Inside Straight (10 page)

I undid my shirt cuff, stuck two fingers up my jacket sleeve and scratched my arm. Felt the skin flake under my nails and the warm pain of an over-scratched itch.

It didn't matter, anyway. I was out of here. There was no sense in looking for reasons to stay, especially when they were as spurious as my feelings for Jacqui Prince. If there was one thing I'd learned about emotions, it was that they were unnecessarily messy and irrational – they turned punters into screaming children and female dealers into blubbering wrecks. Better to be born without them than suffer the indignity of a crying jag in the middle of a busy, bustling pit.

Talking of which, I was needed. And if I was going to leave, I was determined to go out a winner.

Once the last of the big spenders had gone for the night, Fester locked up and the dealers and inspectors set about closing the tables as I tallied up the final sheets.

I didn't need to spend too long on it. We were up, of course we were, significantly so for a midweek night and Jacqui was surprised when I gave her the figures, asked me if I was sure. Of course I was. I'd been keeping a close watch all night, made sure my running total was accurate. Overall, I figured that I'd been conservative in my pit management, kept both staff and punters moving yet happy, but the last thing I wanted to do was hand her a loser. That was Kevin Nash's job.

While the dealers closed up the tables, I checked my phone. There was a text from that unknown number.

WE NEED TO TALK

I read it, digested it, then deleted it.

If I didn't talk to him, I didn't have to make a decision. I could stay ignorant. He was pushing because he wanted to get on with it, wanted my cooperation. A robbery here would take some planning, it would require some inside knowledge, and a man like Pollard wouldn't try to take the place without doing his homework. All his talk about robbing the club whether I was a part of it or not was starting to feel like a bluff, one forced with every phone call and text. He thought I'd break because he thought I'd see the light about the organisation, about how badly they'd been treating me all these years, and realise that without him and this fire exit of a robbery, I was stuck.

I wasn't stuck. All I had to do was call Dennis Mendoza, then I'd pull a Stephen Laird and disappear. Pollard wouldn't be able to find me and the rest of them here would just have to deal with it. I wasn't hurting anyone by running; I just wasn't saving them, and I didn't think that would give me many sleepless nights.

Jacqui and I went through the count with a couple of the quieter dealers and an inspector who appeared to know what he was doing, so the boxes were dumped, bundled and bagged in less than forty minutes. We let the staff go and hung around outside the cash desk, watching Tintin tag the sacks. The floor was still warm with dropped money and boozed-up bodies. There was a smell in the air, a peculiar mix of sweat, perfume, alcohol and disappointment. That smell brought out the Kilgore in me; it smelled like ... victory. It meant we'd nailed them hard enough to fill the boxes, but not so hard that they'd give up gambling for good. It was a balance that every pit boss aspired to, and eminently satisfying when it was achieved.

"Thanks for tonight, Graham." Jacqui touched my left arm.

I pulled away. "You're welcome."

The shutters came down on the cash desk. Jacqui stayed with me a little longer, watching the metal slide down, then went over to Fester to talk about the final lock-up. I leaned against the wall and breathed out. She'd noticed me flinch under her hand. There was no way to explain something like that.

Tintin emerged from the cash desk. I followed him to the reception, grabbed my coat and left. I watched Tintin head for his naff little Nova and Jacqui duck into the back of a waiting cab, then headed across the empty car park to my Corsa. I stopped and breathed in the night air. It was cold, clean, better than the recycled breath I'd filled my lungs with all night. I turned to look at the club. Fester watched me from the glass reception, and then the lights went out.

A week off, and then I'd be out of there. It could work. If I wasn't on shift, then Pollard couldn't touch me. I'd just avoid the Sainsbury's until then, maybe get my food delivered. It wasn't as if he knew where I lived, was it?

So I was safe. Or I thought I was.

I didn't see them as I pulled into the car park, but they must have been waiting in the shadows for me, because as soon as I stepped out of my car, there were enough hands on me to throw water into my knees and a knot into my stomach. I spun against them, started to protest, about to yell for help when someone found that knot with his fist. The breath coughed out of me. I stumbled, doubled up. They pushed me into the shadows and up against a wall. My gut quivered, burned. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't see straight for the pain. I felt like throwing up, but they kept me upright and my shoulders back, and my brain told me I'd have plenty of time to vomit later if they left me alive.

Three of them. I couldn't see faces, doubted I'd recognise them even if they were visible, but I knew their type. If they weren't related to Pollard – cousins, brothers, sons – then they were close friends. The orange light of the block car park bounced off the middle one's skinhead, broke and danced in front of my eyes. He was going bald and had shaved his head to hide it. It was a sign of vanity that didn't extend to his clothing – not unless that was a designer tracksuit he was wearing.

"You think you're fuckin' special, son?" He had a slight lisp. It made him sound effeminate, faintly ridiculous.

I shook my head. I heard him, but my ears were ringing.

"What happens when someone calls you?"

"I don't know." I really didn't; my brain had locked up.

More hands, pulling this time, wrenching me away from the wall, only to shove me back. My head met brick and something flashed white behind my eyes. I tried to put a hand up to the back of my head, but someone held my wrist. Dug their finger into the raw skin. I struggled, but it was a feeble effort and everyone knew it.

"Where's the phone?"

"What phone?"

"The fuckin'
phone
."

"Coat. Coat pocket."

The speaker took out a mobile. The display illuminated his face. He was rat-like, a large nose intruding on otherwise small features, his ears curling at the edges like old bacon. He pressed a number, put the phone to his ear and stared at me. "It's switched off."

"I know."

"Get it out."

"What?"

He lunged forward, grabbed my face, squeezed until it felt as if my cheekbones were about to crack. I let out a breath, made a noise like an owl. I wanted to struggle against him, but I knew better. I'd read things. You didn't fight back, not in a situation like this. Not unless you wanted much, much worse. Best thing to do was play possum and wait it out and just pray that you weren't too badly hurt or humiliated. I felt the pressure on my wrist disappear. The skin burned. I reached into my pocket for the disposable mobile and showed it to the rat.

The rat let go. "Turn it on."

I turned on the phone. It made a desultory
nurp
sound, followed by a higher pitched double beep. There were sixteen missed calls, but no messages. The sight of them made my stomach roll.

"Keep it on."

I nodded, leaned back against the wall.

The rat dialled a number, staring at me. He waited for the call to connect, then: "He's ready to talk."

He killed the call. Stared at me for a few seconds.

The disposable phone rang. The rat nodded at me.

I connected the call, held the phone to my ear with one trembling hand. It was Pollard. He didn't need to speak. "Yes, Mr Pollard?"

"There you are."

I swallowed. Something tasted like sick. I wondered if I'd thrown up after all. "Yes."

"What's your answer going to be, then?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer, son."

"I know, Mr Pollard."

"Call us Barry."

"No."

"No?"

"Sorry."

"Way you're talking, it sounds like you don't want to be part of this. Is that a fair assessment of the situation, d'you think?"

"Yes."

"So you're telling me no?"

I opened my mouth. The breath balled in my throat. Three men in front of me, all waiting for the word from Pollard. I swallowed again. "I really don't know."

"Well, let's see what we can do about that, eh? Obviously you have concerns, Graham, so maybe I can put your mind at ease."

"I hope so."

"So what's the problem, then?"

"I can't ... It's kind of difficult to—"

"Don't mind the lads. They won't do anything unless I tell them to. So, come on, tell us what's on your mind."

I blinked at the tarmac. It shone. It must have rained. There was a hot pain in my throat. I wanted to cry. "I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die."

I pushed a knuckle across one eye, stared at the men with the other. "I don't want to get hurt."

"You're not going to get hurt, either." He laughed. The line crackled. "Not unless you specifically request it."

"Why would I do that?"

"It's got to look real, Graham."

"I'm not ... I'm not
comfortable
with this. I can't—"

"You don't have to be comfortable with it. I'm glad you're not. If you were, it would mean you were used to fucking people over. And I wouldn't be able to trust you if you were like that, would I? So no, you don't have to be comfortable with it, but you do have to be comfortable enough to do what you're asked."

"I don't know if I am."

"Then we'll take that as a no, call it a day. Give Jez the phone back and we'll not mention it again."

"But you'll still rob the place?"

"That's the plan."

"And what about me?"

A sigh that crackled on the line. "If it turns out that I don't have your cooperation then I'll probably need to make sure you're not at work to fuck things up for us—"

"Like Kevin Nash?"

"Nah." A pause, and a hardening of the voice. "More permanent than that."

I choked. I tried to move away. Hands kept me steady. Those hands had snapped Nash's fingers, broken his legs, put him in hospital. Those hands made me want to scream. They might just do that before the night was out. "Wait,
wait
a second."

Pollard's voice was warm again. "You don't care about those people, do you? Really?"

"No."

"They're shit, Graham. They're the dregs, son. You're not one of them."

I swallowed against a dry throat. I looked up at the block of flats. There were lights on, but I knew nobody was watching. Nobody cared round here. You kept yourself to yourself. It was one of the reasons I'd moved here in the first place. My neighbours were invisible strangers, singleton shut-ins with no discernible social skills, and that was just the way I liked it. The way I
used
to like it. I put a hand on my gut and rubbed.

"Still there, Graham?"

I thought about it. I blinked. I trembled. I sweated.

I came to a decision.

"Okay."

"That a yes?"

I felt the shadows moving away from me, felt the circulation return to my limbs. "Yes, it is."

"Alright, then. You've got a week."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he'd already hung up. I looked at the three men who were watching me.

I opened my arms. "It's okay. He said it was okay."

Jez the rat laughed at me. A text beeped on his mobile. The laughter stopped. He gestured to his two mates and they turned away. I watched them head for the gates, kept still even though every fibre of my being wanted to run home. I couldn't let them know which flat was mine, so I waited until they were gone, and then I waited a little longer, already thinking, already planning, already trying to come up with a heist good enough to save my skin.

My first conclusion was that a week wasn't long enough.

I cancelled my holiday time, much to Jacqui's delight, and decided to get right to it, but it became all too clear all too quickly that I couldn't possibly scope the place properly in one five-night run. I started to think that maybe I should've asked Pollard what he'd originally planned and then build from there, but it was too late – I couldn't talk to him now. I couldn't even think about the man without breaking into a sick, viscous sweat.

So I took notes, spent my off-moments scribbling on the back of a roulette card like The Professor. Mostly numbers, nothing too incriminating. Nobody but me would be able to decipher it without prior knowledge, and even then it would be tenuous. But it was necessary. I needed to see it written down in black and white. I couldn't hold all this in my head.

Lucky for any prospective robbers, the Riverside boasted a series of obvious security issues. You had a staff door that was open to the gaming floor, where anyone passing could spy the security code that would get you not only behind the scenes, but also one door nearer the cash desk. Of course I'd give Pollard the code for the door, but the point was that it was plausible for them to have the code by other means. Anyone with an eye and an interest would be able to peek at the keypad on any number of breaks and work it out. That was good. Above all else, my job here was to keep
me
safe and pre-empt any wild accusations of an inside job. So, a set of breakers going off every two hours was at least three chances to clock the code, implying that they all went through at the same time. Then there was the restaurant and valet staff. Some of them didn't like walking through the kitchen to get to the staff room, so they used the staff door, too. On the first night I counted no less than twelve uses of the staff door where the code was entered; all it would take was one glance to note and another to confirm.