by Ray Banks
Not that anyone ever looked down in here. People kept their eyes on the prize, caught up in the heavy machinery of a casino working at full pelt – the clattering waves of chips as they spun down the chute, the whirl of the white roulette ball before it stumbled into a number and, under it all, that subsonic grinding noise of a hundred bad beat punters hitting dead numbers and awkward cards.
"Start finishing off now ..."
Over on the roulettes, time existed in snatches of inspiration, from the moment the ball hit the wheel to the moment it skittered into a numbered gutter. On the blackjacks, men with cheap suits doubled on nine showing because tonight was their night. At first glance, it was like being in your own personal Bond movie, but the second glance showed the tobacco stains on Bond's fingers, and the dots of piss on his inside leg. You didn't tend to take a third glance.
"No more bets ..."
But there were always errant hands on the layout, fingers splayed and trembling over a hindsight winner.
"That's all, no more now. No more. Thank you."
By midnight, I was up at the bar, a warm pint of Stella in front of me and a low, thumping ache behind the eyes. The beer didn't help my thirst or my finances, but it was better than bumping chips with the animals on the floor. Should've known better than to come out on a Sunday. It might've been the last gasp for the white punters, but it was the start of the Chinese weekend, and they'd come out in force. Place was jammed, would be until last orders, so I reckoned I'd hang back for a while and watch the place heave.
Beale had given up trying to haul his bulk through the crush at the roulettes. Now he was over at the Caribbean Stud, picking the dandruff out of his moustache and trying to ignore the over-excited and long-limbed Chinese lads who had him boxed in. The lads looked like they were having a ball. They talked across Beale and, when he hunched over the table, behind his back. When they won, they slapped the layout and laughed like donkeys, threw loud high fives that clapped the air at Beale's scalp. Meanwhile, he sat there glowering at his cards. He had his bad drinker face on, eyes like a couple of dogs' arseholes. He hadn't seen a card all night.
He said something. The Chinese lad to his left stopped gabbing for a second and held up a hand. Beale went back to his cards.
I turned to AR Four, which had been doing its spuds all night thanks to the man sat sweating at the end of the table. He was two-belts fat and he had a habit of pushing his long grey hair back until it was slick to his head. When the dealer spun up, the fat man's eyes went from ball to layout and he became a child deep in thought, the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. Deliberating, digesting and cogitating, just like they used to do on Masterchef.
Over the course of the last few hours, he'd hammered the table, hit straights and splits with the kind of unerring regularity that brought a crowd. He barely noticed them, and it wasn't like they had gathered to play – the table had just gone up to a pony minimum and most of those gathered had been getting slowly violated all night. But you could still see them edging closer, trying to suck up that errant luck by proxy. Because for a lot of punters, it was all down to luck, or the gods, or whatever it was they prayed to as they flipped chips in their hand.
From what I saw, luck didn't have anything to do with it. The house had changed dealers twice in the last hour, bumped up the experience on the wheel to a junior inspector, but it didn't matter because every dealer they'd put on that table so far had spun to sections like it was their first day. All this fat bloke had to do was watch the section, and call it before the ball landed. And he did it again, calling a Tiers by eighteen – a pony on each split and number – as the ball danced its way into a number.
Thirteen black. Direct hit. A cheer went up.
I looked across at the pit desk. Graham Ellis was on duty tonight. He had a moon face that was even paler tonight, thanks to his undertaker's suit. He was arguing with one of the dealers, a chubby little blonde who dealt the same way she probably fucked – plenty of enthusiasm, but no real talent – and he'd just managed to get her onto a table with a broken chipper when one of the slots went berserk, whooping out a hefty drop. A prehistoric Chinese lady was frozen to her stool, transfixed by the flashing win-win-win lights. All those mindless hours feeding the machine – the nudge, stay, nudge-nudge, peering at the wheels, wishing your eyes could read round corners – had finally paid off. When the machine started hacking out pound coins, she sprang into motion. She dropped from her stool, grabbed a plastic bucket and started shovelling coins with her claw hands, trying to get as much into the bucket as possible before Ellis reached her. Because even when you won, you were made to feel like you were robbing the place blind.
Ellis stumbled on the steps as he raced to the slots. He looked behind him and gestured to a line of dealers coming back off their break. Pointed at one of the senior inspectors to get on AR Four. By the time he reached the dropped machine, the Chinese lady was halfway to the cash desk with a bucket in each hand. He squatted and fumbled with the hatch keys.
I couldn't resist. I picked up my pint and went over to the rail.
"Y'alright?"
He twisted the key so hard it caught the inside of his hand. The whooping stopped with a chirp. "I'm fine."
"Doing your dough on AR Four."
"Really? Hadn't noticed." He blew on his hand and straightened up.
"Don't worry, Graham. I'll keep an eye out for you."
"You want to be looking out for your mate."
"Oh yeah? What's the matter with him? He's not winning, is he?"
Ellis laughed. "Only thing he's cleaned out is the bar."
"And?"
"And I know how he gets when he's drunk." He looked behind him at the stud table. "Especially when he gets that face on."
I took a drink. "He'll be good as gold, I promise."
"I'll hold you to that." He pointed at me. "Got enough going on tonight without him acting up."
Another cheer from the roulette table. Ellis' mouth turned into a paper cut.
"Looks like you're needed elsewhere. I'll let you get back to it, eh?"
Ellis scurried back to the pit. Scared to death the place was coming down around him, taking his cushy job and clothing allowance with it. Run, Forrest, run.
Mind you, he had a point. A tipsy Beale was difficult enough, but throw in broke and you had a misunderstanding just waiting to happen. It didn't help that he reckoned himself a proper Herbert O'Yardley. It also didn't help that he was stuck at the Caribbean Stud, a game that resembled poker the way a fart resembled a weapon of mass destruction. Throw in the heat of three hundred bodies and the way those Chinese lads were looking to bait Beale, and it was no wonder his piss was coming to the boil.
"You want to keep your hands to yourself?"
I finished off my pint and started back towards the pit. The Chinese lad who'd just knocked Beale shook his head and grinned at his mates. Probably thought there was safety in numbers, but numbers didn't really figure into Beale's thinking once his eyes turned black. Not much did. He'd gone for other punters, dealers, inspectors, even a pit boss over at the Union, and he was skimming thin ice in most of the clubs in Manchester. The only reason he hadn't broken through was the amount of money he dropped on a regular basis. Also, as much as he'd gone for staff, the fixtures and fittings had remained intact, and that was really all the house cared about.
Squeezing through the crowd, I heard laughter at the poker table. Beale's voice was quick to trample all over it.
"The fuck you laughing at?"
The Chinese lad shook his head. "Nowt."
"Nowt?"
"Honestly."
"Think it's fuckin' funny, you nudged us. See if you think it's fuckin' funny when I nudge you back, son."
"Sorry."
"Sorry. We'll see about that."
The dealer flipped out the cards. I got caught behind an old couple playing the evens on AR Two. Dawdling between red and black. Hemmed and hawed their way through two spins
before I shoved them out of the way.
Beale's voice, jumping in volume: "English only when the cards are out."
"What's that?"
"You know the rules. Cards are out, you talk English, not fuckin' Chinkinese."
Beale's first strike was always racial. It was a cheap way to get to people and, true to form, the lad's mates weren't laughing now. They didn't know what to do. They should've ignored it. After a while, it just became a kind of static that ran through his conversations.
The danger was acknowledging he'd got to you. Because that was when he pressed it.
Beale leaned in to the dealer. "That's right, isn't it? English only when the cards are out? I didn't fuckin' dream that, did I? I mean, how do I know this lot aren't cheating?"
The dealer didn't say anything. He kept his head down and smiled. The inspector's back was turned, but he wasn't watching the blackjack table on the other side.
"Who you calling a cheat?" said the lad.
Beale smiled with half his face and stared at his cards.
The lad poked Beale in the arm. "I asked you a question."
Beale's smile disappeared. He pushed his ante. Another shitty hand.
"Here," said the lad, "I said—"
Beale's fist flew up and over the lad's finger. He jammed it back with a crack that stopped conversation. The lad's mouth fell open, his eyes wide. Beale swivelled and planted his other hand hard into the middle of the lad's chest, slamming him off his stool. He discarded the lad's broken finger, slipped from his stool and brought the heel of his shoe down twice before anyone had a chance to react. There were muffled groans, the wet thump of heel against cheek, then the place erupted. The dealer lurched back from the table and the inspector reached for the float cover. The other punters snatched up their chips. Stools hit the floor. A brief glance back at Ellis and he was frozen to the spot, struck dumb with horror. The lad's mates swooped towards Beale, but he was already up and ready to windmill whoever stood in his way. I ran ahead, got to Beale just as a circle of carpet opened up around him.
"Les," I shouted, "leave it."
The lad's mate saw me now. One of them made a grab for my arm. I threw a sharp elbow at his head, grabbed Beale's arm and pulled. I was skinny and frightened compared to him, and they all knew it. But I had booze in my system, running wild with adrenalin, and I hauled Beale out of there.
Then a voice rose above it all. Everything stopped. Ellis was shouting something.
The whole place had paused like a cheap video, that barely perceptible tremor running through the crowd. Somewhere in the background, I thought I could hear The Walker Brothers.
Beale was the first one to move. He straightened up out of my grip, pulled off his tie and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He was red, sweaty, and borderline manic. "So what is it, Graham? Am I suspended again?"
The Chinese lad coughed from somewhere behind the poker table. I couldn't see him, but there was enough blood on the carpet to tell me he was in a bad way.
Ellis bristled. "Mr Beale—"
"Ah, get fucked. Place is a shithole anyway. Look, there's stains all over the carpet. It's fuckin' disgusting." He slapped me on the shoulder and we moved towards the exit. Then he stopped at a blackjack table. He looked at the shuffling machine and shook his head. He leaned in to the dealer. "Used to be, that was your job. Used to be, all this was about skill."
"Come on, Les."
Beale lunged for the machine. The dealer stepped back, hands up. I grabbed Beale's collar and yanked him back from the table. Cash chips rained to the floor. Beale held onto the shuffling machine, the cord taut.
"Let go," I said.
"Get off us."
"Just put it back."
"No."
"C'mon, I'll buy you a drink."
He stared at the dealer for a long time, then he let the machine drop. It bounced off the table and then over the side, swinging from its cord like a hanged man.
"Fuck this place."
I agreed. And ushered him outside where we could find somewhere to lie low and drink the rest of the night into oblivion.
2
"You know what it is, Ellis needs to understand something. I'm a man, I'm not going to take that kind of abuse, right?"
"Right."
"I'm a man."
"Yes, you are."
"I'm a man, and he's a fuckin' prick."
"Well said."
"I remember when he was a fish in a dicky, couldn't pay a split without moving his lips. And what now, because he's got a pit sheet and a clothing allowance, he's better than me? Officious little bastard. He's lucky, right, he's lucky I didn't knock him out."
"Exactly."
Beale was decompressing, smothering his adrenalin high with Red Stripe and piss-whisky. My job was simple: agree in as few words as possible and sound like I was listening. He just needed to feel he was right. The Press was the perfect place to do it. There wasn't a single person in here, staff or drunk, who wasn't rationalising their behaviour right now. Time was, this place was open late to serve the newspaper and theatre people and it used to have a bit of style about it. At least, that was the story. All the years I'd been coming, the most stylish thing about the place was the strip of tinsel hanging over the makeshift stage in the corner of the room. As for the clientele, they were mostly casino staff and twenty-four-seven alcoholics, sometimes both.
Dead Eddie was one of them. As Beale droned on, I watched Eddie up at his side of the bar talking to his hand. Once upon a time, Eddie was a cashier down The Arches, and was eyes-deep in an amphetamine habit that had him working doubles six out of seven most weeks. There was no way a bloke could keep up that kind of work, wired or not, and so it was only a matter of time before a winner's cheque went missing and Eddie found himself out on his arse. Far as I knew, he wasn't on the uppers anymore, but he still ran through those conversations with his hand in the role of the GM until he passed out.
"And as for that fuckin' Chink, he had it coming." Beale sniffed, took a drink from his can. "Fuckin' brat. Thinks, what, because his dad owns a couple of all-you-can-eats he's well up there?" His lips buckled with a belch. "Fuckin' Triads, man, the lot of them."
There was a flurry of activity over by the stairs. A new load of drinkers just off from work. Some of them were wearing civvies, others blue shirts under their jackets. From the looks of them, they were casino staff. I took a drink, then another. I didn't want to be in here with Beale if Ellis walked in. To be fair, it wasn't likely but knowing my luck, this would be the one night he decided to have a swift half before heading home.
I watched the dealers head to the bar. The woman behind it didn't crack a smile. She'd been on shift too bloody long to give a shit about banter. Beale was peering at the dealers. I could hear his brain whirr into action, choking at the start, then slowly building up steam as he scanned faces. Then he yelled so loud I flinched.
"Stevie! Oi, Stevie!"
A skinny ginger guy in a blue shirt turned, saw Beale and his face went to stone.
"C'mon, get your arse over here, I want to talk to you about something."
Beale was drawing attention to himself. Even Dead Eddie had stopped flapping his fingers long enough to glance our way. Stevie made mute excuses and shuffled over, can in hand.
Beale grinned, but his eyes were dead. "How you doing, Stevie? Been a while there, son."
"Fuck d'you think you're doing?"
He was a Scot. Maybe Glaswegian. But then, my brain was so fried, he could've been from Pontypridd and I wouldn't have known the difference.
Beale played hurt. "That's nice, isn't it?"
"Trying to get us shot?"
"Fuck off with your whinging, you sweaty bastard, and come and have a drink."
Stevie looked behind him, then dragged a chair over. "I'm not joking, man. See if my gaffer was in here?"
"If your gaffer was in here, he'd be fraternising an' all. Besides, you still at the Riverside or what?"
Stevie n
odded and popped his can.
"So who gives a fuck about that job? Fuckin' shithole, that place. You want to get yourself on the ships, mate."
"What did you want to talk to us about?"
Beale smiled at him. "Wednesday."
Stevie looked my way, then back at Beale. I downed the rest of my Grouse and got up. I had to press my fingers to the table to stop the sway. I nodded at Beale. "I'm going to the bar."
"Good lad. Same again," said Beale.
I set off, my legs loose. On my right, the rest of the dealers were clustered around a couple of tables, doing impressions of punters and telling the same old war stories they'd told a million times before. Behind me, Beale and Stevie were almost flat to the table as they discussed whatever it was that was so bloody secret. I headed for the opposite end of the bar to Eddie. The man was an island of insanity, surrounded by plenty of personal space. I shifted up a little further away from him, hooked my foot on the rail and felt around in my wallet for whatever notes I had left. One of the drawbacks of the twenty-four hour licence apart from the ambience was the reaming you got on every round. Bastards were charging a fiver a can and more on the whisky unless its name was the same as the supermarket they'd bought it from.
The barmaid, and calling her that was me being nice, approached on thunder thighs. I ordered the same again and thought about going outside for a smoke. Mind you, that would involve dropping off the drinks, getting past the bouncers, down the two flights, out the door and having a smoke, and then back up again, and if I was honest with myself, I genuinely couldn't be arsed. I could hold on until we left.
I took the drinks back to the table. Beale and Stevie stopped talking as I sat down.
Beale reached across and cracked his can. "What you doing Wednesday night, Alan?"
Stevie pulled a face. "What did I just fuckin' say to you, Les?"
Beale laughed. "Ooh, secrets. Where I go, Alan goes."