Vic’s lip hangs fat and low like a slug. He’s getting a glimpse of his own future. Come collection day, things are going to be a little tight. He can’t afford to let that money leave the table.
‘That cash is not mine to lose. I owe Irish Mike twenty grand.’
Irish Mike again. The man is like a cancer.
‘All you have to do is buy a look at my cards.’
‘I’m out. Tapped.’
I reach in for the pot, hoarding it with my arms. ‘Sorry, Vic. No pay, no play.’ This is fine; this will do.
Vic watches the pot move across the table like it’s his life’s blood draining away.
‘There must be some way to work this out. I can owe you.’
‘Not an option. Your rules.’
‘I can kill you.’
‘You can try. Bigger men than you have tried. Go for your nine, see what happens.’
Vic bought a nine millimetre because that’s what the gangsters rapped about. I suspect that’s because of the easy rhyme.
‘It’s thirty grand just to see your cards. This is Cloisters, for Christ’s sake. Where am I going to get that kind of money?’
It’s laughable really. Has this man never heard the word irony?
‘Vic, you’ve been rolling girls back here for years. Every one of them begged you for a little leniency. You screwed them all. Cheated them, then screwed them.’ I pile up the cash and chips. ‘You still owe me for the chips. That’s four grand give or take. And I’ll take, if you don’t mind.’
Vic’s poker face has collapsed in on itself, and in its place is raw desperation.
‘Fuck you, doorman. I’ll see you. Let me see those cards.’
‘Show me your money.’
Vic wrings his hands, and the chains around his neck jangle. ‘I got the club.’
Bingo.
‘You don’t even own this fire hazard, shithole.’
Vic does not dispute my description. ‘I got a twenty-year lease. That’s gotta be worth fifty grand.’
‘Yeah? And I got a shoe that’s worth half a mil.’
‘Come on, Daniel. I’ll throw in the lease for a look-see.’
I mull this over. ‘If you win, you cut these girls loose anyway. And if you lose, then this club and every stick of furniture and bottle of booze in it belongs to me. I don’t want any haggling; this isn’t a divorce.’
Vic nods, not able to speak the words.
I push the pot back in. ‘Show me the lease.’
Brandi hurries to the open safe and fishes about. She can see where this is going. In two minutes there could be a regime change around here. She returns with a manila envelope tied with string.
‘This it?’
Vic looks like he’s going to puke. ‘Yeah.’ And then adds, ‘Bitch.’
Brandi is aching to respond; it’s in the square of her chin, the flash of her tawny eyes. But this deal is not sealed just yet. No one outside the game speaks, because this is one of those situations that will be talked about for years whatever happens, and details are important. Also the whole thing has an unreal quality about it, like something out of a TV show, and not the good ones with budget behind them; the afternoon reruns from the seventies with stereotype villains and a cheap set that wobbles every time a door is closed.
I check the document. Most of it is legalese; could be a guarantee for a deep-fat fryer for all I know. Even if it is legal, the entire situation is probably bullshit that any halfway-decent attorney would tear apart without spilling his latte.
In spite of all that, I say: ‘Okay. Looks good. I accept the wager.’
A little formal, but it’s that kind of night.
Vic’s jowls are shuddering. ‘Show me, goddamn you, doorman.’
Calm drapes me like a shroud and I know the club is mine.
‘Two pair,’ I say, flipping the cards. ‘No bluffing on this side of the table.’
Vic doesn’t bother with his cards. He’s screwed, and killing a few people is the only way out.
His nerve-clumsy fingers crab down his body towards the nine in his belt. He’s way too slow. I reach across and crush his hand in mine. Brandi puts him away with a vicious elbow to the side of his face. That girl changes allegiances in a heartbeat. No, that’s wrong. Our girl Brandi only has one allegiance. Vic slides off his chair, moaning, blood pouring from a cut above his nose.
AJ is moving, but I have so much adrenalin in my system that he might as well be wading through mud, coming around the side of the table at my ten o’clock with a look on his face that’s more animal than human.
I draw my little Glock 26 and put a shot in the bar mirror over his head. Fragments rain down spectacularly, glittering icicles, slicing AJ’s neck and hands.
I don’t have to say anything. Even AJ is not dumb enough to go up against a gun. He lies on the floor and starts crying.
I turn to Marcie and her friend. ‘Go now. Don’t ever come back in here. Stay off the strip.’
They kiss and hug me for a minute, like I’m an old rock star.
‘Thanks, Daddy,’ blurts Marcie. Then, ‘Oops. Sorry. I mean thanks, mister.’
Then they’re gone, skittering across the casino, sandals slapping the floor.
‘Thanks, Daddy,’ says Brandi, imitating the California/MTV twang that all kids speak with these days, then she cracks up laughing. ‘I don’t believe this, Dan. You own the club.’ She stamps the heels of her Catwoman boots with sheer joy. ‘That asshole’s time has come. I should crack his skull for all the shit I’ve had to put up with these past months.’
‘Don’t crack anything yet, Brandi. Vic hasn’t signed the lease over.’
‘Hmm,’ says Brandi.
She rouses her ex-boss with a sleet of ice from a steel bucket. As soon as he signs, she cold-cocks him with the bucket.
‘Finally this club is going to rock,’ she sings, pouring herself a healthy shot of bourbon. ‘We can get some professional girls working in back. Maybe cut a deal with Irish Mike for some product. Make us some serious money.’
I can see I’m going to have staff problems.
Jason shows Vic and AJ the door with unseemly glee. He actually sings them out using the tune from ‘YMCA’ and his own lyrics:
‘Get-the-Fuck-Out,
You pair of assholes.
Get-the-Fuck-Out,
And don’t come back here!’
I’m impressed. I haven’t seen Jason this happy since his signed Lou Ferrigno T-shirt arrived.
News spreads across the club like electricity across water, spasming everyone it touches. Pretty soon the entire staff are gathered outside the back room waiting for some kind of pep talk.
Talking to staff is not my area. Having staff is not my area, for Christ’s sake. Travel light has always been the code I live by, and yet somehow here I am with a casino and a dozen people depending on me for a living.
My transplants are itchy.
Thank God the wages were paid yesterday.
What about me? Ghost Zeb pitches in. Don’t forget about me.
And Zeb is still Irish Mike’s captive. Irish Mike who collects a little tribute every month from Slotz. It seems every time I crawl out of no-man’s-land, the earth tilts and rolls me back in.
I hear Brandi’s steel heels clacking across the casino floor and I decide to face the music before she launches into another tirade. I rise, check my skullcap in a remaining shard of busted mirror and duck under the door frame to meet my public.
It’s a weird feeling to have subordinates smiling at you; didn’t happen a lot in the army. Mostly in the army people muttered gobshite under their breath when I was dishing out orders. But here, all I’m getting is happy faces.
Jason is still riffing on ‘YMCA’.
‘Dan-Mac-Evoy,
Is fucking awesome,
Dan-Mac-Evoy,
Kicked Victor Jones’ goddamn ass!’
He abandons the song’s structure for the last line, but nevertheless his efforts earn him
an enthusiastic round of applause.
‘Okay,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘Okay. I thank you, Jason. The Village People thank you.’
More laughing. Marco tickles Jason in the ribs, which opens my eyes about a couple of things.
‘For tonight, we do everything as normal. Except the booths; no more hands-on in the booths. Anyone has a problem with that, talk to me later. Also, anyone working off a debt, you don’t owe me a dime, so from now on we all get paid.’
A couple of smiles from those no longer in the hole, but the hands-on girls don’t seem too thrilled.