Inside Straight

by Ray Banks

  "What's the matter?"

  I dropped the note on the layout. "Do you have any other notes, sir?"

  Andrea looked at me with an odd smile on her face. She obviously hadn't recognised it as stolen currency.

  Jez smiled at me and lifted one buttock to retrieve his wallet. He opened it to reveal a large wad of notes. All of them had similar stains.

  I nudged the fiver back to Andrea. "Drop it."

  Andrea slotted the money and changed it for five one-pound chips. Jez closed his wallet and replaced it. I just hoped he wouldn't spend too much time or money at the table, and I made a mental note to make sure any dyed notes were in the bag later on.

  I watched Jez out of the corner of my eye. It was difficult not to stare.

  "You okay?"

  Jacqui. Again, I hadn't seen her. She had a way of appearing when you least wanted her to. I showed her Nash's painkillers. "Kevin left his pills on the pit desk. I didn't want this lot getting their sticky fingers on them."

  She took them from me. "I'll let reception look after them until tomorrow."

  "Okay."

  She left the pit. When I looked over at the blackjack, Jez was gone. He was up by reception, holding the door open for Jacqui. He said something that looked as if it was supposed to be charming. She flashed him the same smile she flashed anyone who flirted with her. Jez watched her behind as she left. Then he looked my way and my throat tightened.

  He'd dropped the money because he knew he'd get it back. They couldn't come out and tell me, so they'd decided to be subtle about it instead. Even so, their message was undeniable and plain.

  Tonight was the night.

  14

  After the last stragglers had been ushered from the premises by Fester, I snagged two dealers and an inspector and led the way to the count room, where Jacqui was waiting for us. I stopped at the door, made sure I was last in. I also made sure to put my body between the lock and the camera, clicking it back and forth a couple of times to make sure everyone heard that I was having trouble, and that it had finally locked.

  I'd experimented with ways to make the door seem locked, and my original idea of surreptitiously taping the tongue of the lock was too makeshift and easily spotted, or at least it had been when I tried it at home. Instead, I'd built up a short history of struggling with the count room door every time I had to lock it. By now, nobody bothered to say anything, just assuming that I'd managed to lock the door when I turned back to help them with the count. I'd set up a narrative then that would be easy to understand after the event – "I thought I locked it. You know I've been having so much trouble ..." – and was simple enough to avoid the need for props.

  Jacqui turned my way. "Still giving you problems, is it?"

  "Yeah."

  "You want me to—"

  "No, I think it's okay now."

  "You got it?"

  "Yes."

  Jacqui nodded at the dealers to empty the cash boxes out onto the large table. The table dominated the room; it sported a lip around the edge to stop errant notes from falling, as well as a boxy-looking electronic cash counter in one corner. Once the boxes were empty and there was a mess of money in the middle of the table, the dealers set about organising the notes into piles according to value.

  It was four-thirty by the clock on the wall. It took us an average of forty-eight minutes to count a reasonable take, and I had to make sure it took no less than that. I could delay with the counting machine if we were going too quickly, fuss with the paper bands or else make a hash of it some other way. The money had to be ready to be bagged, but still in the count room, or else we'd be in trouble. That was my priority, and it kept me occupied beyond ignoring the inane banter that passed for conversation. Each glance at the clock felt obvious and planned. I was sweating despite the air-con; sweat ran down my nose and I had to sniff it up. The third time I did it, I thought Jacqui was going to say something, but I found a clean tissue in my pocket and excused myself for a second to blow my nose.

  Ten to five. The minute hand shuddered on. My stomach made a noise. I wanted to go to the toilet. My left arm started itching again.

  I snapped a band, asked the Spaniel for some more. She chucked me some.

  Five o'clock. The notes were banded and laid out for an easy final count, which the cash desk would tally themselves before the cash was thrown into the large bags. I moved a little up the table. I nudged Jacqui by mistake. She laughed and moved out of my way. I caught a breath of her perfume and blinked.

  Five past five. An agreed count. A couple of grand shy of a hundred thousand. A huge haul for a single night, especially for a provincial club like the Riverside. So we were looking at knocking on a hundred and forty for the two nights. Not a bad take.

  "Fantastic." Jacqui looked giddy. "Okay, let's bag it up."

  I glanced at the count room door. Strained to listen. Nothing.

  The dealers got to work putting the banded notes into one of the bags. I edged a little closer to the pile of cash boxes in the corner. Nobody talked to me. Nobody noticed me. Jacqui was in a world of her own, no doubt basking in the glory of a good night's work; the dealers were still cracking on with each other and Tintin, who was double-checking the bands as they went into the bag. The Spaniel was in the cash desk. I watched her. She was the one who had the monitors, the cameras watching the floor. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

  I backed into the cash boxes. They tumbled to the floor, crashing all around me. The rest of the count team jumped out of the way.

  "God, I'm sorry. I didn't even—"

  And with all eyes on me, the count room door flew open to reveal two men in ski masks and Man City shirts. The one up front was heavy and broad-shouldered. He moved quickly for an older man. He showed us the shotgun, told us to put our eyes to the carpet and get moving. I felt a rough hand on my back – another robber, skinnier, younger, quicker – pulling us all out of there. I did what I was told, saw the carpet of the count room whisk away to the corridor outside and then finally the dark blue of the gaming floor. We ran at a stoop. I turned slightly to see another man at the cash desk – same gear with the mask and football shirt, carrying an axe – pull the Spaniel out under the shutters by her hair as the broad robber pushed. She screeched like a scalded cat and hit the deck like a bag of shoes. Someone punched me in the fat of my back. "Keep fuckin' moving."

  I did what I was told.

  The staff had been herded into the middle of the pit. Everyone was sat on the floor in a huddle and stared at the carpet in front of them. The count team were shoved forward and told to do the same. The dealers dropped where they were. I found myself bang up against Tintin and Jacqui near the edge of the pit. I hazarded a quick look around. Cash and colour chips were strewn across the floor. There were sounds of the robbers ransacking the cash desk, and the shutters were stuck halfway open. Over by AR Four, Fester was propped up against the chipper, his jacket on the floor beside him and his face and shirt a bloody mess. He was pale, his eyes closed. For one horrible moment, I thought he was dead, but then saw the slow movement in his chest. One of the trainees, a slender bird of a girl, trembled as she quietly wept. Jeff comforted her from afar. Everyone had obviously been told to keep their distance from each other, just the way I'd planned it. Other dealers looked just as frightened, but some had been through this before and had tuned out for the duration. Either way, there were no heroes in this pit. They were just as scared and cowed as I should have been.

  I caught the stare of the robber stood on the steps that led up to the bar. He looked me right in the eyes. His hands twitched around the shotgun and his arms were covered by a long-sleeved T-shirt. I was sure it was Jez.

  He waved the shotgun at me. I looked at the floor.

  I felt Tintin shuffle up beside me. His voice was a high-pitched, panicky whisper. "They've got Sandra."

  "She'll be fine."

  "We should—"

  "You hit the alarm?"

  "No."

&nbs
p; "Did she?"

  "I don't know."

  "Then hang fire and let's hope she didn't."

  "You what?"

  "Alarm's not going to stop them robbing the place, it's just going to put more pressure on them to do it quicker. And the last thing we want is these lads feeling pressured. No point in giving them reasons to make mistakes, is there? Not when they're carrying shotguns."

  "The police—"

  "The police will be able to do their jobs a lot better if we're all alive to give statements." I looked at Jacqui. Her jaw pulsed. Her eyes were wide. I watched her out the corner of my eye, but kept talking to Tintin. "Listen, if they've got Sandra then she should be helping them to get out. No point in being a hero about this. It's not your money."

  Jacqui made a noise, somewhere between a sniff and a moan.

  "Hold on." I moved a little closer to her. "Think about the staff."

  Jez dropped a step. "Shut your fuckin' gob, you."

  I shut up, but I could tell Jacqui was watching the gaming floor in a way that made me think she was about to do something daft. I put a hand on her arm.

  She looked at me.

  I shook my head slowly. Don't do it. Whatever you're thinking about, don't do it. Because these are people you do not want to mess with. They are serious about their jobs and they will do it with or without your cooperation. Believe me, I know.

  She looked at my hand. Her eyes were glass. Her voice sounded brittle. She looked almost apologetic. "Been here before, Graham."

  "What?"

  The staff door flew open, and Sandra was the first to tumble through, her curly hair wild and plastered to her face. The broad robber behind her pushed Sandra with one hand and sent her staggering towards the pit. She didn't make it, instead dropping to the carpet about six feet away, her face down and her back shuddering as she sobbed.

  The broad robber was joined by his mate, and the two of them bundled out with two large sacks. They gestured to Jez, and then I saw the fourth man up by the restaurant. He was large and, from what little I saw of his skin, black. He carried a sledgehammer, which he then used to smash the glass reception doors. Everyone on the floor flinched at the sound. Glass pebbles danced across the carpet. The robber kicked his way through the door and took the sledge to the front doors, which gave way immediately as an alarm squealed its outrage. The cash carriers followed him out to the waiting car.

  There was a sudden breeze at my left ear. I looked back at Jacqui, but she was already up and moving.

  I twisted on the floor and got awkwardly to my feet, sprinted after her. She had something small and black in her hand, her fingers white around it. Other staff got up to get out of my way as I ploughed through them. I wanted to shout at her to stop whatever it was she thought she was doing, but it was too late. She had one hand on Jez's shoulder, the other up at head height. The escaping robbers turned to look. Jez twisted towards Jacqui and caught a spray of something that clearly smelled like agony. He shrieked and gripped the shotgun tighter. It roared and Jacqui screamed. I was at him in seconds. He swung round.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  I shoved Jacqui out of the way, bumped shoulders with Jez and swatted at the hot barrels with both hands until I got a good grip on the stock and held on tight. He wrenched away from me, shouting and swearing, his eyes pink and swimming. I threw him off-balance, and we both tumbled down the steps that led to the pit. Jez swore again and the shotgun deafened me as it snatched the edge of a roulette table and scattered it across the gaming floor. I couldn't hang on. I rolled. I felt the sudden release of pressure as the gun left my grip. He scrambled to his feet and held the empty shotgun on the rest of the staff who were too scared to move anyway. He looked back at me, rubbing one arm against his eyes, pushing up his sleeve and revealing DADDY. The pain seemed to come in waves for him. He looked as if he wanted to curl up. He took a couple of steps back. He was shouting at me but I couldn't hear anything over the ringing in my ears. I saw the spit come out of his mouth as he yelled. He looked across at Jacqui. There was blood on her tights. He made a move for her and I threw out a hand to grab at his trouser leg. The waves broke then. I heard it all – the other robbers were yelling at him to get a move on. Jez twisted out of my grip, shifted his weight, and kicked me hard in the face.

  The casino blinked, and the floor disappeared.

  I heard things. Shouts. The alarm. My own wheezing breath. The world became a greyish-orange through the filter of my eyelids and I felt the stiff, cold breeze that wafted through the broken doors.

  I waited for the shotgun blast that would end me, but it didn't come. Instead I heard the smash of glass and the roar of an engine and the squeal of tyres.

  I opened my mouth.

  "Oh."

  And then I passed out.

  15

  It was the beginning of a new world, a new life.

  There was darkness, and then there was light, a blue light shining somewhere softly in the distance and growing larger like a slowly approaching planet. The thought jumped into my head that perhaps I'd like to try to move a little, but I could feel that my legs weren't behaving. I blinked with my eyes closed, and then blinked them open. I saw Jacqui as she was escorted from the club. She was limping. There was blood on her leg. I tried to get up. I left a bloody handprint on the floor and then I felt sick and then I was sick, violently so, making raw, animal noises that would have been amusing had they not been accompanied by so much vomit.

  "Jesus, someone help Graham, will you?"

  I felt hands on me, lifting me. The touch sent a ripple of revulsion through my body. I smelled my own vomit, then I tasted it and I wanted to be sick again. I tried to wave my Samaritans away. "No. Sick."

  "Just keep breathing, alright? Let's get you over here, sit you down."

  "Don't feel well. Leave me alone."

  I wanted my mum. I wanted Jacqui. I wanted a cold flannel and a dark room. I was dirty, ashamed, stinking and wrong. Someone plonked me down on one of the stools that stood around the roulette tables. It wobbled a bit, but there was a hand on my back to keep me from falling. I breathed out through my mouth. I kept tasting sick and wanted to spit, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. A man had to have standards.

  "Just lean forward." A woman's voice. She sounded too young to know what she was doing. "That's it. Just keep breathing."

  "I don't like it. Tastes bad."

  "We'll get you some water, Graham, alright?"

  "Where's ...?" I wanted to say "my mum", but I held it in. "Where's Jacqui?"

  "She's in the ambulance."

  "Is she hurt?" I looked around. The someone who'd helped me up was Tintin. I frowned at him, felt worse, was positive I'd heard a woman's voice. "What happened?"

  "She got shot."

  "Shot?"

  "You don't remember?"

  "No."

  "It was just a graze. She'll be fine." He looked at my hairline. "You took quite a knock yourself."

  "Anyone call the police?"

  He nodded and his head appeared to split into two heads until I blinked them back together. My stomach turned.

  Tintin frowned at me, either concerned or short-sighted. "I'll get you some water."

  "I'm going to be sick."

  "I'll get one of the paramedics over. They'll sort you out."

  I didn't want Tintin to go, but I also didn't want to say anything to that effect just in case he took it the wrong way. I watched him hop up the stairs and turned my face to the stiff breeze that blew in from outside. It smelled of rain, and somewhere out there I could hear it, too. Someone in yellow came towards me and I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman until it disappeared for a second and then reappeared as a stocky woman with a bulbous mole like half a Malteser on her top lip. She was right in front of me, something in her hand.

  "I'm not well, Doctor."

  She shone a light in my left eye, then my right. "You're concussed."

  "Is that bad? I don't feel right."

&
nbsp; "Sick?"

  I nodded, my mouth open – she'd read my mind. But she was too close. She smelled of medicine. I moved away from her and almost went off the stool again.

  She grabbed me and hauled me upright. "We should probably take you to hospital."

  "I don't want to go to the hospital."

  She had both hands on me now, easing me up. "It's okay. Nothing to worry about."

  "No, I don't want to go to the hospital. I need to stay here. I need to talk to the police. Are the police here? Did someone call them? Someone should've called the police."

  I was walking now, the paramedic to my right and slightly behind me so I couldn't see her properly without turning. I tried to find my mobile phone so I could call the police. I brought out the burn phone and it took me three blinks to recognise it. When I did, I almost threw it across the room.

  "I need to talk to ..." I couldn't concentrate. "There's someone I need to talk to."

  One step, another step, almost floating.

  "You shouldn't be talking to anyone right now. What's your name, love?"

  "Graham." I watched my feet as I walked. They looked as if they belonged to someone else. I wouldn't have been caught dead with sick on my shoes. Which reminded me. "Am I dying?"

  "No."

  "But could I, though?"

  "Maybe, if you don't see a doctor."

  "Okay." She was lying, but it was a good kind of lie. It made me smile. I found myself in reception. The light was too bright. "I should probably go to the hospital, then."

  And I did. A young doctor with skin like an orange put stitches in my scalp where Jez had brained me, then kept asking me all sorts of questions. "Do you know where you are, Graham?"

  "Hospital."

  "Which one?"

  "I don't know. They didn't tell me."

  Which was the wrong answer, if his constipated expression was anything to go by. "Do you remember what happened?"