I have seventeen in front of me. ‘What do you think?’ I ask him.
His lips twitch as he moves to the Chinese guy.
‘Oi,’ I say. “I didn’t say I was staying. Gimme a card.’
The dealer’s eyes narrow for a second. Then he slaps a queen in front of me, rakes in the cards and my cash in one fluid motion. The Chinese guy is sitting there with nine, and he looks fit to cut my throat.
‘What a pity. Never mind.’ I get up from my seat, taking the rest of my chips with me.
Fuck the dealer. I should have known he’d keep his mouth shut. And I was hardly subtle about it, but then I’m not used to being in places like this. Word spread, obviously. Employees banding together against a common enemy. In this case, it’s Morris Tiernan. And me, I stand for Morris. It’s okay, though. I’ll find someone with a mouth on them. I always do.
I just have to bide my time.
TEN
A couple of bottled beers later and I feel loose in my skin. I’m leaning against the bar, sipping a Becks. The scallies I know have gone, so I’m more relaxed. I’d be even more relaxed if these drinks weren’t costing me so much.
The barman is a gangly lad with a perpetual stoop. Like every other employee in here, he’s wearing a dress shirt and dicky bow. But the dark sweat patches under his arms and the luggage under his eyes give him away.
‘You work here long?’ I say.
He doesn’t say anything, busies himself with the optics. I watch him. He’s trying to avoid me. I slap two red chips onto the bar. ‘Oi,’ I say. ‘I’m talking to you.’
The barman turns, clocks the chips. ‘You want another drink?’
‘You know a guy called Rob Stokes?’
‘Nah,’ he says.
I light an Embassy. ‘He was a dealer here.’
The barman shakes his head.
‘You don’t know the dealers?’
‘Nah.’
‘You don’t take breaks together?’
He doesn’t answer. He’s watching something over my shoulder. Feels like the floor just listed to one side, so I’m guessing the bruiser on the door just walked in.
‘What are you, a fuckin’ mute?’ I say.
‘Nah,’ he says.
For fuck’s sake. ‘Fine, don’t talk to me.’
I turn away from the bar, take a swig from the bottle. Sure enough, the doorman’s looking at me, even though he’s pretending not to. Got that shifty-eyed glance going on, as if he’s not sure what he should be doing. I stare right at him.
This place is tight. No wonder Morris couldn’t get anything out of the staff.
‘You don’t have to talk to me, mate. But you will have to talk to someone sooner or later. This Rob Stokes isn’t going to get away scot-free.’
I let that hang in the air. The barman’s stopped moving.
‘Tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll leave you my number.
You get over your lockjaw, you give me a bell and we’ll talk about it.’
“I don’t talk to the police, mate,’ he says.
‘I’m not the police. And I’m not your fuckin’ mate.’ I turn back to the bar, see he’s still looking at the bouncer.
I write down my mobile number on a napkin, push it towards him. ‘My name’s Callum Innes. I’m a private investigator. And whatever you say to me is just that: private.
You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.’
The barman gives me a look like who do I think I’m fooling?
He’s right. It’s all shite. But sometimes it works.
‘Everything alright here, Kev?’
It’s the bouncer. And I didn’t hear him coming. He’s almost right on top of me when I turn. ‘Everything’s fine,’ I tell him. The and Kev were just shooting the breeze.’
He doesn’t look at me. The mountain and the barman, exchanging glances like a couple of star-crossed lovers. It’s enough to make me sick. ‘Here, Kev, I’ll have another Becks, mate,’ I say.
Kev doesn’t move.
“I think you’ve had enough,’ says the bouncer.
‘You what?’
His hand opens, gestures towards the door. ‘You’re not welcome here. C’mon.’
‘C’mon where? I’ve had three fuckin’ beers.’
‘No need to get lippy with me, son.’
‘I’m not getting lippy with you. I’m stating a fact. I’ve had three beers. I’m a member.’
Look at the bouncer’s eyes. They disappear into his skull.
His piss is pure boiled about something, but his voice doesn’t show it. ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ he says again, and puts one huge hand on my shoulder.
Two ways to go with this. I can kick off and get battered, or play possum. The rising heat in my face makes me want to take this empty Becks bottle to the mountain’s head. His hand on my shoulder tells me to think again. He’s got power in those fingers, so God knows what the whole limb’s capable of.
That’s what makes me bottle it. This place is far too dangerous for someone with my disposition. Fuck knows I’ve tried not to panic since I got out, but times like this, the fear takes over.
Keep calm, Callum.
Smile. Be nice.
I smile, but I can’t be nice. ‘You want to take your hand off me, pal?’
‘I think it’s time you left.’
‘And I think you do too much fuckin’ thinking.’
“I think ‘
Watch it. Your noggin might overheat. But you know what? I think you’re right.’
I neck the rest of my beer and slip out from under the bouncer’s grip, head to the door. Behind me, I can hear conversation, but can’t make out the words.
Yeah, I think. Who was that masked man?
ELEVEN
Someone told me that the difference between a pub and a bar is that a bar has more mirrors to show you how fucked up you are.
I need a drink after my brush with the bouncer. Something to settle my heart rate. Somewhere to lie low and take stock.
I’d head up to Oxford Road, bury myself in an old man pub vibe, but it’s too much of a walk. So I scout around and find a place in Withy Grove that looks like Austin Powers’ worst nightmare.
Beggars and choosers spring to mind.
Lines of purple and white swirl across the ceiling. I go down the stairs into a club that’s already starting to fill up.
