by Ray Banks
I watched her go, didn't notice Barry Pollard until he spoke. "Y'alright, Graham?"
I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. It didn't work. "Alright? Yes."
"You sure?"
"I'm fine. Yes, absolutely." I cleared my throat.
He pulled up a stool and bought in for twenty quid. The dealer changed the note to singles, then Pollard pulled out an extra fifty. "Give us fives for that, will you?"
The dealer changed the note into ten reds and gathered up the cards to perform the first manual shuffle.
Pollard smiled at me. "See they still got you on days."
"That's right."
"Seems a shame, man of your experience."
"What can I say? They don't know talent when they see it."
"Say that again." Pollard reached forward, cut the six deck. The dealer shoved it into the shuffling machine. "Still, you're better off here than the Palace, right?"
I didn't look at him. "You talking about the robbery?"
"Card." Pollard hit sixteen against a five. "Another one."
A seven put him over. The dealer scooped the chips and waited for another ante.
Pollard rubbed the side of his nose. "Place was robbed, was it?"
"You didn't hear?"
Pollard shrugged.
More cards came out. Pollard showed twelve against the dealer's king.
"Card." Four on the twelve. Pollard gave the dealer a look. "Sixteen's my fuckin' number today, isn't it? What do you think, Graham? Against a king. Think I should take another one?"
"You know I can't give you any advice, Mr Pollard."
"Nobody'll know. Just us three."
I tapped the edge of the table. "They're all miked. If you won, I could get into trouble. People might think we're in cahoots."
"In cahoots? Christ Almighty." He laughed. "Better watch I don't say nowt they could use against me in a court of law, eh?" He leaned back on his stool and squinted at the camera dome in the middle of the pit. "That's a camera, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Thought so." He leaned forward again. "Alright, son. Against a king? Against a king, I believe I'll take a card."
"Card?"
"That's what I said."
A three.
"And I will stay on nineteen, thank you very much."
The dealer flipped a seven and paid.
Pollard left his ante, assimilated his winnings into the stack of singles. "You're good luck, Graham."
I smiled politely. "And that's my cue to leave."
"Aw, come on, that's not fair. I'm winning, not robbing the place. You tell Mr David Randall to stay where he is."
I looked at him. Blinked. My left hand itched.
He showed teeth when he smiled this time, but didn't meet my eye. "Card."
Mr David Randall. A test of my mettle and of his reputation.
I returned to the pit desk and looked at the blank pit sheet. When I scratched the itch on my hand, it moved to my wrist. I felt in my pockets for my cream.
He was watching me, waiting to see what I'd do. Waiting to see if I reached for the phone, if I called over the manager, if I made any move to grass him.
I didn't. Truth be told, I didn't want to get involved.
So all I did was rub cream and try not to scratch myself to ribbons.
When Nash came in for the nine o'clock changeover, I had everything ready for him and I didn't hang around to gossip. I needed to get out of there. I grabbed my coat from the locker room and pushed out the back of the casino. Pollard's truck was parked a little way up from my car. Someone sat behind the wheel, but I couldn't make out any features and something about the build told me it wasn't Pollard.
"You alright, Graham?"
The bald, big-eyed Security I'd nicknamed Fester was frowning at me.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just ..." I smiled. "Thought I'd forgotten my phone, that's all." I pulled my mobile from my coat pocket. "But no, here it is."
"Ah, right."
I said goodnight and dialled two nines on my mobile before I realised the police wouldn't care. What was it that Nash had said? They wouldn't touch Pollard unless it was something big?
A casino robbery was big, wasn't it?
Yeah, if he'd actually done it. If I was honest, I didn't have much to go on. A hunch and hearsay, some kind of vague, winking confession.
I cleared the display, called Clive, hurrying towards my Corsa. I figured they wouldn't try anything if I was on the phone. I just hoped Clive picked up.
Five rings later, he did. "You heard, then."
"Yeah, from Dave."
"What'd he tell you?"
"Nothing, really."
"Well, no, he wouldn't, would he? He was in the toilets."
I knew it. First sign of trouble and he'd scarpered for the gents.
"How's everyone else? Alright?" I made it to the Corsa and looked around. No movement from the truck. I got in the car, pulled the door shut after me. "Nobody got in the way or anything, did they?"
"We were all inside. Middle of a day shift, wasn't it?"
"Good."
"Telling you, mind, I'm not staying. I'm offski, mate. I'm going on the ships."
I started the engine, checked the mirror. Still nothing. "You always say that."
"I'm serious, man. You know they've got Lorraine running the night pits?"
"Jesus, really?"
"Really. It's a fuckin' travesty."
"Suicide." I pulled out of the car park. Checked my mirror again. Clear behind me. "You talked to Dave?"
"Unless you're willing to grow tits and offer him a tongue-stud blowjob, Dave doesn't give a flying fuck what you have to say. Brick wall, mate."
"You're seriously going?"
"I'm already gone. I'm a networker. I've got contacts. I'm going to call Dennis after my shift."
"Dennis?"
"Mendoza. He works for Duchess now, but we did a couple of horror show Fred Olson cruises up to St Petersburg, so it's like we're fuckin' combat buddies. He's been on at us for ages to come on the ships. Hey, telling you, Graham—"
"No, Clive."
"Hear me out."
"I already know what you're going to say."
"Well?"
"This isn't forever, Clive."
"Come on, Graham. You know better than that, mate."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Traffic lights up the road blazed red. I slowed to a stop and checked for police now. I didn't want to be caught on the mobile. I rubbed my palm against the steering wheel. "Dave's said something, has he?"
"He doesn't need to."
I glanced in the rear view mirror. A green mini sat behind me, a vaguely attractive and slightly geeky-looking blonde woman behind the wheel. "He can't get rid of me, Clive. He needs me too much."
"You still think that?"
"I know that."
A braying horn behind me. I glanced in the mirror, then saw the green glow of the traffic lights in front. I pulled away, watched the blonde overtake at the first opportunity.
"So they still got you on days or what?"
"How did you know?"
"It's a running gag round here."
"Great."
"Telling you, Graham, they're taking the piss. You ask me, you're a fuckin' patsy."
"Thank you, Alex Jones."
"I'm serious. Dave Randall's been up to Regional about the Vinnie Collins thing, the Beale thing, the whole lot. Bet you any money he's hung it on you."
"No, he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't have the nerve. And they wouldn't believe him."
"It is what it is. All I'm saying, I think you need to seriously reconsider your place in the organisation, mate."
"Okay, I will."
"Don't fuckin' placate me, Graham."
"Yes, dear."
"I'm serious about Duchess an' all, mate. They're up to their eyes in dealers, but they're experience-poor. They're after quality land-based staff. A pit boss with your experience shows up, they'll jump through hoo
ps for you."
"I'll think about it."
"You do that. Let me know when you're ready to skip the country."
He laughed. My face twitched at the sound. Clive had a way of making a joke sound like an attractive proposition and vice versa. I wasn't that good at telling the difference. Back when we were more friends than work colleagues, he used to tease me about it to my face. Now he did it behind my back. "Listen, I've got to go. I'm driving and talking here."
He called me Public Enemy Number One. I laughed, but it sounded girlish. Then I rang off and tossed my mobile onto the dashboard.
Maybe Clive was right. Maybe I was being set up.
I glanced in the rear view again, as another prickle of paranoia marched up the back of my neck.
The question was, what was I going to do about it?
5
It wouldn't have been the first time that Dapper Dave Randall had sacrificed someone else's career in order to further his own. His path to management was littered with the bodies of those naive enough to trust him or weak enough to find him intimidating. Of course I hoped that Clive wasn't right, that I wasn't just another in a long line of disposable staff, but current evidence yelled to the contrary – Dave was letting all his calls go straight to voicemail and wasn't returning mine. I began to suspect that he'd talked to Jacqui, too – whenever I mentioned the shifts, I met a glacial reception. And all the while, there was Barry Pollard watching me from the blackjack table, waiting to see what I'd do. He didn't accost me after hours anymore, but that didn't mean he wasn't building up to something.
So I did the only thing I could; I knuckled down, kept quiet and did my job until it was time to knock off. Then I tried to forget about the grind of the days by scouting eBay for things I'd never watch, read or play, hoping to quell my anxiety with clutter. And when my lower back hurt too much for me to stay slumped over the computer, I went looking for something to eat. The fridge and cupboards threw up all sorts of possibilities, as long as every ingredient was a condiment of some sort, so I ended up grabbing my coat and heading out.
It was wet and cold, the ground slick and the sky black. The air tasted clean for once and the brisk walk got me thinking. There wasn't much I could do about work other than take the path of least resistance. Dave wasn't going to have me back at the Palace – I could wave goodbye to that club for good. Jacqui didn't seem to want me on the nights, either. So the only logical thing to do was explore Clive's offer of the ships. I knew most people would have jumped at the chance. There were tips and trips and regular meals cooked by chefs instead of pockmarked, oil-burned kitchen porters. There was a chance to see the world beyond the M60 and feel the sun on my skin for once, which might do my itchy palm some good. Then again, there were the horror stories of choppy seas and being stranded in townships where the men wore bullet belts instead of shirts. Not fun.
I pushed into the supermarket, grabbed a basket.
It was dangerous, that was the problem. Not very dangerous, not appreciably dangerous, even, but dangerous enough to put second thoughts into my head. It would be uncomfortable, too. I'd have to meet new people, learn new things. I might even get sea sick, I didn't know. I couldn't think of the last time I'd been on a boat. I tried to remember my trip to San Diego for the convention, but that was a plane, and I'd taken sleeping tablets for the flight so it didn't really count. And hey, now that I came to think of it, that was another consideration: what if the ship sunk? What if the captain was like that Costa Concordia bloke? People died there. Not many people. but enough that I could've been one of them. Bottom line, I could say what I wanted about the Riverside, but at least while I was stuck on day shifts I wasn't in any physical danger and I certainly wasn't likely to drown.
"Fuckin' hell, fancy seeing you here."
I turned at the voice, saw Barry Pollard behind me. I opened my mouth, but I didn't know what to say, so I swallowed instead. I looked at my basket: a pack of Rolo pots, a jar of hot chocolate and a large multipack of Wotsits. I didn't remember picking up any of it, and when I saw it all there like a kid's birthday lunch, my face felt warm. "Mr Pollard."
"That's right."
I cleared my throat. "What a coincidence."
A laugh rumbled out of him. "I wouldn't say that, like."
"Sorry?" I shook my head. "I don't understand."
"No, I've been looking for you." He grinned. "Thought you'd been in here sooner or later. It's your days off, isn't it?"
"I don't …" I couldn't stop blinking. "Have you been following me?"
"I wouldn't put it like that. Not really."
"How would you put it?"
He looked around the aisle. "I just thought this might be a nice, neutral place to have a chat."
"About what?"
"Aw, come on, Graham." The grin hardened at the edges. "You don't have to do that. You're a bright lad."
It clicked. "The Palace."
"Attaboy."
"Well, I don't think I have anything to say about that."
"Really?"
"Really. It's none of my business." I looked at the shelves, grabbed a tin of beans that I didn't want and wouldn't eat and dropped it into my basket just so I'd have some vegetables in there. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr Pollard—"
"Hang on." He put a hand on my shoulder. He squeezed. It hurt.
I stopped. Tried not to show the pain. My chest felt tight. I breathed out once through my nose. "Mr Pollard—"
"Sorry, son." He let go, showed me his open hand. "Don't know my own strength."
"It's okay. I'm just not used to people—"
"You don't like being touched."
It felt like a confession of weakness. "That's right."
"I know, I saw a programme about it." He wiped his hands with a flourish. "All that business."
"No. That's not ... It's not an illness." All that business was meant to show the camera that you weren't palming chips. It was the same reasoning that meant dealers couldn't wear watches and their uniforms weren't allowed to have pockets. Bottom line – the organisation didn't trust its employees. Having worked with those employees, I didn't blame the organisation one bit. But still ... "That's procedure."
"Not in Sainsbury's, it isn't."
"Alright, a force of habit, then."
"Hey, I'm not judging, son. I'm saying I understand. I know what's going on with you. I've been watching." He pointed at me. "And I know you're not happy at work."
"If people were happy at work, Mr Pollard, it wouldn't be called work, would it?" I turned and continued back down the aisle, pausing instinctively by the spaghetti hoops before I carried on.
He followed. "Nah, it's not that kind of unhappy. It's not normal. I've seen you, son. You look like you're this fuckin' close." He snapped his fingers.
"I'm fine, Mr Pollard."
"Call us Barry."
"I'd rather not." We stopped in front of the bakery section. The smell of the doughnuts was the only thing keeping me sane. I grabbed a loaf of Mighty White and dropped it into the basket. "I can't afford to get too familiar, Mr Pollard. It's called fraternisation, and I could lose my job."
"I've got six of your dealers coming to mine. Been regular since the place opened."
"That's ... it doesn't matter. I don't care." I cared; I wished he hadn't told me. Now I'd be looking for them. "If somebody asks—"
"You won't tell 'em."
"If I have to, I will."
"You never told no one about the Palace."
I looked at him, rolled my shoulders. "How do you know?"
"Because I've still got a front door. And I'm not down the fuckin' nick."
"Why did you tell me?"
He smiled. The gold tooth made an appearance. "Because I needed to see if I could trust you."
"Well, you can't." I went back the way I came and turned into the first available aisle. It was full of kitchen roll and toilet roll, stacked high and imposing.
He was right next to me every step of the way. "Co
me on, Graham, don't mug yourself, eh? You're a good lad. Believe you me, I know a good lad when I see one. Hang around with scallies and fuckin' chancers your whole professional life, you can spot a level fella a mile away. And you, Graham, I could put up fuckin' shelves with you, son."
I squinted at him. "Is that a compliment?"
"How long you been doing this now?"
"The clubs?" I looked at toilet rolls. A litter of puppies looked back. "Sixteen years."
Sixteen years of dealing and inspecting and running pits. When I said it like that, it sounded like a long time.
It was a long time.
"You know what I think, Graham? I think that they're never going to make you management. Your man, Dave Randall, I know him from when he used to run the pit himself. He was a prize cunt then and he's a prize cunt now. He's not going to let you anywhere near management because he knows what you're like. He knows you're too fuckin' good for the job. He knows you're going to show him up. So what happens then, eh? What happens to you?"
"I'll be fine."
"You'll retire a pit boss or else you'll flip your fuckin' lid again."
"What're you talking about?"
"Your breakdown."
"I didn't have a breakdown." I shook my head, laughed a little, and moved back towards the bakery. "I think you're mistaken about that." I had a mental shopping list at one point, things to get, an order to get them in, but now I didn't know where I was or what I'd picked up already. All I wanted to do was jettison the lot and get out of there, but every step I took, Pollard took one with me. He weaved like a boxer, anticipated every move. I had to stop and hold up a hand. "Please, Mr Pollard, I can't—"
"I know." His hands were up now, too. He showed gold. "Fraternisation."
"I'm not about to jeopardise my job for no good reason."
"What if I gave you one?"
"Sorry?"
"A good reason."
I laughed. Something hurt my throat. The laughter became a cough.