispered something to him, and the man got up off his seat and walked ben the snacks’ room. Then he turned back to Tammas again, and he gestured at the piles of money and pursed his lips. Take it son, he said. Unless . . . he glanced up towards Erskine.

  You joking! Erskine smiled. No me Jake. The boy’s a machine.

  The dealer nodded; he glanced briefly round at the other punters and shook his head. He pointed at the money again. On you go son . . . they’re finished.

  Tammas nodded.

  Both the dealer and Deefy helped him tidy all the money, separating it out into the different denominations. There were a few pounds in silver coins. Tammas took the notes and left the rest lying. Eh . . . he shrugged at the dealer, indicating it. The workers, eh . . . he shrugged again.

  The dealer nodded. He sorted out £5 in 50 pence pieces and gave it to Deefy, leaving the rest in the centre of the baize. Okay lads! He called: Okay lads . . . there’s about six quid here for the first Jack, the first Jack for six quid!

  Most of the previous punters and most of the spectators all returned to the table.

  Tammas left his seat quickly, stuffing the notes into his trouser pocket and keeping his hand inside.

  In the other room Erskine was standing chatting to the doorman and the woman who served behind the counter. The very boy, he grinned. Hey son, d’you play poker?

  Just a wee bit.

  Ah well that’s where I’m headed the now if you’re interested. You’re welcome to tag along.

  Eh, naw, I’ll no bother. Thanks but.

  Suit yourself, suit yourself. Erskine smiled. I’ll see you then, cheerio.

  Tammas nodded and continued to the door. The doorman was there before him and he followed him along the short corridor.

  A girl came from the Ladies toilet and she looked at him as she passed.

  Thanks for letting us in, he said to the doorman.

  No bother son.

  This is eh . . . Tammas gave him £5 and walked off but when the door shut he began trotting. And when the reached the end of the lane he started to run quite fast, not stopping till he saw a taxi for hire, and he signalled the driver.

  •••

  He woke up suddenly. The curtains were not drawn and the room was bright. The alarm clock had stopped. He got out of bed, crossed to the window and peered out. Quite a few folk were on the street. He turned to the cupboard, tugged on the bottom drawer. The thick wad lay in the corner beneath his socks. He took it out and counted it, threw it on the bed; he dressed in moments, grabbed the money and raced downstairs and along to the betting shop. It was approaching 1.30. The first race of the day was about to begin. Tammas scanned the board, strode to the wall to study the formpages; but when the next show of betting came through he went to the side of the counter and beckoned across Phil, the elderly man who worked there as cashier on Saturdays.

  I want the second best to eighty quid, he said quietly.

  Phil nodded. He walked off behind the partition to where the manager was. When he returned he accepted the money without comment. Tammas strolled to a radiator to stand. A guy he knew approached and started to chat about the race. He had stuck 50 pence on the same horse. Tammas nodded when he told him this, then he shook his head and stared at the floor. Before the race was due off he left the place and trotted along the couple of blocks to another bookie. The race was over when he arrived. The favourite had won and his selection was not in the first three. The boardman ripped the page down and stuck up the next. Tammas called: Hey what happened to the second best there?

  The boardman shook his head, spat onto the floor. Never in the hunt, he said.

  Tammas lighted a cigarette. Another show of betting began and he went to one of the formpages but without looking at it he turned away and left, and he hailed the first available taxi.

  John was still in bed; his mother led Tammas into the living room. About five minutes later John entered, wearing a dressing gown; he slumped onto an armchair, swung his legs over its side. Tammas threw him a cigarette, gave him the burning matchstick.

  John coughed on the smoke. He groaned and inhaled again. Cheer up, said Tammas, taking the wad from his pocket. He began dividing it into equal piles on the rug in front of the fireplace . . . One to you and one to me, two to you and two to me, five to you and five to me . . .

  John’s eyelids parted more widely and he gaped at the money, sitting upright on the chair now and with his arms tensed. For fuck sake, he was saying.

  . . . and one to you and one to me. And Tammas continued counting. While he was doing so he started detailing the events of the night. Finally he sat back, smiling. I told you man. I knew we’d knock it off. A wee bit of patience.

  John was nodding.

  I’ve never felt anything like it man, No kidding ye it was fucking – Christ! You should’ve been there to see it.

  John nodded. Then he frowned at Tammas for a moment. He said, Eh . . . see that you were saying there man . . . was that no – what you were saying, were you no saying it was more than two hundred quid?

  What?

  Naw I mean at the chemmy, when you won that last yin, was it no for two hundred quid or something?

  Two hundred and twenty. Tammas nodded, he glanced at the two piles on the floor. By the time I gave out tips and that, and eh . . . aye, I stuck a few on a fucking mule – finished third.

  How much?

  Eighty. Eighty quid.

  Eighty quid! Eighty quid! John had sat forwards on his chair and now he sat back the way, leaning against the side. Fuck sake Tammas! Eighty quid!

  Okay.

  Naw I mean Christ that’s fucking – I mean it wasnt your fucking money. John sat forwards again and he pointed at the money on the floor: Fifty two and a half quid each you’re saying?

  Aye, fifty two and a half each, aye.

  Fuck sake.

  What?

  What! Christ sake Tammas it wasnt your fucking money to stick on a horse, it was mine, it was the two of us, it wasnt just fucking yours – I mean that should be a fucking hundred I’m getting. I know it was you that won it and all that, but eighty quid on a horse! A tenner aye but eighty! I mean that’s fucking . . .

  Tammas looked at him. Then he shook his head and he bent to lift one of the wads which he folded and thrust in his trouser pocket. He walked to the door. I’ll see you, he said.

  Tch Tammas, wait a minute.

  Nah.

  Och come on for fuck sake! John was off the armchair and coming towards him with his hands raised palms upwards.

  Naw. Tammas continued on down the lobby. I’ll see you later, he said and he opened the outside door and stepped out and closed it behind himself immediately.

  •••

  Two guys were sitting on the second bottom step of the flight up to the labour exchange, one held a bottle of wine and was wiping his lips when Tammas got out of the taxi. He paid the driver. They watched him as he approached, and continued watching him as he steppe
d roundabout, and on up into the place. He joined the queue at his box number, taking the newspaper from his side pocket and unfolding it.

  When it came his turn to sign the clerk told him nothing had come through yet and asked if he wanted a B1 form for the social security office.

  No, ta.

  Along the street he met Brian McCann, a regular from Simpson’s who was heading down to the job centre. It was crowded inside. McCann went directly to the vacancy board while Tammas walked over to the thick, upholstered seats near one of the interviewer’s desks and he sat there reading the newspaper. McCann called him eventually and they left. On the pavement McCann muttered, Fuck all – unless you want to count Welwyn Garden City.

  Hh. Tammas gave him a cigarette and paused to strike a match.

  They’re wanting electricians but. McCann smiled briefly; he bent to take a light; he exhaled. Aye, I’ll tell the wife to pack this afternoon.

  Tammas grinned. He stopped walking at the bus stop but McCann hesitated. Dont worry about it, said Tammas, patting his pocket.

  McCann shrugged. He nipped his cigarette and stuck it behind his ear.

  Tammas was pointing to one of the day’s runners on the racing page of the newspaper. That Mint Julep, he said, I fancy it quite strongly.

  Mm, aye.

  If I mind right it won a handicap up at Haydock a month or so ago, eh?

  I think so. McCann nodded, looking up the road. He brought the half cigarette from behind his ear and gestured with it to Tammas who handed him the box of matches. Ta . . . eh . . . He sniffed: Eh Tammas, any chance of a pound till the weekend?

  Aye Christ fuck here. Tammas got one out and gave him it. Course, dont be daft.

  Naw it’s just for a packet of fags and that.

  Christ. Tammas shook his head. Not at all man, hh, a pound! He inhaled deeply, looked back at the racing page. Naw, he said, I think I’ll leave them alone the day – maybe go to the pictures or something, stay out the road.

  McCann chuckled. He cleared his throat and spat into the gutter. No seen Billy this morning?

  Naw, I waited for him as well; must’ve slept in – unless he signed early or something.