‘Moron,’ says Vic, and I cut him a suspicious look.
‘What?’
‘Moron,’ he repeats. Obviously I have been emasculated by my unlucky streak. ‘You come into my club and try to take me on. Me! Victor Jones. You know how many guys have taken a beating here?’
‘It’s two grand, Vic. Get a grip.’
‘Two grand more that these lovely ladies owe.’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘I lost my wages, that’s all.’
Vic chews an unlit cigar. ‘No, no, fuck that. You said we were playing for the girls first.’
‘Those chips were my wages. Anything I won was to get these two out of the shit-pile they’re in.’
AJ is snuffling and snorting, beads of sweat standing out on his red forehead. Begging to be turned loose. But Vic holds him back with a frown, magnanimous in his good fortune.
‘Any way you look at it, McEvoy, these pretty things are still in the hole. You ain’t saved nobody. Not since the army.’
That joke is getting old.
‘I’ve got a hundred bucks left on the table. You never know, my luck might be about to change.’
Vic lights his cigar, twisting it slowly for an even burn. He’s past pretending to give a shit what I think.
‘One more hand. Why not? After today, doorman, you’re gonna have to borrow a pot to piss in. I’ll give you a good rate on one of those.’
‘Very funny, Vic. Let’s play cards.’
It’s the macho thing to say, but I don’t feel very tough. Vic is crucifying me. Maybe Simon Moriarty was right and I am totally trans-parent.
A good dealer can land five cards right on top of each other so the corners match up. This girl is so rattled, one of my cards floats right off the table.
‘You wanna change that, McEvoy?’
I snag the card with two fingers. ‘No, Vic. I’m good.’
It’s not a bad hand. Two pair. Queens and eights.
We’re both in for fifty, then I tap the table and the girl slides a single card over. Vic passes his hand across his cards, like a magician. He’s sticking with what he’s got, which should mean that he has everything he needs, unless he’s bluffing. A couple of hands back I folded on a pair of aces, lost over seven hundred dollars. I never paid to see Vic’s cards, but I’ve seen him bluff with nothing. The problem is that when Vic has his game face on, nothing changes. His voice is steady, his features are calm, his body language says fuck you, no matter how good his hand. I thought I could find a chink in his armour, but I can’t. My only hope is Lady Luck.
‘Fifty,’ I say, even though my fifth card is useless to me. Why not go for broke.
‘This is going to be easy,’ says Vic, pushing in a stack. ‘Five hundred. You can’t pay, you’re gone. No IOUs here. House rules.’
‘I know the house rules, Vic. You made us memorise them, remember?’
Vic relaxes a little now that the battle is won. ‘AJ here can’t memorise dick. That’s why we call him by his initials, so he can remember his own name.’
‘Maybe that torch scratched his brain.’
AJ smacks the flat of his hand on the table, but he won’t move without a go from Vic.
‘Okay,’ says Vic. ‘So you’re done, doorman. Get the hell out of my club. You’re barred.’
‘Unless I got dollars to spend, right?’
‘I don’t turn down cash money. You never know, if you drop by, maybe Marcie here will give you a hand-job in one of the booths. Work off some of her debt.’
Marcie cries a river, and I reach for my wallet.
‘I’ll see your five hundred.’
Vic hides his surprise well. ‘You sure about that?’
‘What? You thought I was walking around broke? I got funds, Vic, so I see your five. You never turn down cash money, right?’ I toss the bills in with a flourish.
‘Never.’ Vic cups his stash with two hands and pushes it all in. ‘There’s your five hundred, and two thousand more. You got that much walking-around money?’
I’m watching him closely. Same old Vic. I was hoping the surprise funds might throw him.
‘Yeah, I got it.’
Your getaway money? Come on, Dan. Are you going to blow all that for these two airheads? They dug this hole for themselves.
I have no intention of blowing it all; just enough to clear the girls and maybe get my wages back. This pot and that’s it.
‘How much you got in that safe you don’t have?’
Vic somehow keeps the face straight. I bet his toes are curled in his shoes.
‘I got the night’s float. That’s twenty grand, Daniel.’
And there it is. He was all McEvoy-doorman-moron and suddenly it’s Daniel. Vic never called me Daniel in his life. It’s just like Dr Moriarty said: Vic’s subconscious is trying to gain my trust because he’s lying. Bluffing.
I realise with a rush of certainty that Vic doesn’t have shit in his hand. I can win big here.
My resolve to play it safe dissolves, and in its place floats a shining Christmas bauble vision of a moment in the near future when I leave Victor Jones weeping at his own table. If I let him keep the table. This is the guy whose first thought on seeing Connie dead in the parking lot was for his own sleazy business, and I feel an irresistible urge to take that business away from him.
My poker face is nowhere near as good as Vic’s, so I hide it in my hands, feigning distress.
‘Twenty grand. Christ. But you’re not going to risk all that. No way.’
‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.’
‘Okay. Okay. I’ll take five. I’ve got five. So that’s three grand to you.’
The stash is spread all over my body. Some in each breast pocket and the rest in my socks. I empty one pocket and place the wedge gingerly on the pile, making sure Vic sees the pocket is empty.
‘Sheee-it, you must be related to these dumb bitches.’ Vic clicks a finger at AJ, who springs to his feet as though the gravity holding him down has been siphoned off.
‘What, Vic? What? Shoot him?’
‘Nope. Just open the safe and bring me the cash.’
AJ is crestfallen and actually pouts, which might make him cute if he was thirty years younger and a person was ignorant of his tryst with Lady Liberty. He trudges to the bar and successfully opens a safe hidden behind a brewery mirror.
I chuckle. ‘Christ, he remembered the combination.’
Vic breaks out of his poker face for a fleeting smirk. ‘It’s 10– 28–18–86. The date the Statue was dedicated.’
In spite of everything, I can’t hold in a guffaw, and maybe for a millisecond I admire Victor Jones.
‘You are an evil arsehole, Vic. But that was a good one. You’ll have to change the combination now.’
Vic accepts the compliment with a royal wave, then plucks a brick of cash from AJ’s fingers, plonking ten grand on the pot. ‘Your three, and seven more. Now you are screwed again, Daniel. No pay,
no play.’
I have him. A sense of savage victory glows like a light bulb inside my skull, and I close my mouth to stop it shining out.
Ooooh, says Ghost Zeb. You think there’s actual light shining outta your Irish mouth? I think you better phone that guy Simon.
It’s a fair point.
‘Don’t worry, Vic. I’m playing. I got one more pocket.’
I pull out two more wedges, each one wrapped in cling film. Any more and I have to go into my socks.
‘I see the seven and raise it another three.’
Vic struggles with his expression. It’s a challenge to keep the poker mask in place, and a winding vein swells between his ear and eyebrow. If he folds, he’s down ten grand plus. I hear rumours that Vic owes money to some real criminals; losing ten grand could cost him a lot more than ten grand. His only hope is to bankrupt me.
‘Fuck you, doorman,’ he says, and is that a tremor in his voice? ‘All in.’ He throws in his final wedge like a grenade. ‘Now go the fuck home.’
It’s one of those moments that sucks the air out of a room. Whatever happens next is going to shape lives. All I need to do is up the ante by eight grand or so and I squash him. Even if I lose, I still got something. Brandi is leaning low across the table, doing her best to boob-blind me, and AJ is throwing back shots of Stoli at the bar one after the other, psyching himself up for the confrontation that is almost surely coming. I put together a quick fight plan. Soon as this is over, I deck that arsehole with my chair.
Eight grand. That’s all I need. But then I flash on Vic leaving Connie out there in the rain while he cleans house. I see his fat fingers squeezing the flesh of yet another girl as he’s leading her into the back room.
‘Thirty-five grand,’ I say, pulling the rolls out of my socks. ‘And fuck you, Vic.’
Vic’s breath comes hard, like he’s having an attack, and to be honest I don’t feel so hot myself. Both of the girls are crying now. A person would have to be deaf, blind and stupid not to realise that this can only end in violence now.
Vic’s mask collapses and suddenly his face is lined like a dried fruit. ‘Thirty-five grand. No way. No goddamn way.’
And I know then that Vic is screwed and that all he can do is pray that I am bluffing too.
‘You done, Vic? That it?’