Читать книгу Hide Me - Ava McCarthy - Страница 10

Chapter 6

Marty patted the three decks of cards in his pocket, then turned up his collar against the wind. One thing was for damn sure, there was nothing continental about northern Spain in March.

He traipsed past the shuttered apartments and shops, heading for the boardwalk by the river. The salty funk of seaweed hung in the air. He squinted across the water towards Alameda del Boulevard, the big-city street that butted up against the old part of town. He fingered the cards in his pocket. Time to scare up some cash, or he’d end up sleeping in a doorway.

His landlady had ambushed him the night before. A fierce-looking Basque with hennaed hair, she’d chewed him out about the rent. He’d tried to flirt, sweet-talk her round, but the beating he’d taken in the casino hadn’t helped. The blood had made him look like a street brawler. In the end, she’d given him a day to come up with the money.

Marty fingered the plump wallet in his inside pocket, the one he’d stuffed with newspaper and a few counterfeit notes before he’d left his room. The counterfeits were cheap, a shoddy job that in a good light wouldn’t fool anyone. But Marty didn’t plan on handing them around for inspection.

He cut left across the Zurriola Bridge where the river surged out into the bay. The tide was high, whipping the estuary into violent swells that boomed off the embankment walls. Marty hunched his shoulders against the driving wind. Water was loud everywhere in this damn city.

He eased along the Boulevard, wincing at the tenderness in his ribs. Last night had been dumb, his own stupid fault. He’d broken the golden rule: never let yourself get back-roomed. He should have kicked, screamed, run, anything. Marty sighed and shook his head. Truth was, he hadn’t wanted to look like a bum in front of the redhead. He rolled his eyes skyward and fingered the crusty gash around his nose. He’d sure paid for that piece of vanity.

Halfway down the Boulevard he turned right, ducking into the alleys of the Old Quarter. It was darker in here. The narrow streets stood huddled together, dodging the evening light. He peered into the open bars, searching for a likely mark.

It was Riva who’d first taught him that the world was divided into two.

‘Suckers and scammers,’ she’d said, her slate-grey eyes fixed on his. ‘That’s all there is in this life. One’s smarter than the other, that’s the only difference between ’em.’

She’d been just fourteen, only three years older than him, though with fancy clothes and make-up, she could look a whole lot more. He’d bitten his lip, a little nervous about contradicting her.

‘But isn’t one more dishonest than the other, too?’ he’d said.

Riva snorted. ‘Honesty don’t come into it. Would a sucker jump at the chance to hold the upper hand, assuming he suddenly got smart enough? You bet he would. He’d turn those tables quicker’n spit.’ She shook the fine blonde hair from her face. ‘It’s a simple choice, Marty. Sucker or scammer. Top dog or victim.’ Suddenly she’d wheeled away, her bony fists clenched. ‘I know which I’d rather be.’

Cutlery clinked from inside the bars. The sweet scent of onions pepped up Marty’s nostrils. He watched the customers help themselves to pintxos, the Basque equivalent of fast finger-food. He dragged his gaze away. Food was for later, when he could pay.

Marty spotted the mark in the next bar: tall, thin; designer croc on the shirt, sharp crease in the jeans. He was mouthing off to a pale young woman hanging on his every word. Marty eased closer to the open door.

The guy spoke with an educated, English voice. A completed Times crossword lay ostentatiously on the bar beside him. He was swirling the wine in his glass, poking his nose over the rim for a sniff every now and then. Marty smiled.

‘Almost everyone is a potential mark,’ Riva had said to him once.

‘Everyone?’ He’d still only been eleven and hadn’t gotten used to the fact that Riva was always right. ‘Aren’t a lot of people too smart to be taken in?’

‘They sure think they are.’ Her thin, heart-shaped face had split into a smile. ‘That makes them the best marks of all.’

Church bells chimed somewhere behind him, and Marty came to a decision. He rumpled his hair, loosened his tie, then lurched full tilt through the door. The babble of Spanish hammered his ears. He bulldozed his way to the counter, collecting gripes along the way, and collided with the English guy.

‘Hey, sorry, buddy.’ Marty belched into the man’s face. ‘Didn’t see ya there.’

The English guy stiffened. Marty made as if to flag the barman down, but managed to knock the guy’s glass over instead.

‘Jeez, look at that.’

A Rioja-tinted stain was seeping over the crossword. The guy’s face grew tight, and Marty winked at the mousy-looking woman beside him.

‘Least it missed his clothes. Them fake designer brands don’t wash too well, do they?’

The woman’s eyes widened. Marty waited a beat. Then he burst into a wheezy laugh and punched the English guy on the arm.

‘Just kiddin’, pal. Whooo!’ Marty patted himself on the chest. ‘Here, lemme buy you another.’

The English guy closed his eyes briefly. ‘No, thank you, we’re just leaving.’

‘Aw, come on.’ Marty spread out his arms. ‘Hey, I know I’ve had a few, but I’m celebrating. Look—’ He glanced over his shoulder, then dug the fat wallet out of his pocket and slapped it onto the counter. A wad of fifty-euro notes curled out over the sides. ‘See that? Casino money. Poker action was sizzling and I cleaned ’em out! Know what else?’ He fumbled in his pocket for a pack of cards. ‘I stole one of their decks as a keepsake!’

Marty wheezed out another laugh, and thumped the English guy on the shoulder. At the same time, he moved in front of him so as to block his exit, and slipped the cards out of the pack.

‘Hey, I’ll play you for that drink, buddy, just one poker hand for fun.’ Marty bungled a shuffle, dropping some cards on the floor. Then he straightened up and dealt two sloppy hands of five. ‘I just can’t lose today.’

The English guy edged away, sending his friend a snippety, drink-up signal. ‘Another time.’

Marty poked him hard in the chest with the cards he’d just dealt him. ‘Whassamatter? You afraid to lose in front of your lady friend?’

The guy narrowed his eyes and glanced down at his chest. Something flickered across his face, and he hesitated. Marty knew what had snagged his attention. The cards were spread in a clumsy fan that allowed the guy a peek at what he’d got.

It was hard to ignore four kings.

Slowly, the English guy took the cards from Marty and set them face down on the counter. His fingers hovered over them. Marty twisted away, as if in search of a drink, and treated the guy to a seemingly accidental flash of the other hand. He knew what he’d see there: three jacks and two odd cards. Marty swivelled back, and the guy flicked a furtive glance at the floor.

‘You still chicken?’ Marty picked up his wallet and peeled a crackling note from his wad. ‘Or maybe you’d like to make it more interesting.’ He leered at the colourless woman beside them. ‘Whaddaya reckon, fifty bucks too rich for your pal here?’

Marty smacked the fifty-euro note on the counter, covering it with his palm. The English guy’s lips disappeared into a thin line, and Marty could almost see the wheels turn. Fact was, the guy’s four kings beat Marty’s three jacks hands down. Even if Marty changed the two odd cards and drew the fourth jack, it still wouldn’t beat four kings.

The guy’s jaw pulsed a little. Maybe he suspected he was being hustled, but at this point, chances were he thought Marty had botched the deal.

The guy reached for his wallet. ‘One hand.’

The disdain had left his face, replaced now by something craftier. He flicked a fifty-euro note next to Marty’s. Immediately Marty picked it up and used it to cover his own. Another of Riva’s rules: bury the funny money. In case anyone got too curious.

Marty examined his cards and chuckled. ‘So how many d’you want, pal?’

‘I’ll stay pat.’

Marty frowned. ‘No cards?’ He double-checked his own. ‘Alrighty. Well, I’ll take two.’

He discarded two of his cards onto the counter and dealt another couple from the pack. He palmed his five cards and squeezed them into a tight fan. He let out another belly laugh.

‘Woo-hoo! What’d I tell ya? I just can’t lose today.’ He rummaged in his wallet, lurching up against the bar. ‘It’s gonna cost you another hundred to see these babies.’

He smacked two more fifties on top of the others, again covering the duds with his palm. The Englishman glanced at his cards, ground his teeth a little. Then he produced two fifties of his own and tossed them onto the counter.

‘I call your hundred.’ A smile slid over the Englishman’s face. ‘But you won’t top these.’

He spread his cards on the counter with a snap. Four big kings, fat and important-looking. Just the way Marty had dealt them. The English guy reached for the cash, but Marty smacked his hand away.

‘Hold on, not so fast.’ He fanned his cards out on the counter. ‘Where I come from, a straight flush whups four kings every time.’

The English guy’s mouth opened and the woman beside him gasped. For a second, they stared at Marty’s hand: seven, eight, nine, ten and Jack, all in a tidy row. And all of them suited hearts.

Marty gave them another second to take it in, then snatched up the cash, whirled around and shouldered his way to the door.

His heartbeat drummed against his ribs. He raced outside, wheeled left then right, criss-crossing the rabbit warren of streets. Adrenalin blasted through him, dulling the pain in his torso and setting his fingertips tingling.

He ran till he’d put a safe distance behind him, then slowed to a walk to cool down. He glanced over his shoulder, panting hard. Jesus, he was too old for this.

He stepped into a doorway to count his haul of notes, separating out the phonies. The English guy would work it out soon enough. He’d realize Marty hadn’t changed his two odd cards, but had thrown two of his jacks down instead. For a second, he’d probably wonder who the hell would do such a thing. But only for a second. The answer, of course, was a conman who’d stacked the deck.

Marty stowed the genuine notes into his pocket and slipped the duds back into his wallet. Truth was, the guy had been suckered because he thought he’d sneaked a preview of the cards. He’d been happy to fleece an obnoxious drunk, once he thought he had leverage. Marty was with W.C. Fields on this one: you can’t cheat an honest man.

Marty did a few neck rolls to loosen his muscles and felt his spine crunch. Pain lanced across his ribs. Jesus. He’d taken quite a beating to cover up for that bastard Franco. The question was, would it be worth it?

He slumped against a wall, waiting for the spasm to pass. One way or another, he planned on using Franco to generate some cash. He’d work with him or against him, he didn’t care which. Marty sighed. Well, not really.

He patted the remaining decks of cards in his pocket, letting his gaze roll over the drinkers across the alleyway.

Another bar, another sucker.

His limbs felt heavy. He stayed where he was and closed his eyes. An image of Franco’s crew drifted into his head, and for an instant he felt the rush of the glory days when he’d been a part of it all. His pulse thudded. He remembered the exhilaration of pulling a con; the electric highs, the close calls, the camaraderie on the road.

He wondered about the crew Franco worked with now, and whether they were as good as him and Riva. He smiled and shook his head, his eyes still closed. Franco, him and Riva: together, they’d been on fire. No one could touch them without burning.

Marty opened his eyes, readjusted to his surroundings, and felt his shoulders slump. Now he was back where he started: a chip thief and a hustler.

He shrugged himself away from the wall, then trudged across to the bar. A dark-haired girl eyed him from inside the doorway. She was petite and striking, like a lot of these Spanish types, and reminded him of the girl who’d been watching the crew at the casino.

Marty hesitated. Something about that girl had bothered him. She’d seen Fat-boy’s eye-rub, but she’d stood apart, hadn’t blended in like one of the crew. Hadn’t looked much like a real punter, either. The other women had been all gussied up, but she’d been wearing a suit.

Was she working for the casino?

Marty’s skin prickled, and he fingered the paltry fifty-euro notes in his pocket. Maybe Franco would like to hear about her.

Maybe someone should tell him.