Eoin Colfer - Plugged

‘Twenty grand. Christ. But you’re not going to risk all that. No way.’

‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.’

‘Okay. Okay. I’ll take five. I’ve got five. So that’s three grand to you.’

The stash is spread all over my body. Some in each breast pocket and the rest in my socks. I empty one pocket and place the wedge gingerly on the pile, making sure Vic sees the pocket is empty.

‘Sheee-it, you must be related to these dumb bitches.’ Vic clicks a finger at AJ, who springs to his feet as though the gravity holding him down has been siphoned off.

‘What, Vic? What? Shoot him?’

‘Nope. Just open the safe and bring me the cash.’

AJ is crestfallen and actually pouts, which might make him cute if he was thirty years younger and a person was ignorant of his tryst with Lady Liberty. He trudges to the bar and successfully opens a safe hidden behind a brewery mirror.

I chuckle. ‘Christ, he remembered the combination.’

Vic breaks out of his poker face for a fleeting smirk. ‘It’s 10–28–18–86. The date the Statue was dedicated.’

In spite of everything, I can’t hold in a guffaw, and maybe for a millisecond I admire Victor Jones.

‘You are an evil arsehole, Vic. But that was a good one. You’ll have to change the combination now.’

Vic accepts the compliment with a royal wave, then plucks a brick of cash from AJ’s fingers, plonking ten grand on the pot. ‘Your three, and seven more. Now you are screwed again, Daniel. No pay, no play.’

I have him. A sense of savage victory glows like a light bulb inside my skull, and I close my mouth to stop it shining out.

Ooooh , says Ghost Zeb. You think there’s actual light shining outta your Irish mouth? I think you better phone that guy Simon .

It’s a fair point.

‘Don’t worry, Vic. I’m playing. I got one more pocket.’

I pull out two more wedges, each one wrapped in cling film. Any more and I have to go into my socks.

‘I see the seven and raise it another three.’

Vic struggles with his expression. It’s a challenge to keep the poker mask in place, and a winding vein swells between his ear and eyebrow. If he folds, he’s down ten grand plus. I hear rumours that Vic owes money to some real criminals; losing ten grand could cost him a lot more than ten grand. His only hope is to bankrupt me.

‘Fuck you, doorman,’ he says, and is that a tremor in his voice? ‘All in.’ He throws in his final wedge like a grenade. ‘Now go the fuck home.’

It’s one of those moments that sucks the air out of a room. Whatever happens next is going to shape lives. All I need to do is up the ante by eight grand or so and I squash him. Even if I lose, I still got something. Brandi is leaning low across the table, doing her best to boob-blind me, and AJ is throwing back shots of Stoli at the bar one after the other, psyching himself up for the confrontation that is almost surely coming. I put together a quick fight plan. Soon as this is over, I deck that arsehole with my chair.

Eight grand. That’s all I need. But then I flash on Vic leaving Connie out there in the rain while he cleans house. I see his fat fingers squeezing the flesh of yet another girl as he’s leading her into the back room.

‘Thirty-five grand,’ I say, pulling the rolls out of my socks. ‘And fuck you, Vic.’

Vic’s breath comes hard, like he’s having an attack, and to be honest I don’t feel so hot myself. Both of the girls are crying now. A person would have to be deaf, blind and stupid not to realise that this can only end in violence now.

Vic’s mask collapses and suddenly his face is lined like a dried fruit. ‘Thirty-five grand. No way. No goddamn way.’

And I know then that Vic is screwed and that all he can do is pray that I am bluffing too.

‘You done, Vic? That it?’

Vic’s lip hangs fat and low like a slug. He’s getting a glimpse of his own future. Come collection day, things are going to be a little tight. He can’t afford to let that money leave the table.

‘That cash is not mine to lose. I owe Irish Mike twenty grand.’

Irish Mike again. The man is like a cancer.

‘All you have to do is buy a look at my cards.’

‘I’m out. Tapped.’

I reach in for the pot, hoarding it with my arms. ‘Sorry, Vic. No pay, no play.’ This is fine; this will do.

Vic watches the pot move across the table like it’s his life’s blood draining away.

‘There must be some way to work this out. I can owe you.’

‘Not an option. Your rules.’

‘I can kill you.’

‘You can try. Bigger men than you have tried. Go for your nine, see what happens.’

Vic bought a nine millimetre because that’s what the gangsters rapped about. I suspect that’s because of the easy rhyme.

‘It’s thirty grand just to see your cards. This is Cloisters, for Christ’s sake. Where am I going to get that kind of money?’

It’s laughable really. Has this man never heard the word irony?

‘Vic, you’ve been rolling girls back here for years. Every one of them begged you for a little leniency. You screwed them all. Cheated them, then screwed them.’ I pile up the cash and chips. ‘You still owe me for the chips. That’s four grand give or take. And I’ll take, if you don’t mind.’

Vic’s poker face has collapsed in on itself, and in its place is raw desperation.

‘Fuck you, doorman. I’ll see you. Let me see those cards.’

‘Show me your money.’

Vic wrings his hands, and the chains around his neck jangle. ‘I got the club.’

Bingo.

‘You don’t even own this fire hazard, shithole.’

Vic does not dispute my description. ‘I got a twenty-year lease. That’s gotta be worth fifty grand.’

‘Yeah? And I got a shoe that’s worth half a mil.’

‘Come on, Daniel. I’ll throw in the lease for a look-see.’

I mull this over. ‘If you win, you cut these girls loose anyway. And if you lose, then this club and every stick of furniture and bottle of booze in it belongs to me. I don’t want any haggling; this isn’t a divorce.’

Vic nods, not able to speak the words.

I push the pot back in. ‘Show me the lease.’

Brandi hurries to the open safe and fishes about. She can see where this is going. In two minutes there could be a regime change around here. She returns with a manila envelope tied with string.

‘This it?’

Vic looks like he’s going to puke. ‘Yeah.’ And then adds, ‘Bitch.’

Brandi is aching to respond; it’s in the square of her chin, the flash of her tawny eyes. But this deal is not sealed just yet. No one outside the game speaks, because this is one of those situations that will be talked about for years whatever happens, and details are important. Also the whole thing has an unreal quality about it, like something out of a TV show, and not the good ones with budget behind them; the afternoon reruns from the seventies with stereotype villains and a cheap set that wobbles every time a door is closed.

I check the document. Most of it is legalese; could be a guarantee for a deep-fat fryer for all I know. Even if it is legal, the entire situation is probably bullshit that any halfway-decent attorney would tear apart without spilling his latte.

In spite of all that, I say: ‘Okay. Looks good. I accept the wager.’

A little formal, but it’s that kind of night.

Vic’s jowls are shuddering. ‘Show me, goddamn you, doorman.’

Calm drapes me like a shroud and I know the club is mine.

‘Two pair,’ I say, flipping the cards. ‘No bluffing on this side of the table.’

Vic doesn’t bother with his cards. He’s screwed, and killing a few people is the only way out.