by Sharn Hutton
SPINK’S FAKE ROLEX CLICKED TO A MINUTE AFTER MIDNIGHT AND HE LAID HIS HAND. A single bead of sweat rolled down his neck and soaked into the fraying collar of his shirt.
“Three eights,” he growled. The other two men at the table threw their cards down and leaned back, disappointed.
He’d won.
Spink scooped up the small pile of chips in the centre of the table and deposited them into the empty space in front of him. The tide was turning at last.
He’d rolled into the club three hours ago with five hundred pounds in his pocket and a good feeling in his water. Tonight was an important night. If he could double his money he’d have enough to make the repayment on the club loan. If not, he knew there was a chance his membership could be rescinded. He needed The Cranley: there had been nights when he’d left here ten grand richer and he’d be hard pressed to pull that off after a day at the track. The Cranley was his lifeline, especially now.
The dealer flicked cards around the table and Spink pulled them up at the corner: a pair of threes. So much for the change of luck. He chewed on his unlit Havana and mulled on whether to play the hand.
His fellow players were regulars too: both rich businessmen who could afford to sink a few grand into a night’s entertainment. That’s why Spink came here. Sure, his shirt had seen better days, but it was Ralph Lauren, and his Rolex wasn’t real, but he’d had to hand over the one his wife had given him on their wedding day as part payment on a gambling debt. The Mouse had never noticed the copycat replacement. What difference did it make?
You had to play big to win big and this was the place to do it.
Spink shuffled in his seat and stretched his hands out on the table. His fellow players ran appraising eyes over him and he recognised the comprehension in their faces. Damn.
“Gentlemen, I’m out.” He nodded to them in turn and stood. Sweeping up his chips, he stalked away to the French windows at the end of the room and let himself out onto the small balcony.
Flopping down onto a cushioned wicker lounger, he sucked on his newly lit cigar and puffed great clouds of rich fug into the cool night air. Bloody smoking ban. He’d catch his death out here. He hated giving away his ‘tells’. Shuffling around and stretching out like that, what was he thinking? He ordered a Glenfiddich and looked down over Pall Mall. At least the drinks could go on his tab.
Spink gripped the Havana in his teeth and caressed the chips, allowing them to machine gun from one hand to the other. He was down three hundred. It was all this bullshit with Adler putting him off his game.
No way Spink was going to lose his job to that tosser. He’d streaked off the blocks and left Adler standing, oblivious to the vast quantity of accounts that he’d pilfered today and not just from him, but from all the members of the team. Plenty more were lined up for takeover in the next couple of months too. Spink’s place was pretty secure.
Mango UK had been an epic call though. Spink brushed a speck of lint from his thigh as he thought about that. Mango were huge, but Locksley PR didn’t get much of their action at the moment. His serendipitous call to their office had blagged him an intro to the VP of Marketing Worldwide at their UK conference next week. This was going to be the deal to seal all deals. Adler didn’t stand a chance.
Spink rubbed his hands together with delight, took a sip of whisky and let his eyes close.
“Donald,” said a gentle male voice, “You’re having a good evening, I trust?”
Spink’s eyes snapped open to take in the patronizing presence of Giles VanDerhorn, the club manager.
“Giles.” Spink offered up a sycophantic smile, “So lovely to see you.”
Giles nodded and fixed questioning eyes upon him.
“I’m sorry to say my evening has not been quite as good as I’d hoped.” He looked down at the unravelling stitches on his well-polished shoes. “Of course, I brought along the sum we discussed, but I’m afraid the cards were against me and I got rather carried away.” He chuckled in what he hoped was an endearing manner. “All out of cash now and seems the good lady wife removed my cheque book from my coat when she took it to the cleaners.” He patted at his breast pocket to demonstrate. He’d been taken to the cleaners all right.
“I’m very sorry to be so disorganised. Could I drop it in to you next week?” Spink batted his best doe eyes at VanDerhorn. “Off on business tomorrow, but I can get in on Tuesday?” He might be able to scrape it together by then.
“I see. You would like to defer your payment until next week.” Giles wasn’t fooled, but remained soft spoken and polite. Thank God they didn’t like to make a scene here—he just wouldn’t be allowed access if he continued to fail to come up with the money: a fate much worse than embarrassment.
“Would you, old boy? That would be ever so helpful. Next week suit you all right?”
Giles nodded. “Of course, Donald. We like to look after our members. Members who support The Cranley are always of value. I’ll be sure to find you next week.” Giles swept away, smiling and nodding at other members as he passed.
Spink wrung his hands. A thousand pounds by next week—worth it to keep his membership. He mentally riffled through his possessions for something disposable. The Mouse had a few good pieces in her jewellery box.
He wondered where she kept it.
NINETEEN
ADAM KNOCKED BACK THE JACK DANIELS and savoured the burn in his chest. Gregory sighed. “Come on, Adam. You know you miss it. What are you going to do?” Adam stared into his empty glass and pursed his lips. “Can’t push the penny back up.” He pulled at the knot of his tie, unbuttoned the stiff collar and waved his empty glass at the waitress. She sashayed to the mahogany bar and set its tender to work, all sounds muted in the rich upholstery and thick brocade drapes of The Cranley’s bar. Dappled light from a chandelier fell across marble table tops. Deep maroon velvet buttoned into Adam’s high-backed chair. The room cosseted its occupants in an elegant protective bubble. Adam fidgeted and scratched at himself. A muscle ticked under his eye. He’d been fooled by it all before. Now it was just another example of misguided loyalty.
Intimate groups occupied tables in cosy alcoves. Immaculate women hanging on the every word of their stinking rich patrons, burst with artificial laughter at their jokes. Another year and then another. He’d let the real thing slip away. You didn’t see many wives at The Cranley. What happened at the club, stayed at the club.
A private gaming room door opened to expel a short harassed man who laid a musty trail of cigar fug behind him as he scuttled for the exit. Adam’s nose wrinkled as he observed the man’s retreating form with contemptuous recognition: Spink. He’d recognised him at the club before, but had always managed to steer clear.
Adam had been here many times, celebrating victory or partying on a bonus. The Partners at BSL were big on The Cranley. Looking around him now, he couldn’t remember why.
The waitress set two heavy tumblers chinking onto the table. She batted her eyelashes at Gregory who winked back. Adam snatched up his drink, took a slug and choked out a wry laugh. “This place says it all.”
Gregory raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Do you think she likes you, Greg? Do you think that she appreciates your inner beauty? She can smell your money, Greg. They all can.” He swept a derisive arm around the room. “It’s all fake.”
“I hear she’s double-jointed.” Greg’s tongue flicked unconsciously around his lips.
“Mercurial and manipulative.”
“Fantastic arse.”
Adam smiled at that. “You said it.” He took another hit of JD.
The smile dropped from Gregory’s eyes. “Your clients are already being reassigned.” He examined his manicure “If you wait much longer there’ll be no going back.”
“Of all the things I can’t undo.” Adam’s eyebrow twitched. “Who are you working on, Greg?”
“Alister.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Murder. You know that.”
<
br /> “Did he do it?”
“You know that too.”
“Did he?”
“Client confidentiality, Adam.”
“That’s a yes. You going to get him off?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“For the money.”
Gregory looked perplexed. “It’s my job, Adam.”
“Anyone else?”
Greg shuffled in his seat.
“Who else are you taking from my cast-offs?”
Greg looked uncomfortable. “McGinty.”
“Fuck me.” Adam knocked back the rest of his drink and sprawled back into the chair.
“He’s got connections. Where did you think he was getting his money? Do a good job and I could make my name.”
Adam’s head swam, Greg just didn’t get it. He pulled his eyes away from the swirling carpet to focus on the far wall. “You want to ingratiate yourself with a pensioner-mutilating psychopath?” He knew his voice was rising, but he couldn’t control it. He felt the eyes of the room swivel toward him. The memory of McGinty taunted him. I cut out her wagging tongue. No bitch telling tales on me.
Gregory leaned in and spoke in hushed tones. “I don’t want to be his best friend. Business is business. If I can pull a good result out of the bag then I’ll get myself a good reputation with the right people. I’ll be in demand.”
Adam shook his head and looked down at the floor.
“Now that their golden boy has deserted them, they’ll need someone new to throw their ill-gotten gains at.”
“I was not their golden boy.”
“Sure you were. Every A-list scumbag had your number in their speed dial. Someone’s got to pick it up. Why not me?”
Yeah why not? Just because Adam’s conscience had woken up why would anyone else share his newfound values? He knew he wouldn’t talk him round; the money shouted louder.
“Everyone has a right to a defence. Innocent until proven guilty, you know? It’s the law of the land, Adam.”
It was more than that though, wasn’t it? Pick a side and show your colours. Adam’s lip curled as he watched Greg preen. He fussed at his hair and ran a finger around his collar—it pinched at that double chin he’d cultivated in fancy restaurants. Frown lines were etched into the pallid skin across his brow. He’d sold his soul. He was a cheap slut in a two-thousand-pound suit.
“Get back on the merry-go-round Adam. They steal from society and we steal it back. I’m Robin fucking Hood.”
“You’re just another bandit.”
“I’m just like you.”
Too much. Adam launched himself at Greg, pushing his chair over backward onto the floor, hand grasped around his throat. “I am NOT like you!”
Greg was silenced: stunned and gagged.
Rage popped out the veins on Adam’s forehead while he pinned Greg’s rigid body to the floor. Pushing out the distance between them, he fought to rein in the seething mass of disgust and anger that gripped him. The old Adam had accepted the money and enjoyed the notoriety, he knew and hated that. Greg was just following the same flawed path.
Shame washed over his scalp and cooled the fever. “Not anymore.” He released Greg and clambered to his feet, trying not to look at him, displaying empty hands.
“You’ve lost it, Fox. Lost it!” Gregory shrieked.
Adam’s head hurt and he rubbed at his temples. “We’re done,” he said. There was nothing more to say to Greg, he just wanted to go home.
TWENTY
THE DOOR CHIME SANG BEHIND STAINED GLASS FOR A SECOND TIME. Jerry strained backward to peer in through the slim crack in the lounge curtains. A light was on and he could just pick up soft music. Rain pitter-pattered on the portico roof.
He drew up his inadequate jacket’s collar, scurried over to the window and banged on the glass. “Isabell? Are you in there?”
Behind him the door opened.
“Jerry, mi querido. Has venido.” Isabell leant against the door frame, a scarlet Lycra mini dress straining over her voluptuous form to eye-popping effect.
Jerry ignored the visual assault and stepped back under the portico. “Why didn’t you open the door? I’m getting soaked out here.”
“Poor baby,” Isabell purred, taking him by the hand and leading him into the dark hallway. She stripped the wet jacket from his back, stood on the heels of his shoes and propelled him forward, peeling them from his feet. “No shoes on the carpet,” she chided softly.
She led him on, into the lounge but, when Jerry saw the scene he snatched back his hand.
Isabell lived in their old marital home: a new build with delusions of Georgian grandeur. She had decorated with an expensive eye. The deep pile rug in the lounge crushed under foot. Tones of cream and gold combined with rich wood and, this evening, flickering candlelight. The scent of patchouli filled the air and soft jazz oozed from the sound system. This was Isabell’s formula for seduction.
Jerry swallowed hard and watched her from beneath alarmed eyebrows.
Arranging herself on the sofa, she crossed long legs with slow precision and patted the cushion beside her. Jerry obediently sat down, but squeezed himself against the arm at the opposite end.
“Are you comfortable?” she purred.
“Fine,” Jerry mumbled, really not comfortable at all.
“Is important to relax. How is baby? Up all night, I am thinking. We used to be up all night too, Jerry.” She stroked at her cheek.
Jerry watched her, wide eyed. “Fine. Fine. It’s all fine.”
“I get you drink, hmm?” She uncurled from the sofa and brushed against him as she passed. “I get you favourite beer.”
Jerry loosened his tie. What the hell? He smeared a sweaty palm on his trouser leg.
She returned and handed Jerry his drink, ensuring their fingers touched. She settled beside him, allowing the scarlet lycra to ride up her thigh so Jerry caught a flash of black lace. “Why don’t you come stay with me a while? Take a break?” she purred.
The beer caught in Jerry’s throat and he coughed it out. “Sorry, have I drifted into a parallel dimension?” Isabell looked hurt.
“It’s just that I could have sworn we got divorced and I married someone else. Oh yeah, and had a baby.”
“It no have to mean anything. Could just be sex, wild dirty sex.” She got up onto her knees, levelling barely contained breasts with Jerry’s face. His jaw began to flap. “Hey. Look. Lovely. No. Really. Couldn’t. Even if I wanted to. Which I can’t. Don’t. Of course.” He wiggled away from under the dangerous looming bosom and got to his feet. “Look, what’s this all about?” He pushed an errant curl of hair back from his eye.
Isabell flopped into the sofa and folded her arms. Her long black hair flipped to partly obscure her petulant face, but Jerry could still see her eyebrows knitting together, eyebrows that said she was thinking. The corners of her mouth turned down and she assumed the expression of a wounded puppy.
“I get so lonely here, Jerry. Please can you no stay with me a little?”
Jerry’s brain goggled. “Isabell. You hate me, remember?”
“No. No. I no hate you, Jerry.” She bit at her lip.
“Isabell. What’s going on?”
“OK. Maybe you help me a little then? Yes?”
Jerry screwed up his face.
“Mi madre y mi padre. They are coming, Jerry. Could you get them from the airport? Please?”
That seemed rather simple. “Why can’t you do it?”
“Busy, so busy. Getting ready.” She plumped a cushion.
Jerry narrowed his eyes to watch Isabell get up and bustle around the room, tidying non-existent mess.
“How did we get from the great meaningless sex to collecting your parents from the airport?” Alarm bells clanged.
Isabell giggled and shrugged.
Jerry’s brain clunked and whirred. “Oh my God. You haven’t told them, have you? They still think we’re married, don’t they!”
Isabell grimaced.
&
nbsp; “Isabell, why? You’ve got to tell them”
“No. No. No.” She paced around the sofa. “I can no tell them, Jerry.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.” Jerry pursued her.
“Jerry, please. I’m begging you. I can no put off their visit any longer. I can no be cut off like Cousin Angelina. I am a good Catholic girl.”
Jerry scoffed and Isabell scowled at him.
“I can no get divorce. I bring shame on my family. Mi padre—he will no forgive me. I’ll lose my allowance, Jerry, please.” She chewed at her immaculate manicure.
“What’s done is done, Isabell. You’ll have to confess sooner or later.”
“No. No. No!” She waved stretched-out hands above her head. “No allowance and I can no pay the mortgage, Jerry. Is your house too. You will have to pay. How will you like that?”
“Oh no. I can’t give you any more. You’re already getting half my salary. We agreed. You’ll just have to sell the house.”
Yes, this could be a blessing in disguise. Sell the house. There may even be a nice little bit of equity they could split.
“I can no sell the house, Jerry.” She examined her nails and pouted as she spoke. “Loans. I secure them on the house. House price drop and now there is no enough.”
Jerry scrubbed at his hair. “Oh Isabell. Why did you need more money?” Bang goes the windfall.
She leaned in, wagging a finger at him, “I no do it on purpose!” then stuck out her chin in defiance, “I am a woman. I need things.”
“What?”
Isabell brushed him away. “It no matter. What’s done is done.”