Inside Straight

by Ray Banks

  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.

  Later, I heard that Beale had called out the young Chinese lad for cheating, which was virtually impossible to do on the poker table. It was nonsense, anyway – Beale hadn't kicked off because the Chinese lad had insulted his sense of fair play, he'd kicked off because he was drunk and doing his dough, which was the same old, same old as far as Beale was concerned. The only difference this time was the ferocity of the tantrum – he broke the lad's finger, hauled him from the stool and attempted to stamp his face into the carpet. It was loud, it was messy and, worst of all, it had killed games stone dead. I shouted loud enough to snap his attention away from the bloody bundle on the floor, but Slater hauled him out of there before I got a chance to do much else.

  I didn't see Dave Randall until Slater and Beale were out of the building. When he did arrive, he was all smiles for the remaining punters and calm assurance for the lad's mates, assuring me that he'd call an ambulance, yes, but the police were out of the question. "Let's make sure he's alright before we start pointing fingers. Bad enough there's blood on the carpet, but there's no need to make a bad situation toxic by packing the place with police."

  "Dave, I'm not kidding." I was shaking. I didn't know if it was anger or adrenalin. I knew I couldn't look him in the eye without wanting to hit him. "If you don't call them, I will."

  He stepped in close. "I think we've taken enough damage to our reputation for one night, don't you?"

  I stared at the carpet. "Depends on the reputation. If you're looking to attract the slap-happy drunk, then I'd say tonight was a roaring success, what do you think?"

  "I'll ban him, okay?"

  "How long?"

  "Now isn't the time, Graham."

  "Yes, it is."

  "I don't know. As long as it takes."

  "That's not an answer."

  "Because it's not a decision we can make on the spur of the moment." He frowned at me, studying me as if I was brain-damaged. "We need to weigh up the pros and cons, Graham."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Mr Beale's been a member for a long time."

  "He's a liability. He killed the floor."

  "Oh, come on." Dave flashed another smile at the punters clustered around one of the moribund roulettes and spoke through his teeth. "You should be grateful, Graham. He stopped Vinnie Collins, didn't he?"

  "No, he just made him cash out before we could recoup. Which means we're down sixty on one punter."

  The smile disappeared. "Really?"

  "We would've had him otherwise."

  "Maybe." Dave looked round at the receptionist who had appeared in the pit. She nodded that the ambulance was here. "Listen, we'll talk about this later, okay?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  By the time we shuttered for the night, we were down eighty-five grand. That was a hefty price for a non-London Sovereign club and a big enough number to warrant detention, which was why I hung back. After the staff left, Dave asked Errol the Security to do a quick lock check and beckoned me to the restaurant. He attempted a smile that made him look like an aggressive chimp. "You know something, Graham, I think you may be the best pit boss we have."

  "Is that right?"

  "I think so."

  "Well, thank you, Dave. That's very kind of you."

  He gestured to a chair. I took it. As he lowered himself into the chair opposite, the smile turned upside down. "Of course, I have to say, I think we may have exploited that fact."

  "How do you mean?"

  He looked at the pit. "Well, you've been run ragged these past couple of months, haven't you?"

  "Not really."

  He jerked his chin at me. "How many doubles this week?"

  "Three." It wasn't an unreasonable amount. Certainly no more than I usually did. "I like to keep busy, Dave. I work better that way. It's all about momentum."

  "Perhaps."

  "Perhaps?"

  "Look, everyone deals with stress in their own way—"

  "I'm not stressed." I looked at the raw patch of skin on my left palm. "I'm really not. Not stressed."

  "Okay." He shrugged, opened a hand at me. "Pressured, then. Better?"

  "Not particularly. What are you getting at?"

  "Some people cope with pressure better than others, Graham. Someone like you copes with it remarkably well."

  "Thank you."

  "But you can't do it forever, can you?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." He nodded, the smile returning. "I'm glad to hear it. But I still think you should take a couple of days off."

  I shook my head. "I don't have any annual leave. I already booked a week in November." I started to pick at a loose thread on the arm of the chair. "And I was over in San Diego this year, so—"

  "Well then, why don't we just put it down as sick leave?"

  "Because I'm not sick."

  "I know, but—" He opened his mouth, clamped it shut, and his lips thinned as if he was attempting a smile that refused to form. His face only relaxed when he looked away. "I know you're not, Graham. I understand that. But I think I'm going to need you to go ahead and take a couple of days anyway, okay? Don't worry about your record. I'll square it with HR."

  "Why?"

  "Because I can."

  "No, why are you telling me to take time off?"

  "Again, because I can." It sounded like a threat. Looked like one, too. Then he slapped his hands against his thighs and stood up. "I'll give you a ring in a couple of days, see how you're doing, alright?"

  So that was that. Decision made, no right of appeal, nothing to do but go home and fill my time.

  I spent two days pottering. I read some comics, watched my DVR backlog, caught up on blogs and forum posts, got the better of a Nolan fanboy who didn't realise he was dealing with a thirty-two-year-old whose knowledge of the DC canon, vocabulary and rhetorical skills far surpassed his own. I turned the idiot inside-out and hung him out to dry like Ed Gein's laundry. It was fun, but after two days, I started to feel a little like I was under house arrest. God help me, but I actually started to miss work.

  On the second night, Dave called. "Hey, Graham, how are you feeling?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Listen, I just got off the phone to Jacqui Prince at the Riverside ..." He gabbled the rest so I wouldn't have a chance to interrupt. The Riverside were a pit boss down thanks to paternity leave, so would I do the honourable thing and fill in for a couple of weeks? I didn't say anything. Didn't need to – Dave make my decision for me. "That's brilliant, Graham, thanks a lot. I'll let her know to expect you on Tuesday morning, okay?"

  Decision number two made, still no right of appeal. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt like I was being set up, shoved out of the way while Dave sorted out the Beale situation with Regional.

  God only knew how long that would take. Regional weren't known for their speed. Meanwhile, I was stuck at the Riverside.

  I dumped two heaped teaspoons of hot chocolate into the warm milk and stirred slowly. I couldn't stay on the days, not if I wanted to keep my sanity. From what little I'd seen of Kevin Nash, he wasn't close to my experience or ability, so Jacqui would be actively wasting resources if she didn't stick me on n
ights as soon as she could. If I was best pit boss at the Palace – and I was, without question – then I was certainly the best pit boss at the Riverside. Give me two weeks, I'd have that place running like the proverbial well-oiled machine. I'd have to have a word with Jacqui, try to sort something out.

  But right now, I had other plans. I sucked the spoon, tossed it into the sink, and then took my hot chocolate through to the living room to watch Doctor Who.

  4

  After a week, the day shifts began to take their toll.

  The move from night to day was a tough one to make at the best of times. Most people could handle it once or twice a week – the normal shift patterns were four nights and a day followed by two days off – but when you were used to the nights, it was murder. I hadn't done a day shift that wasn't part of a double in about ten years, and so my body clock ticked on Nightowl Standard, which meant I was wide awake and pacing at three o'clock in the morning.

  Halfway through the second week it occurred to me that maybe I was being professionally abused.

  A couple of days later, I became convinced of it.

  As much as I wanted to help out – or as much as I'd been forced by circumstance and courtesy to help out – there was a limit to my patience. I could have done great things at the Riverside, but in order to do those great things, I had to graduate from day to night. I tried to talk to Jacqui, but it was difficult, or at least I seemed to find it difficult. Normally I was efficient, straight to the point, and God help you if you tried to argue, but in front of Jacqui I was rambling, shuffling, half-blushing and cotton-mouthed. It was weird. Her proximity alone turned me sweaty and dyspraxic. And yes, she was a striking woman – maybe if I'd been a few decades older and not working in the same club, I'd have found her attractive in a superficial kind of way. And maybe, lying in bed, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, I'd allowed my thoughts to stray in that direction, purely as a rapid means to a sticky and sleepy end. But I wasn't about to let those thoughts intrude on what was a perfectly decent working relationship. I was a professional, after all.

  An added complication was that Jacqui met any mention of a shift change with a frown that put three short lines between her eyebrows and wrinkles into her top lip. "Yeah, I don't know, Graham. I really haven't had a chance to look at the rotas yet."

  "That's fine. I'm just saying, when you do—"

  "Okay." She smiled, but it was placating rather than agreeable. "We'll see, eh?"

  Which meant no. "We'll see" always meant no. And something about the brush-off irked me no end. "You don't have any better pit bosses here, Jacqui. We both know that."

  "Paul Barlow was primarily a day boss, Graham."

  "And I'm not."

  "But you are covering him. Maybe if you were joining us permanently, we'd be able to discuss it further."

  I felt a twitch develop in my arm. I held it, straightened my posture, tried to channel my nerves into something purer, something more like anger. "So when's he coming back?"

  She regarded me for a moment. "I'm sorry you're not happy here, Graham—"

  "Happy's got nothing to do with it. I'm absolutely fine, as it happens. I'm just not feeling very challenged and I believe that you're not using what you have to your best advantage. At the end of the day, it's your prerogative, and there may be politics here that I don't know about, but look, all I can go off are the numbers. Have you been keeping track of the numbers, Jacqui?"

  "Graham—"

  "Because I have. Every day I hand Kevin Nash a winner of a pit and every night he struggles to hold on to it."

  A pause. "I understand your frustration, Graham."

  "Do you?"

  She nodded. "Leave it with me. I'll see what I can do."

  And like that, the freeze had set in. It was my own fault. I'd gone too far. I'd disparaged her staff, which disparaged her club and, in turn, disparaged her, so she'd brought out the ice. She was no good to me now.

  So I had to go elsewhere for help. I didn't want to, but I was still on the Palace payroll, Dave Randall was still my real boss. He was responsible for all this, so it was up to him to make it right. I called Dave on his mobile, and I made sure to do it from the admin office so he wouldn't recognise the number. Sure enough, he answered. Even sounded breathless, as if he'd raced to pick up the phone. "Hello?"

  "Dave, it's Graham."

  I pictured him looking at his phone display and swearing under his breath, the way he always did when he was caught by Regional. I could hear the muscles in his face creak into action as he worked up a fake smile. "Hey, yeah, great to hear from you, Graham. How are you?"

  "Been better. Listen, I thought I'd give you a ring about the Riverside situation."

  "Ah, okay. Tell you the truth, Graham, I'm a little busy right now. I'm sure Clive's already filled you in."

  "No, he hasn't. Do you need me back?"

  "What? No."

  "Because I can come back if you're busy. I'm only pulling days here."

  "No, it's not that kind of ... Look, no, I've already told Jacqui that she's welcome to keep you as long as she wants."

  "Right." I picked up a stapler, clicked it a couple of times. Staples dropped onto the desk. "That's not what I was told."

  "Sorry, Graham, but that's the way it has to be for the time being."

  Clih-click. Another staple dropped. "I don't have a say in the matter?"

  "At the moment ..." He sighed down the phone. There were voices in the background. I heard one of them call his name. "It's not a good time, Graham, alright? I've got to talk to the police—"

  Oh, now he wanted to talk to the police. "What happened, Dave? Place get robbed while I was away?"

  A sigh. "So Clive did tell you."

  "Clive didn't tell me anything. I haven't spoken to him for weeks. What happened?"

  "Nothing to worry about." Dave cleared his throat, which meant there was plenty to worry about. "The Securicor guy was taking the weekend cash out, and they jumped him just outside the doors. Naz saw it all. They were already gone by the time I got there."

  I bet they were. I could see it all so clearly. Naz on reception, called for "Mr David Randall" over the speakers. Dave heard his Sunday name, knew it was trouble and scarpered to the toilets until he was sure it was all over.

  "They get much?"

  "We don't know yet. Still doing the sums."

  Which meant it was a lot and he didn't want to tell me. I didn't blame him.

  "You know who it was?"

  "We're looking into it. The police are here now. Look, I have to go."

  "Of course you do. Speak to you soon, Dave."

  He hung up without saying goodbye. I pushed off the desk and out of the admin office just in time to see the day staff muppet-shuffle down to the pit. I followed them out, watched them open tables and made sure the pit desk was clean and prepped. A Glaswegian midget by the name of Eileen was supposed to be day manager, but she was probably out the back having a cigarette. She looked like a sadomasochist, emphasis on the first two syllables, and had a voice like a dog choking on a lolly stick. She was supposed to be here for the opening, but I wasn't going to argue. I'd learned that opening up was easier when there wasn't management around to get in the way. Once the first four tables were open – two roulettes and the two cards – I sent off the first breakers. At two o'clock, I gave the Security the nod, and he unlocked the glass reception doors to a grand total of no one.

  Something in the pit of my stomach trembled like the first twitches of a new illness and made a noise like a Predator.

  Over at the Arches on George Street, we had a name for the two o'clock opening – the Mahjong Derby. Just before we opened, there'd normally be a crush of small, bag-faced old Chinese ladies pressed against the doors. The assembled staff took a quick look at them through the glass, picked their runners, and then we opened up to watch them dash the hundred yards to the Mahjong tables. A long run for old birds, but they took it with speed and ferocity, kicking, trip
ping and slapping each other out of the way as they battled to take their favourite seats. The first woman sat and shuffling tiles was the winner, and whoever had her number would find himself a hundred quid richer on the first break.

  There was no Mahjong Derby here. No punters waiting outside. Nothing but grey clouds, thick rain and a bad smell.

  The Professor came in at three. He hadn't shown his face at the Palace for a while, but it made sense that he'd made the Riverside his new home. While he didn't exactly blend in with his brown cord and tie-and-sweater combination, he was exactly the kind of tin-foil mentalist this place was bound to attract. He set up camp at AR Two, fumbled out his notebook and bookie pen and twirled a finger at the dealer to spin up.

  The dealer's posture was one long sigh. He moved as little as possible, passed a slow ball around the wheel. The Professor watched it, his lips moving in silent calculation. The ball landed. The dealer dollied the empty number. The Professor scribbled down the number.

  And repeat.

  Another twirl. Another spin.

  Another dead number.

  And repeat.

  The Professor didn't spend money, not unless management insisted. He wasn't a gambler; he was a mathematician. Applied mathematics, in that he was applying them to American Roulette in order to devise the chip junkie's Holy Grail – the foolproof winning system. The only drawback was that he was still firmly in the data collection stage. Hapless berks like the dealer on AR Two were his lab rats, spinning their days away. If this had been a Palace day shift, I would have made him buy in by now, but the dealer was a trainee and needed the practice. So The Professor continued to twirl his finger and make the dealer spin up, pausing only to catch the attention of the day valet, a mouse of a girl with dead spider eyelashes, peroxide hair and no chin. He ordered his usual milky tea and pack of custard creams. The valet knew him of old, knew he wasn't going to tip, so she took the long way back to the kitchen.