“Play ball!” somebody called. I wish they’d warned us. I came slowly down to the deep russet pile, heart banging enough to shake me.
“The Alhambra syndicate, first. Nicko Aquilina plays.”
A girl was at the green, placing decks of cards. People were examining them, all watched by Vermilio and Coats. The scrutineers nodded, talking as if everything was normal.
“We go first, eh?” I asked a man craning next to me.
“You an Alhambra?” he asked through the artificial dusk, staring. “Good luck.”
Why did I need luck, for heaven’s sake? I’d done the decent thing, revealed the truth about my scams, told Vermilio how everything worked when I was asked. No. It was Nicko, Gina, the rest who were for the high jump if Nicko lost. Tough luck. But I’d soon be out of here… Wouldn’t I? Vermilio had said Nicko, not me.
Suddenly I wanted Nicko to win. Not because my throat was slate dry, no. And honestly not because I felt faint at the thought of the terrible crime that would be committed on him if he didn’t win. But we’d been, if not quite friends, sort of acquaintances who’d done each other no real harm, and I’d quite enjoyed my stay in America after all, lovely country and everything —
“Ten of diamonds is Alhambra’s card.”
Nicko placed the card face up for all us watchers to see. Coats nodded to the girl, who slowly started dealing her pack, one card to her left, another to her right. People murmured. I swallowed, trying tiptoes to see over heads. Word had spread that more hinged on this result than mere money, crime.
“Your win,” she said. Jack of clubs.
“My win.” Three of hearts.
“Your win.” Ace of spades, to a swell of talk swiftly muted. People near me made superstitious gestures.
“My win.” A four, clubs.
Fingers sometimes do their own thing. Mine were trying hard to grasp hold of my palms, hoping for a heavenly ladder.
“Your win. Game over!”
The babble erupted, me whimpering what was it, who’d won, was it—?
“Lucky,” the man grinned with gold teeth at me. I could have throttled him.
The crowd relaxed, talking, betting, swapping predictions. I pressed through to glimpse Nicko stepping back, taking his place in the line-up as the next player stepped up. God, but he was cool, that Nicko. I saw Gina’s expression across the arena fishbowl. Waxen, a million years old. Where was Sophie Brandau? I’d not seen her since I’d arrived. And Kelly Palumba, lucky in her addiction to be out of this. Monsignor O’Cody was grey, talking intently with three grave-suited men, explaining his innocence in everything, the way of all religious leaders.
“Philadelphia to play. Frank Valera the nominee.”
We—Nicko, I mean—were safe for the rest of this round. I didn’t listen. All I wanted now was for the rest to lose first round, and Nicko’d be clear. I went to ask for a drink. The door goon wouldn’t let me out until the whole first round had been played all through. Then he allowed me into the grand salon, where a good-humoured barkeep poured me lemonade, asking if I’d won much so far. They all wished me luck as I re-entered. The pillocks thought it was routine gambling.
Start of the second round. I asked people in the semi-darkness who was still in, got told to shush. Nicko was just stepping up to pluck the marker card, as the girl’s new pack was shuffled in. We —no,
He made it with only five cards remaining. I collapsed with relief. He had the cool to smile at Vermilio as he withdrew without a wobble. I was almost fainting with fear, my suspicion hardening that maybe Nicko’s fate would also be mine. I wanted to ask the man with the gold teeth why he’d called me lucky. It was Nicko who was up for the chop, wasn’t it?
People were whispering all round the gallery now. There’s something about terror that stimulates. The women were panting, the men steaming with heat. Passion was king. The place felt humid, as tropical outside as in. Hands were moving. Suggestions were being whispered. I heard some woman groan a soft Oh
By taking hold of people I learned that four had lost in the first round. I stood as if stunned. Gina’s face had gone. Instead, Fatty Jim Bethune’s stared down beside that of Monsignor O’Cody. His lips were moving. A prayer, even? I was tempted to walk round the glass gallery, stand with them, maybe ask Gina where was Sophie, decided I didn’t want to be with a load of losers, and stood shaking while the cards were shuffled. I wanted the dealer girl, now a lovely dark lass who’d removed all her rings, to fall down in a palsy, anything to stop the cards coming.
Six remaining for the second round. Two more lost while I watched and had to forfeit their stakes. People had calculators out, clicking and tapping, in that terrible tide of whispering, the heat impossible.
“Third round,” the caller announced. “Alhambra, Nicko Aquilina.”
The door was just closing. I made it to the salon, asked for some grub, went to the kitchen, following its noises.
My voice had almost gone. I was drenched, sopping and unwholesome, wet running down my nape, my thatch of hair plastered down twenties style. A bloke suffering from super-nourishment among the trays and gleaming steel surfaces shouted for assistants, and I was brought a plate of genuine American food, meaning it was bigger than me. I asked could I sit in the air, and they let me through.
It was coolish out on the kitchen step. I sat, noshing. Nicko was up there in the Game, his awful stare now no use. Everything hinged on the turn of a card his way. Or not. I looked out into the night. Sophie, Rose Hawkins, that sister of hers. The ambitions of Sophie’s husband Denzie, consummate politician. And the reason they—okay, so Hirschman gave the word—tried to have me killed in New Orleans. And Bill’s death. Sokolowsky. And the hotel fire. And upstairs in that enclosed arena of green baize Nicko was even now winning. Or losing. What was the statistical chance, one in four? Racing punters say there’s no way to win above two to one.
