Jason, his previous croupier, wasn’t at his table. Jim knew they rotated staff; the management always on the lookout for fraud and incompetence. Instead, a young woman with the name tag of Jessica played the banker to a group of three. Hovering behind them, Jim realised the group was actually two groups. A man on his own, mid-fifties, balding yet charming sat beside a young couple full of smiles and awe.
“Mind if I join in?”
They didn’t. The couple beamed as he sat. Parading their chips in front of themselves, Jim knew they were first timers blowing a wedge of money. The dream of winning big was in their eyes. The reality not sunk in.
He played a few hands at minimum stake. Each loss by the couple a huge disappointment, each win euphoria and surprise. The seasoned man at the end plodded on, steadily increasing his pot, slowly but surely. Studying him, Jim quickly learnt when to bet more or less. Of course it was random; no one knew what cards the dealer had, but it was about odds. Betting with the best odds would eventually see you into profit over the long term.
An hour later and a hundred quid down, he left the table. The couple next to him had slowly and steadily blown nearly a grand. Each loss made them keener to win it back. He’d half considered taking them to one side and offering them a deal. “You can lose all your money in the next ten minutes, and save a life if you want,” he’d have said. That would have given them a better story for their night out. They’d have had something more human to chatter about at their coffee houses and dinner parties.
Realistically, he knew where tonight was ending. He’d walk out the door at two a.m. cashless and depressed. Just a quick go on roulette his head was saying. Just a little go. You might just be the one tonight that beats the odds.
The roulette wheels were busier and noisier. Jim settled on the quietest. A smallish group who definitely weren’t bankers were blowing a week’s wages and loving every second of it. Taking his time, Jim studied the croupier’s throw. He varied the spin length and the speed he hurled the ball. Some of them, especially inexperienced or just plain stupid, tended to get in a routine. Unconsciously, they’d allow it to spin the same time and throw the ball at the same speed. Not that it made it any easier to predict the number, but if you covered areas it lowered the odds.
Jim slowly punted his money. The drink now flowing, a few double whiskies had been quaffed and his problems forgotten. The woman next to him was idly talking, he wasn’t entirely sure what about, but he nodded and smiled in the right places.
Down to three hundred quid he made his apologies and left to walk round the room.
Going to bed,
night night x,
said Charlotte’s message.
Me too. Night
x, he replied.
The busier roulette table beckoned him. Busier, louder, noisier, the croupier had his hands full. If any of the staff was going to cut corners or forget what they were doing, it was him. Stood beside the bankers and brokers, Jim bit his tongue as he followed the wheel and the bets, looking, searching for a pattern.
The croupier was good. Though his speed was regular, he seemed to vary his wait while the table was spinning with almost computer-like randomness.
Jim knew he had a choice. The staff were too good to make it easy so should he just lump all his eggs into three spins and hope for the best, or keep going for another four hours slowly flittering away three hundred. At least that was all he’d brought out with him. The thought of blowing his hard-earned six grand on one spin of the table may have been too tempting. After all, having no money was as near as having half the money.
He left the roulette and headed for the bar. He’d have two more large whiskies before he played it big. Ordering a fifteen-year-old malt, he sat on a barstool watching the barman wash glasses. In the bar mirror, he caught the eyes of two women sat at a table behind him. Working girls. He knew straight away they were, yet they were in a much better league than any he’d seen before. He remembered how he should have spent last Thursday evening after killing Geoffrey. How different things had become. He’d gone from near hero to zero.
Downing his whisky, he ordered another and took care of it before returning to the tables. His belly now full of fire, he headed for the first roulette wheel with the quiet-ish threesome.
The croupier had been replaced again - according to Shifty Ted this was normal to prevent any sort of relationship building up. Jim smiled at the previously talkative woman as he stood beside her.
“How’s your luck?” he asked.
Turning, she smiled. Her face flushed with excitement and wine, she said, “Not good. Jeff’s doing okay. We’ve nicknamed him Nostradamus.”
Jim smiled back and watched as the croupier spun the wheel then the ball. Clattering round the outside, the woman next to him gasped as the ball rocketed into number four then back out, finally resting in two.
Jim ignored the moans and groans from the partially drunk group and tried to settle on his plan. Three goes at a hundred. Six at fifty. Ten at thirty. Maybe even up the ante. First spin ten, second twenty, and carry on. Yeah, that was the way. Whether to bet on the corners or the numbers themselves was a harder problem. It had to be corners; the chances of winning were slight anyway, but winning just based on single numbers? He wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Here goes nothing,” he said, partially to the woman but also to himself.
Ten pounds on the corners of twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-six and twenty-seven.
The ball spun, teased for ten seconds then landed on six. Again, the same corners with a twenty pound bet. The ball landed on fifteen. The woman next to him and her gang had stopped betting. Watching Jim lose all his money seemed more fun.
Forty pounds, same corners. The ball spun, shot round and dived into twenty-four.
“Woah.”
The ball flickered and teased with the side but stayed there. Screams and hugs all round. Jim’s heart was going like the clappers. It felt like it would explode. The croupier pushed over his winnings, a big pile of chips. He tried to count them but his head was spinning. He knew it was only about three hundred. Taking a deep breath he counted them. Three hundred and twenty. Still down on the night.
“Same numbers, eighty pounds.”
His heart now pumping hard, the ball rocketed round and hovered over twenty-seven before settling in thirty-six. The woman next to him placed her arm on his shoulder. Just for a split second, he felt guilty. It wasn’t fair on Charlotte. None of this was. He should have brought her here. It should be her hand comforting him.
They looked at him. Was he going to quit while still sort of ahead?
He took a deep breath. “One sixty. Same numbers.”
Gasps all round. They could see his pile of chips and knew he was going for broke. Again no one else betted. Everyone keen to watch and see what happened.
Nearly shaking he watched the ball fly round and land in five. Again moaning and groaning and furtive looks at him as it seemed to dawn on the watchers that unlikely means just that. Looking at his chips, he had about three hundred left. Keeping back ten, he stacked up the rest. “All in. Same numbers.”
The ball seemed to hang in mid-air as it swung round the side. Time slowed down and the laws of physics changed to allow the ball to keep swinging all night. He must have breathed six or seven times before the ball clattered down, flirted with twenty-seven, before landing in sixteen.
The world speeded up to a crescendo. His previous slow and immensely focused mind suddenly opened to take in the loss around him.
“Shit.”
He looked to the mirrored ceiling and shook his head. He knew a CCTV operator would be looking down, laughing and calling him a tosser. Sighing, he looked back at the table.
“Sorry,” the woman beside him said. She squeezed his arm gently. If it wasn’t for Charlotte he’d have said something back; returned her friendship. Tried for more.
“Pick a number,” said Jim. He held up his last ten pound chip looking at the croupier.
She shook her head. “I can’t. Not allowed.”
Jim nodded then turned to the woman next to him. “A number?”
“Four,” she replied.
The wheel spun.
The ball landed on six.
The walk back was sobering. Despite expecting and almost wanting to lose everything, it was still humbling. Just a dream, nothing more. He could kid himself with “what ifs” all night, but the reality was just what he’d thought. There’s only one winner in a casino: the owner.
The city now quieter; he walked for hours. He should have saved that last ten and got a cab. Maybe he should have split the last hundred into three goes. Would that have improved the odds?
Sliding back into the hotel at just after one and hitting his bed, sleep took time to come. The last full day was ahead. If it wasn’t for Charlotte and the thought of dinner in her luxury apartment he’d do a runner. Yeah, he reckoned he would.
His alarm went off at six. A headache accompanied him into the shower as he tried to wake himself up. Breakfasting at seven, partially raw sausage and burnt toast, he received the message.
Morning x.
Morning x.
he replied.
He had no real plan for today. How do you plan to make four grand in a day? His mind was blank. Blagging and robbing would get him nowhere. Today had to be the biggy. It just had to be.
Returning to the room he ripped the gaffer-taped bag from the toilet cistern and lay on his bed. Gloves on, he unzipped the bag and pulled out the gun. The thing that had got him into this shit was getting him out of it. What else could he do? After treble checking the safety was on, he unloaded the weapon. Replacing the bullets in the bag, he tidied up.
On the bed, the comedy mask, additional gloves, reading glasses, coat and weapon. Putting the coat on, he pocketed everything and left the room.
The air felt colder and more polluted. He reckoned summer had finally buggered off south leaving autumn and winter ready to wreak havoc. Walking south, he was conscious of his coat and whether or not the piece could be seen. It felt like six days ago except for the weather. But the anxiety, the nervousness, everything. Today was different though, the gun wasn’t loaded. No one was getting killed today.
He hadn’t killed anyone anyway. He never would have, he knew that. Knew it was a fact. If Geoffrey hadn’t had his heart attack he’d have pissed around for two more days following him. The time would never have been right.
Through Kennington and Stockwell, Jim strolled mainly against the oncoming tide of workers rushing to their jobs. The time now half eight, he was far too early. A stop in a cafe yielded a tea and bacon sandwich. Looking round at the chipped Formica tables, grubby tablecloths and pepper pots that didn’t have a grinder attached, Jim felt he’d returned to the pre-coffee shop age. It hadn’t taken him long to get here. It was just a case of picking the right area. Economists would no doubt call the area deprived because they sold fried food instead of muffins. To Jim, this was home.
A couple of builders opposite ate fried breakfasts noisily. Jim wished he’d found this place earlier. Just like the Queens Arms it was a home from home. A little place to unwind. There was probably a pub just round the corner he could have come to with its own Mick the Prick and Tim by Four.
He stretched the tea out for half an hour. The thought of what was coming wasn’t the only thing that made him want to stay. Eventually leaving, he wandered through the streets passing shuttered shops, halal delicatessens and fruit shops selling weird shaped fruit he’d never seen before. Brixton, with its knife crime, hatred and diversity, was approaching.
Lurking round the back streets he looked inside a post office window. An early morning rush of two pensioners filled the little sub-post office. There’d be CCTV, he knew that. Plus a button to ring the police which would be pressed quicker than he could say, “This is a stick up.”
“This is a stick up.”
He’d always wanted to say it. It was just so glamorous and proper gangsterish. It was the very words Harry must have said before he robbed the security van and brained the driver with a crowbar. “Don’t do it, son,” he heard Harry say. “Don’t end up like me. Don’t spend your life in a cell.”
Sighing, he turned and carried on. The post office wouldn’t have got him four grand. No, that was a close shave. He’d have got five hundred or a grand plus the rozzers everywhere and his picture on the six o’clock news. That wouldn’t have gone down well with Charlotte.
Charlotte again.
Tonight weighed on his mind. She’d become such a big part of his life he couldn’t see how all this could possibly fit in with her. Or without her.
Walking back to the hotel he came across a small bookies. Inside, the smell of sweaty, unwashed man and stale cigarettes greeted him. The walls yellowed through smoke and lack of maintenance gave a good idea of not only the punters, but also the takings. Though still early, a few punters were looking at form and reading the papers ready for their afternoon bets. Again, aware of the gun in his pocket and his dire need for money, he considered it. There were two CCTV cameras, neither over the door. He could slip the mask on, no one had seen his face yet. The two oldies wouldn’t put up a fight. One of them might be a have-a-go hero, but seeing a gun tended to relieve potential heroes of their bottle. He might get a grand, maybe two. Would they accept seven and leave him alone?
Of course not.
Jim looked at the boards. The day’s races hadn’t yet been chalked up, but a few old and long running bets were still there. White Christmas 10-1. Arsenal to win Premiership 8-1. GDP +0.5% 100-1.
GDP.
It hit him with a rush. This GDP thing he was supposed to be doing for the ONS would report tomorrow. Maybe that was the answer. A few of Charlotte’s contacts would stump up four grand easily.
No, he wasn’t going to use Charlotte.
But his life depended on it. Leaving the bookies, he made a decision he’d regret. One he knew would lead him down several dark alleys. One he hoped wouldn’t ruin what they had, but also knew it would.