Читать книгу The Watcher - Grace Monroe - Страница 19

Chapter Thirteen

Danube Street Casino, Stockbridge, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 4.10 a.m.

I knew that my scuffed bike boots were leaving dirty marks on the plush red carpet, but I guessed that Bancho’s banging on the front door had been much more unsettling for the high rollers. Anything that took their minds off the tables was bad for business, and that made it Joe’s business.

The hum of conversation and the shuffle of cards had slowed due to the late hour. It didn’t take too long before Glasgow Joe was at my side. He’d approached Kailash with an idea for online gaming; the costs were low, and their profits phenomenal. Against all odds they worked well together.

We weren’t really back to chatting – a few minutes spent on a muddy pitch watching Connie couldn’t make up for what had happened; Joe’s a proud man who didn’t take rejection well and that was without him knowing that I’d slept with Jack Deans. Again.

He blamed me. Well, that’s always easier. We’d got on great until he wanted more – Joe always wants more.

I pulled a battered black-leather wallet out of my jacket and handed him £500 in fifty-quid notes. I always kept a sizeable quantity of spare cash on me – it made me feel safe. Growing up we never had grubby fivers lying around. Joe crooked his index finger and called over a waitress. He placed the money on her tray, and, after a few moments, she brought back the chips. As I took them, Joe quietly suggested that I try out the poker table, before heading for the front door where Bancho was still creating merry hell. I turned and watched as the door was opened – if the policeman was surprised to see Glasgow Joe in full Highland evening dress, he didn’t show it.

‘Have you got a warrant?’ Joe asked, his tone cool and measured. I wasn’t fooled. Despite apparent hostilities, these two were working together, creating a convincing charade to fool the rest of us.

‘No. It’s a friendly visit – I can get one, though, if that’s your last word on it,’ replied Bancho.

Their play-acting was pathetic. Joe reached out into the cold night air and hauled Bancho in off the street. It looked impressive, especially to the punters who were growing a little uneasy. Manhandling the police in front of witnesses was an Oscar-winning bit of theatre.

I wandered through the casino. It was packed with judges, football players, businessmen and wealthy tourists, all desperate to get a last bit of freedom before being shackled to their families for Christmas. I craned my neck looking around for someone – a friend, an acquaintance, but there was no one, so I turned my attention to the tables. I knew that Joe was probably watching me on the surveillance system. The clientele watched me too as I walked around. I contravened every dress code the casino had – my leathers were filthy, still covered in midges from the summer, but the pliable leather clung to my arse in what I’d told myself was a most appealing way. Maybe that would distract them all and I’d walk out of here a millionaire.

Pulling out a chair, I joined the poker table playing Texas Hold ’Em. In for a penny, I thought as I took my jacket off too. I wasn’t wearing a bra because I hadn’t exactly dressed up when I left the flat, and the only one that wasn’t grey was lying on the bedroom floor after Jack had taken it off me, but maybe that was a good thing – more distraction for the saddos around the table.

I kept my face blank as I clasped my cards up from the table. Pocket-Rockets – a couple of aces. I was in good shape. The player across from me, in a bespoke evening suit, white tie, and with the obligatory female companion looking over his shoulder, chucked another grand into the pot. The dealer knew my credit was good at his table, so I decided to play on – thirty minutes with Bancho had reminded me to live for today, but I’d make this my last hand, win or lose. To my surprise, the other player at the table raised too. His toe tapped constantly, he wore a cowboy hat and was difficult to read. In spite of his porky butcher’s fingers, he shuffled his chips deftly.

‘Two thousand more,’ he said, evening off the two stacks of black chips and pushing them into the pot. It was the right bet and it should have scared the third player away. Unfortunately for him, the third player was me and I was just riled.

‘I’m in,’ I said, pushing one pile of eight black chips into the pot.

‘You’re bluffing,’ the fat cowboy puffed, gulping air as his eyes flicked over me.

‘Play and see,’ I shrugged. I was sure that Joe would be laughing out loud if he was watching. The fat man looked convinced that all he had to do was push in his remaining chips, and he’d take the hand.

‘Yours,’ he snorted, flicking his cards over. A pair of sixes.

‘You were right,’ I told him as I flicked over my two aces. A roar went up as the dealer pushed a mountain of chips my way.

A bit of luck at last – I wondered how long it would hang around for?