“And it’s the only way I can raise enough money to get out of this shit hole, and back into the real games where I belong,” said Jules, in a dry, uninterested voice. He looked at me for the first time and he didn’t see me at all. I was just something to be overcome. Something in his way. “Stop wasting my time. Let’s get this done so I can get on with my life.”
“Do you even know who I am?” I said.
“Shaman Bond,” said Jules, just a bit unexpectedly. “I remember you. Always hanging round the edge of the scene in London looking for some small-time trouble to get into. Scrambling for crumbs from the rich man’s table. How did someone like you even get in here?”
“This is wrong!” said a loud carrying voice, and we all looked round sharply. Leopold the gambling priest was standing nearby, glaring at us all impartially. “Suicide is a mortal sin,” the priest said flatly.
“And gambling isn’t?” said Scott, quietly amused.
“Not the way I do it,” said Leopold.
“Butt out, priest,” said Jules. He’d gone back to staring at the gun again. “No one wants you here; no one wants to hear what you have to say. This is what I want.”
“Of course it is,” said Leopold, his voice suddenly kind. “When you’ve abused your body with as many drugs as you have, only the biggest thrills can even touch you any more. But it’s not too late to step away. You can lean on me, if you wish.”
“Of course it’s too late,” said Jules. “It was too late the day I was born.”
Leopold nodded slowly, and walked away. Heading for the big games, where he belonged. The manager went with him, perhaps just to see that the priest kept going. Cheating and assassination attempts were all very well, but nothing and no one could be allowed to interfere with the games at Casino Infernale.
A uniformed flunky turned up, to oversee the Russian roulette. A small characterless man with a brisk, efficient manner. He picked up the gun from the table, and showed it to the crowd. A Smith & Wesson .45, much used, brightly polished, well maintained. The flunky opened the gun’s chamber, to show it was empty, and then produced a single bullet, and pressed it into place. He closed the chamber, spun it, and placed the gun back on the table, exactly half-way between me and Jules. People pressed in close around the table, determined not to miss a thing. Some looked at the gun, some looked at Jules, and a few even looked at me. They wanted to be in close, for the kill.
They looked . . . hungry.
They disgusted me. Jules didn’t even notice them. He had eyes only for the gun. He rested his hands on the green baize tabletop. They weren’t shaking at all, but beads of sweat were already appearing on his face. I felt sick to my stomach. I was the only one there who knew the fix was in; that I had already condemned this poor broken man to death. For the mission. But there was no other way . . . I couldn’t even get up and walk away now. The Casino wouldn’t permit it, not now that I’d committed myself. If I tried, at best they’d throw me out of Casino Infernale. And then the plan would be a bust, and there would be a war in the streets over Crow Lee’s Inheritance. Blood and slaughter, inevitably spilling over into the everyday world, all because of me.
I looked Gentleman Junkie Jules in the eyes, and it was like there was no one there, looking back. Or was that just what I wanted to believe?
The flunky put his hand on the gun, and sent it spinning round and round with a practised movement. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Wasn’t the first time two men had sat down at this table, and only one of them had walked away. How many men had died, sitting in my chair? All the surrounding sound stopped, as everyone watched the gun spin round and round, gradually slowing, finally coming to a halt with the long barrel pointing in my direction. I sat up straight. Jules picked up the gun, with a steady hand. The crowd made a small, almost intimate sound. Jules aimed the gun at my head, right between my eyes. I sat very still. I knew the gun was empty, knew it had to be empty, but still my heart was hammering in my chest, and my breathing was fast enough to be painful. Jules’ hand was entirely steady. His overly bright eyes were fixed on me now, and he was still smiling his lipless smile, showing dirty yellow teeth. He didn’t seem to be breathing at all. He pulled the trigger, and there was a hard firm click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
The crowd let out the breath they’d been holding, with a sound that was almost orgasmic. Jules looked at the gun as though he couldn’t understand what had just happened. And then he slowly lowered the gun and placed it on the table before me. There was a loud buzz of conversation round the table, as money changed hands in the first run of bets, and everyone hurried to bet again. I waited for the flunky to give me the nod, and then I picked up the gun, spun the chamber, pointed the gun at Jules, and pulled the trigger. Again, an empty chamber. I put the gun down. Jules hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched, barely seemed aware that anything at all had happened. The sound from the crowd seemed angry, this time. I’d cheated them out of the drama they craved. I didn’t care.
More money changed hands; more bets were made.
Jules picked up the gun again. He held it a while, considering it, and then he spun the chamber with a hard, angry motion. He aimed the gun at my left eye. I didn’t move. Didn’t react. The crowd had gone silent again. Jules’ face was slick with sweat, but his hand was still steady. I looked down the barrel of the gun. I’d never seen anything so fascinating. I knew the gun was empty, believed with all my heart that it was empty, but I didn’t trust the gun or my heart. The flunky gave the nod, and Jules slowly pulled the trigger. On another empty chamber.
There was a fierce babble of sound all around us. The crowd was really getting into it now. Jules slowly lowered the gun onto the table, and took his hand away. I looked around. Money was changing hands freely, as many bets were paid off. Voices were raised, and hands waved excitedly as new odds were set for the next round. I could see Molly and Frankie moving quickly through the crowd, making the rounds, taking bets wherever they could, backing me to win. I hoped they were getting good odds.
I picked up the gun. The butt was wet with sweat from Jules’ hand. I put the gun down again, took out a handkerchief, and carefully wiped the butt clean. Jules said nothing. I put the handkerchief away, and took up the gun again. It felt heavier now, as though just the significance of what we were involved in added to its weight, its reality. I spun the chamber, aimed the gun at Jules’ flat unwavering gaze, waited for the flunky, and then pulled the trigger. Nothing.
I put the gun down hard, almost snatching my hand away. I didn’t like the feel of it—how it made me feel. I hated the gun. Hated myself for what I was doing. I carefully didn’t look at Molly, but I couldn’t help thinking,
Don’t stretch this out. Put the bullet in the chamber, get this over with. Let the poor bastard die. Don’t torture him like this. Don’t torture me.
Jules picked up the gun. He hefted it, almost thoughtfully. We looked into each other’s eyes. He could see me now. The gun had made me real to him. The man who might kill him. The contact between us was direct, without barriers, almost intimate. I knew what he was feeling; he knew what I was feeling. Two men, bound together by a death that hadn’t happened yet. I had killed men before, when it was part of the job. I prided myself they were all people who needed killing. That the world was a better, safer place without them in it. But I’d never had to sit opposite them, stare them in the eyes, while I did it. I could feel sweat on my face now. Jules and I were both breathing hard, almost in time with each other. As though we were both complicit in whatever happened next.
The crowd had fallen silent again, caught up in the moment. Their breathing was oddly synchronised, as though they had become one great organism. All of them stretched taut, by the painful anticipation of killing to come. I couldn’t see Molly. I couldn’t look away from Jules, and the gun. There was a bullet in it. I could feel it. And to my surprise, that made the moment easier to bear. Made it better. The danger felt very real and I was getting into it. All my life, the armour had been there to protect me. But now, sitting here, staring death in the face, I had never felt so alive. But . . . I only had to look into Jules’ horribly fascinated eyes to see where that kind of feeling led you. Jules wanted to be here, but not to win. He wanted to play. He pointed the gun carefully at my right eye, and his hand was shaking now, just a little. With the thrill of the moment.
And then Jonathon Scott shouted, “Stop!”
Jules looked round sharply as the manager’s hand came down out of nowhere, and forced Jules’ hand down onto the table. Scott forced Jules to let go of the gun, wrestling it out of his hand. Jules suddenly stopped fighting him. The moment was broken. The manager picked up the Smith & Wesson, and stepped back from the table. There were raised angry voices to every side—men and women cheated of their sport. The manager glared coldly about him and the voices fell silent.
“This game is suspended,” said Jonathon Scott. “Jules is disqualified, for cheating.”
I sat back in my chair. Breathing hard, shaking in every limb. Adrenalin was still rushing through me, and my heart was pounding painfully. And all I could think was
I made it. I’m alive. I’m alive. . . .
The game’s uniformed flunky put his arms around Jules, and held him still, while Scott searched roughly through Jules’ pockets. He soon found what he was looking for. He held up a small bone amulet so that everyone could see it. The crowd murmured angrily.
“A hidden charm, to affect the bullet in the gun,” said Scott, in a loud and carrying voice. “It didn’t work, of course; this whole room is covered by a null zone, cancelling out any magics that might affect the games. But it was such a small charm it took us a while to work out who had it, and what it was doing.” He looked at Jules contemptuously. “He was trying to force a bullet into the chamber of the gun when it was facing him. Because he wanted to die. Not just because he owed more money than he could ever hope to pay back. But because he saw this pathetic death as the ultimate thrill.
“As the injured party, Shaman Bond is hereby declared the winner. All bets placed shall be paid off in his favour.”
He gestured to the uniformed flunky, who dragged Jules out of his chair with surprising strength, and hauled him away. Jules tried to fight him, tried to pull away, and couldn’t. There was a more than natural strength in the flunky’s hands. Gentleman Junkie Jules was dragged from the room, kicking and screaming all the way. The doors slammed shut behind him, cutting off his hysterical voice. A low heavy murmur moved through the crowds, as all bets were settled. They weren’t sure whether they felt cheated or not. They hadn’t seen a man die, but the unexpected drama had been almost as satisfying.
I looked at Scott. “What will happen to him? Will you have him killed, for cheating?”
“Of course not,” said Scott. “I have a much better punishment in mind. Jules will be thrown out of Casino Infernale, and then we will pass on the word, to ensure that he is banned from every other major gambling house. As a proven cheat. Let him live with that. We won’t kill him, Mr. Bond. That’s what he wants. We’re not here to do people favours.”
He smiled briefly, meaninglessly, and drifted away. The crowd went with him. I sat in my chair, looking at the gun on the table. Molly and Frankie hurried forward to join me. Molly was stuffing handfuls of assorted bank-notes into a red leather reticule that Frankie was holding for her. There looked to be a hell of a lot of money there, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I looked dully at Molly.
“The manager said there was a null zone. No magics would work here.”
“I know!” said Molly. “Found that out the moment I tried to work one. But there was nothing I could do to warn you, not once you’d sat down at the table. I’m sorry, Shaman, but you played two rounds of Russian roulette for real.”
“I know,” I said. “I think . . . I need a drink. A lot of drinks.”
“Me too,” said Molly. “Let’s get a bottle. Each.”
“I’m afraid there’s no time,” said Frankie, forcing the last of the money into the reticule and snapping it shut. “You need to keep playing while you’re still hot and people are still interested in you. We have to keep the side bets going! Remember, it’s the privilege of winning, as well as the money, that will prove you worthy to leave here and rise to the next level!”
“You chose Russian roulette,” I said to Frankie. “I’ll choose the next game.”
I stood up and looked around the room. I was back in control again, awake and focused. I studied my surroundings with an experienced eye, and the first thing I noticed was that there weren’t nearly as many people gathered around the roulette wheel as I would have expected. People like to play roulette. They think it’s glamorous and exciting, and fun to play, because they don’t really understand the rules, or the odds. But those who were standing around the wheel and the table were studying it with far more than usual fascination. They studied every move of the ball and the wheel, as though their lives depended on it. In fact, I would have said they looked scared shitless.
“Explain to me,” I said to Frankie, “what is going on with that roulette wheel?”
“Ah,” he said. “You’ve noticed. That’s not your usual, everyday game of roulette. You use chips to gamble there, but they don’t represent the cash you paid for them. You bet years of your life.”
“What?”
said Molly. “How the hell does that work?”
“Oh, it’s very ingenious,” Frankie said earnestly. “A game unique to Casino Infernale. You bet red and black, you see, and the number you choose is how many years of your life that you’re betting. Not the years you’ve lived, but your future years, the years you still have left to live. You’re betting your future. If the wheel turns, and your number doesn’t come up, you lose the number of years you’ve bet. To the house. That’s the Casino’s cut. So if you bet, say, twenty-one on red or black, and you lose, you become twenty-one years older. But if you bet on twenty-one and you win, then you gain twenty-one years of extra life!