Peter Corris - Casino

I bought some chips and we played in a desultory fashion for a few minutes. Vi asked me to get her a drink, a serious drink. I went to the bar and got two double Jack Daniels with ice.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘It’s easy to see this bores you rigid. Why don’t you leave me here to have some fun while you look around a bit? I want to play some blackjack and I have to concentrate. Can’t do that with you looking as if you’d rather be someplace else.’

‘Sorry. Got enough chips?’

‘I’ll be fine. Scoot!’

We touched hands and I left the room, glad to be out of it, troubled by the look on the face of the thin man and the glitter in the eyes of the high-rolling Chinese. There was something more than money involved and I knew I’d never really understand what it was.

I recalled the layout of the place fairly well from the guided tour Oscar Cartwright had given me and I went roaming, looking at faces, eavesdropping on conversations, trying to get a feel for the place that had somehow brought about the death of my friend. The casino, which had looked somewhat contrived, even antiseptic on my first visit, had acquired atmosphere, almost a personality. Despite the tasteful, expensive fittings, it was vulgar and garish if you cared to think of it that way. Despite the abundance of services and assistants, you were essentially on your own in a money vacuum cleaner. What else was there to do there but win or lose, get drunk or stay sober? The place had no other function. The thought of being there alone was almost terrifying.

I staved off these phantasms with a few sips of Jack Daniels and the thought of taking Vi home later. I concentrated on singling out the employees-waiters, croupiers, barmen, cashiers-looking for Baldy and his knee-kicking mate. No luck. The smoke-free rooms were surprisingly well-patronised. I’d thought that the action might be tamer in these non-suicide sections but not so. If anything, the non-smokers seemed to be drinking more and I saw two men and four women who were beginning to draw looks from the other gamblers for their rowdiness and willingness to argue about the run of the cards. I caught an exchange of glances between a barman and a man who looked like a slightly jaded gambler. When he moved it was clear that he was a peacekeeper and a good one. He took one of the drunk women by the arm and spoke briefly to her male companion. The rowdy group was split smoothly into two and another handler came in to calm the waters. Nice work.

Out of professional interest, I watched the operation of the cash cages. Everything seemed to going like clockwork with the pneumatic capsules humming away and the keyboards clicking and the screens glowing brightly. Knowing where to look, I saw that every area where money was handled was well covered by closed-circuit TV cameras. I was sure that the fire extinguishers would work and that the airconditioning system didn’t house a single Legionella bug.

I finished my drink, put the glass down on a table and decided to check a couple of the glossy toilets with the sour thought that my attackers might be handing out towels or scrubbing down the tiles. The toilet I entered was sparkling clean and fresh-smelling as I expected. I used the urinal and washed my hands. When I lifted my head to look in the mirror I became aware of two men standing behind me. Both had come up, not silently, but making natural noises-a lot harder to do.

Both wore dinner suits and looked ordinary. One was slight, had receding hair and a moustache, the other was stocky without being fat. He said, ‘I must ask you to come with us, sir.’

‘And who would you be?’

‘My name’s Carstairs and this is Mr Ralston. We’re employees of the casino.’

‘Perhaps Mr Ralston would be good enough to hand me a towel.’

Ralston would have to step back and sideways to reach the pile of snowy towels. He smiled and shook his head. The two of them moved in concert so that I could get to the towels while they still had me enclosed and cut off from the doorway. Experts. I got a towel and dried my hands. Carstairs took it from me the instant I’d finished. No flicking it in their faces, no diversions.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I’m sure we can sort it out very quickly. Just come with us and don’t do anything foolish.’

I shrugged, reminding myself of the sore arm. We left the toilet with Carstairs and Ralston flanking me and talking amiably to each other over and around me. All very natural-looking. Nothing to frighten the horses. We passed quickly through the gaming room and into an elevator leading, as I knew from my tour, to the executive level. Better than the basement. Once we were in the lift, Carstairs searched me quickly and efficiently for weapons. He didn’t say ‘Clean’ or anything like that. He wasn’t interested in impressing Ralston or me. He was impressed enough with himself already. Dangerous.

I studied their faces as we tramped along a brightly lit corridor. There was something familiar about Ralston. Give him back some of his hair and lose the moustache and I thought I’d know him. But that meant it must be years ago that I’d met him. ‘Ralston’ didn’t quite fit, but I couldn’t replace it with anything else.

We passed a long window that gave a good view out over the water towards the city. All of a sudden, my hired shoes pinched me and I almost stumbled. Carstairs gripped my arm and pain shot through me. Quite involuntarily, I swore and pulled away. Ralston was quicker than Alfie Langer; he slid behind me and had my arms locked and twisted up before I could draw breath to swear again. The pain was excruciating and I buckled, hissing and uselessly attempting to land a kick at the same time. By sheer luck I caught Carstairs on the ankle. He cursed and bunched his fist.

A door opened ahead of us and a man stepped out.

‘What the hell’s going on here? I said to bring him up quietly.’

It was Oscar Cartwright, resplendent in a white tuxedo jacket, red bow tie and midnight blue dress trousers.

‘Hello, O.C.,’ I said. As I spoke Ralston loosened his grip slightly.

He approached closer, squinting through his contacts against the bright light. ‘Jesus Christ. It is you. Cliff Hardy. I thought I recognised you on the monitor but in the suit and with the haircut, hey

‘Tell Mr Ralston to let me go,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a buggered-up shoulder and he’s making it a hell of a lot worse.’

At a gesture from Cartwright, Ralston released me. Carstairs stepped away. ‘OK, boys,’ Cartwright said. ‘That’ll be all for now.’

Ralston was the keen type. ‘What about the woman?’

‘Keep an eye on her but hands off.’

The two moved away down the passage and Cartwright ushered me into his office. ‘You’ve gotta understand, Cliff. I get a report that this woman comes in with a Beretta in her purse in company with this guy looks like he can handle himself. It’s only natural I’d take an interest.’

‘No harm done,’ I said.

‘Take a seat and have a drink. It’s the least I can do to make up for the inconvenience.’

‘Can’t you rig the blackjack shoe so my lady friend can win some money?’

‘Hah, hah. What’ll you have?’

So far that night I’d had Australian champagne and Tennessee whisky. Smash the rules. ‘I’ll have a beer. Got any Heineken?’

He got two of the green bottles from his fridge along with chilled glasses, flipped off the tops and poured. ‘Good choice. Cheers. You should’ve told me you were coming. I’d have made special arrangements.’

I drank some of the cold beer. ‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘After what happened to Scott. You know. I was real cut up about that. We sent flowers and one of our guys went to the funeral. But he was your friend. Damn nice guy, too.’