Martina Cole - Close

He watched her as she sashayed to the meat seats and then he slipped upstairs to his meeting. His face was grim now and his demeanour that of a man expecting big trouble, and expecting it sooner rather than later.

Trevor Renton was a gambler, and he was one of a very rare breed; he made a good living from it. Whether it was cards, the horses or the dogs, he made a decent living for himself. He lost of course: horses were unpredictable and cards were dealt at random; you could only play the hand that was given to you. Trevor Renton could bluff though. He had once taken a massive pot on a pair of twos, unnerving his opponent by raising him larger and larger amounts and with his quiet confidence in what was, in effect, a crap hand. Lessons had been learned and he had made his reputation overnight. When he sat at a table for a game he was treated like visiting royalty and, if he lost, he lost with good grace and paid up what he owed without a murmur.

Tonight he was in a big game and he was very excited although his face betrayed nothing of his emotions. He had already had a couple of wins on the horses that afternoon and he was in the mood for a nice long night of poker. He loved the game, loved the feel of beating the odds and he loved the company of like-minded men. He also got a kick out of hearing the stories of other big games, even though he had heard them a hundred times before, and was often a character in the stories himself.

As Trevor settled himself into a chair, he took out his cigars, his car keys and his wallet; he had a marker in there for fifty grand owed him by the evening's hosts. Placing them all by his drink, he then removed his jacket, placed it carefully on a nearby sofa, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He knew that as a regular winner he had to make sure that no one could ever accuse him of cheating, whether that was to his face or, worse, behind his back.

Some people were bad losers, especially when they bet with money they didn't really have. He could get credit anywhere; he was known for paying off his debts within hours of incurring them. Other men were not so sensible and tried to win back money they didn't have any more. They tried to recoup one loss by gambling on with borrowed money, money that would be repaid no matter what the circumstances. He watched them sweating with fear, drinking to calm their nerves, the alcohol that was supplied free of charge making their judgement worthless so that they started signing IOUs all over the place; trying to win back their lives and their family's lives. Then, at the end of the night, he saw their faces as the realisation finally dawned on them that they had just lost everything they possessed. Everything they had worked for gone in a few hours.

Somewhere, a wife and children were unaware that life as they knew it was over, that they would soon be caught up in a world of debt collectors and midnight visitors. A nightmare of such enormity that the reverberations would be felt for years. People were not aware that gambling debts did not, by law, have to be paid. They were a gentlemen's agreement, like a handshake. That was why the collection was usually guaranteed only with the help of violence and intimidation. The men who gambled away their lives were in fact putting themselves in a situation they could never escape from. The debts would be paid, it was as simple as that. The money was given with a smile and recouped with a baseball bat.

Trevor had seen it so many times and it depressed him that these men didn't have any self-control or any self-respect. At forty-eight years old he had been around the tables for over thirty years and he was still unscathed. There was not a scar on him and he had never been in a fight over cards or bets. Trevor was a gentleman and he knew his name was enough to get him into any game he wanted. He also knew that the younger men sought him out to play against him, hoping to get themselves a reputation as having beaten him. If that happened, and it was very rare, he shook their hands and gave them pointers and advice, making them friends for life. He had no problem with winners, it was a game of chance after all. Anyone could win and that's what made every night so exciting for him. As he sat nursing his ginger ale and waiting for the other players to arrive and get settled in, he was more than ready for the night's play.

'He is already causing fucking ructions and he's only been out of the hospital for a few days.'

Cain's voice was heavy with malice and Patrick listened quietly as he always did. He had found many years before that if you kept very quiet people filled in the silences themselves, offering more information than they had originally intended to give. It was a habit now and one he was glad he had cultivated.

'What has he done this time?'

While in hospital Dennis had attacked a doctor who was on his rounds and a porter who had not brought him the Scotch he had ordered. He had been as obnoxious as he always was and now he was out and about and determined to cause a ruckus. Dennis was making sure that people remembered just what he was capable of. Even though he was a laughing stock in some quarters, Brodie knew it would still be a brave man who had the nerve to laugh in his face.

'He has been round and collected rents that were already ours. It seems that Dave hasn't explained the new scheme of things to him and he still seems to think that he has some kind of fucking stranglehold over us lot. I have told my boys to go and request the money nicely If he tips them bollocks then they are to slice him and dice him as they see fit.'

Spider's voice was cold and brooked no argument. Well, he certainly wasn't going to get one from him. Dennis had been shouting his mouth off as usual; Patrick had been advised as to what Dennis had said about him, and it had not been what he would call complimentary. It was only a matter of time before someone shut him up permanently, so Patrick had decided to sit back and let someone else do any dirty work that was required. He knew that, in reality, Spider and Cain wanted his permission to out Dennis Williams and he was happy to oblige.

'Fair enough, what can I say? He is a cunt to himself.'

Spider and Cain relaxed at Brodie's answer, it was what they had been hoping to hear. They knew that Dave was still part of Brodie's firm and that was fair enough, unless it encroached on them of course.

Patrick sipped at his drink and when the atmosphere was warmer, he said jovially, 'Don't forget my boy's party. Bring the kids and everyone is welcome.'

'Fucking hell, Pat. Ten, don't the time go fast?'

Patrick nodded sagely. 'Wish I was ten again and knew what I know now, don't you?'

Spider laughed, his huge head going back on to his shoulders and reminding Patrick just how strong he was in all ways.

'When I was ten I had just started nicking fucking motors with me cousin Delroy. You remember him, Pat, he was shot in Kingston about three years ago. He finally went back to Jamaica and got wasted over a fucking bird.'

Spider shook his head in abject disbelief. 'A fucking bird. Only Del could die over a bit of pussy.'

He looked at Cain and said with pride and amusement in his voice, 'He could sniff out pussy like a fucking bloodhound and it was always sweet, at least that was what he said anyway.'

'He never got shot. He wore his cock out, Spider, and died of exhaustion. He got a hard-on looking at Fanny Craddock; he would trump anything. We used to have to hide our grannies if he was coming round.'

Cain and Spider were roaring with laughter, the earlier atmosphere was gone now, and they were all boys together once more.

Cain took a large gulp of his drink and, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said craftily, 'You can talk, Pat. What is this I hear about you and a certain flat-chested redhead? Love is it?'