'You're doing a good job, Henry.' Fox took out his wallet, extracted a fifty-pound note, and slipped it into Henry's breast pocket. 'In fact, you're doing a great job. Anyone else comes in and says they own the joint, kick them in the balls.'
There was sweat on Henry's forehead. 'Yes, sir, anything you say.'
Inside, the main room was crowded, every kind of game in progress. Fox nodded approvingly. 'Looks good. How's the cash flow?'
'Terrific.'
Fox turned to Mori's minders, Cameci and Rossi. 'You two behaving yourselves?' He used Italian.
'Absolutely,' Rossi told him. 'Don Marco is well?'
If this seemed overly familiar, it wasn't. Rossi came from the same village as the Solazzo family, close to Corleone in Sicily.
'He is very well,' Fox continued in Italian. 'And I appreciate your concern.' He turned to Mori. 'We just flew in, and I'm starving. The restaurant is still open, I trust.'
'For you, it never closes, Signore.'
'Fifty,' Tony answered.
Harold said, 'Shut your mouth,' and turned back to Fox. I'll read the file, but I can tell you now we're in, Jack. Leave the team to me.'
'Good man.' Fox smiled. 'Now, let's have a bottle of champagne on it.'
The casino dosed at two in the morning; by three all was quiet, with only a security guard in the office by the main entrance, watching TV.
Along the street beside the basement entrance was a grey British Telecom van. The rear door opened and Blake Johnson, wearing a hard hat and yellow oilskins, got out, carrying two grappling hooks, and lifted a manhole cover in the pavement. Dillon passed him an inspection lamp and a red warning light saying: Danger. Men at Work. He then passed some canvas screens and an awning against the rain. There was an army of wires and switches. Blake tried to take an interest.
Inside the van Roper, in a wheelchair, sat opposite a very simple-looking computer set-up. Dillon, in black tee shirt and jeans, crouched beside him. Roper punched the keys.
'How's it looking?' Dillon asked.
'So far, so good. Don't worry, the great Roper is never wrong.' There was the sound of a car slowing outside and he raised a hand. 'Wait.'
Blake looked out from under the awning, the rain pitiless. The police patrol car slowed, the driver leaned out.
'What a bloody way to make a living at this time in the morning.'
'You, too,' Blake told him, putting on his best British accent.
The policeman smiled and drove away.
Dillon said, 'Let's do it.'
'Fine. As I told you, I can screw the entire security system, but only for fifteen minutes, so you'll need to be fast.'
'Hell, I've been all over those ground plans you showed me. I know where I'm going.'
'You better had. I'm starting now, so count to ten and get down to that basement door.'
Various lights flickered on the screen, reds and greens, there came a faint sound, and then Dillon was out of there, past Blake and down to the basement, pulling up his hood.
He had a small flashlight, but really didn't need it, for there were subdued security lights everywhere. He had no worries about cameras. As Roper had told him, they were frozen, too.
Remembering the ground plans from the computer screen, he went up the steps fast, passed through the kitchens, and emerged by the entrance to the restaurant. He could see into the glass office by the main door. The security guard was fiddling with the TV, which had gone off.
Dillon slipped through the shadows into the main gambling room and round the right table. There was a tray of dice on the table, all very neat, but he left them alone, and instead dropped to one knee by the right-hand side of the table, where the dealer stood. There was a stack of dice there.
He took six, no more, and put them into his pocket, turned, and went out fast.
The security guard was still arguing with the TV. Dillon slipped through the shadow, went down the steps, and speeded into the basement, closing the door behind him. He stepped past Blake, gave him a thumbs-up, and went into the van. He took the six dice from his pocket and put them on the bench in front of Roper.
'There you go.'
'Thirteen minutes,' Roper said. 'You did well.' He tapped the keys and sat back. 'Everything normal again.' 'Now what?'
'We clear up and get out of here.'
Dillon removed his hood and went out to Blake. 'It worked. I got what he wanted, so let's get moving. I'll help you.' 'Okay,' Blake said.
Dillon collapsed the screens and awning and put them into the truck, while Blake replaced the manhole cover. A few moments later, they drove away, Dillon at the wheel.
At Roper's place in Regency Square, they sat and watched him at the bench examining the dice with an eyeglass.
'Will it be okay?' Blake asked.
'Of course it will, old boy. Being a perfectionist, however, I prefer solitude when engaged in sensitive work, so be good and dear off. You won't be able to use these things until tomorrow night anyway, so I've got all the time in the world.'
Dillon nodded to Blake and they stood up. 'We'll check in tomorrow, then.'
'You do that,' Roper said, ignoring them completely as he picked up a tiny electric drill of the kind used by jewellers.
The following morning at eight, Dillon's phone rang, and Ferguson said, 'As I've had no intimations of disaster, you must have pulled it off last night.'
'Absolutely. We're in Roper's hands now.'
'What are you and Blake up to?'
'We're going to the King's Head for a full English breakfast.'
'I can't wait to join you.'
Which he did half an hour later, accompanied by Hannah Bernstein. They all ordered, and Ferguson said, 'You haven't checked with Roper yet?'
'Give him a chance, sir,' Hannah said, as the waiter arrived with the breakfasts on a large tray.
Dillon said, 'Pass your bacon to me, Hannah. I wouldn't want to put your fine Jewish principles under siege.' 'You're so kind, Dillon.'
And then the door opened with a bang and Roper surged in. 'Smells great.' He turned to the waiter. 'The same for me.'
'I must say, you look astonishingly well,' Ferguson said.
'You mean for a cripple who hasn't been to bed all night?' Roper asked, and took the six dice from his pocket and rolled them on the table. They all came up ones. 'Snake eyes.' He turned to Blake. 'Isn't that what you call them in Vegas?'
'It sure as hell is.'
'Excellent. God help Jack Fox and the Colosseum this evening. I think I'll go and watch.'
'You have to be a member,' Hannah Bernstein said.
'Which, thanks to my computer, I am. In fact, you all are.' The waiter appeared with his breakfast. 'My God, this looks good.' He picked up a knife and fork and got to work. 'I assume it had occurred to you that if Dillon and Blake wanted to create mayhem in the Colosseum tonight, they also needed to be members?'
'Of course it did.' Ferguson smiled. 'And I knew you'd take care of it. It'll be an interesting night ahead of us, I think.' 'You can sure as hell say that,' Blake agreed.
