Inside Straight
Page 23
"You don't need muscle—"
"He's hardly fuckin' muscle."
"Speak for yourself, you fat bastard."
"It's a question of trust. So if you're not gonna trust us—"
"It's not like that."
"Looks like that."
"You're laying on the drink, aren't you?"
"Aye."
"So," said Beale, a pious look on his face, "I'm hardly going to drink and drive, am I?"
"Fuck off."
"No way I'm leaving my car in Miles Platting, Stevie. Not happening."
"You'll have no bother, I already told you."
"Yeah, you said—"
"They only go for good motors."
"Get a cab."
"C'mon, Alan, you're supposed to be helping."
"Alright, look." Stevie reached for his can. "You want to bring your boyfriend along, that's fine, but he's not in the game."
"Okay," said Beale.
"I mean, nowhere near the fuckin' game. He can watch movies with The Waste."
"Alright." Beale looked at me. "You like movies, don't you?"
"What's The Waste?"
"Okay then." Stevie whirled the last of his Carling and then downed it. He crumpled the can and left it on the table. "I've got to get back. People'll wonder why I'm stuck talking to you two."
"Tell ‘em you're on the game."
Stevie stood, pretended to belly laugh, then turned on his heel. I watched him fall back in with his mates and reached for my whisky. I let it burn for a short while on my tongue before I swallowed it back.
"You're never buying in to dealer tables, are you, Les?"
Beale didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Fact was, he'd been trying to insinuate himself into a croup game for ages, but it'd been tricky. Dealers were skittish. Most of them were just as compulsive as their punters, but they rarely took a chance on fraternisation, because getting caught there meant an immediate boot, and if there was one thing these lads weren't suited to, it was the nine-to-five. On top of that, Beale had a rep as bloke who broke faces when he lost, and nobody liked a bad loser.
He tried to stay cool, but it didn't quite take. "It's a start."
Which was why he needed me there, to make sure he stayed on his best behaviour. Wasn't just that I was a cabbie and a cheerleader, now I had to be a fucking wet nurse into the bargain. But then, after the other night, wasn't that just a perfect measure of our friendship? He got shit everywhere, and I was the one with the lemon-scented wipe.
"Well, I can't help you. I've got something else on."
"Lying bastard."
"True. I promised to take the missus out Wednesday."
"By missus, you mean that student, right? And by take out—"
"I'm not coming."
Beale smiled. "It'll be alright. I won't say anything to your missus. And it'll be late on. You can go and fuck your teenager and then take us over the Riverside for the comp."
"No."
"No?" He leaned forward. "You serious? I get a seat at a croup game and you're going to blow it out because you want to get your end away?"
"I already told you—"
"I know what you fuckin' told us. And I know what the truth is. So why don't you just be the fuckin' white man and do us this favour, eh? I never ask you nowt, man. This is an opportunity."
"For you to get skinned by a bunch of dealers."
"Fuck off, you know us better than that. I get a decent run, I'm fuckin' unstoppable. And think about it, how good is it going to be when I take those bastards for everything they've got, eh?"
I thought about it. And I thought that even if Beale had the choice, taking them for everything they had was a bloody good way not to be invited back. But I didn't say anything, because it wouldn't matter if I did. Beale had made his decision, and that decision had been made on my behalf, too. So I'd call Lucy and I'd rain check Wednesday and we'd have to make up for it some other time.
Which we would. Because as of now, Beale owed me.
###
copyright 2004, 2011 Ray Banks
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Books by Ray Banks
Novels
Dead Money
Wolf Tickets
Matador
Inside Straight
The Cal Innes Quartet
Saturday's Child
Donkey Punch
No More Heroes
Beast of Burden
Novellas
Gun
California
Short Story Collections
Dirty Work: The Collected Cal Innes Stories
Wrong 'Em, Boyo
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