Jessie Keane - The Make

JESSIE KEANE

The Make

Copyright

Copyright © Jessie Keane 2011

Jessie Keane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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ISBN: 9780007349395

Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007332922

Version: 2018-02-16

Dedication

All my love, as always, to Cliff

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Gracie: December

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

George and Harry: October

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Gracie: December

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

George and Harry: November

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Gracie: December

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

George and Harry: November

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Gracie: December

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

George and Harry: December

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Gracie: December

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Christmas Day

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

After Christmas

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

New Year’s Eve

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Jessie Keane

About the Publisher

Gracie

DECEMBER

Chapter 1

18 December

The instant the police were ushered into her office over the casino, Gracie Doyle knew there was trouble brewing. She was slouching in her chair, with her aching bare feet up on her desk after a long, long day. It was a cold, blustery Friday night, and in precisely a week’s time – seven days! Count ’em – it would be Christmas Day.

She was already sick of all the jingle-bells and fake bonhomie, the endless Wizard and Slade tracks being pumped out of every shopping mall’s sound system, the crazed crush of people wherever you went. Bad things happened at Christmas. For instance, her dad had died just before last Christmas Day. Fatal heart attack, right there in the middle of the casino boulevard. Boom! One minute there, the next – gone. Gracie hated Christmas.

Now she was just sitting, contemplating what she would actually do over the festive break – as usual, she’d made no real plans and also as usual she hadn’t even put up a tree in her flat – fuck that – when there was a knock on the door and two cops, one male, one female, were shown in by Brynn, the manager.

Gracie’s feet slipped from the desk as she sat bolt upright in surprise.

Cops were rarely seen inside the casino, mostly because Gracie Doyle, thirty-year-old daughter of the late Paddy Doyle, ran a very tight ship here in the centre of Manchester. Since she’d been catapulted into the driving seat following her dad’s death, she’d put lots of new security in place, even an ultra-sophisticated ‘eye in the sky’ video surveillance system that recorded every movement, every word, every bet placed, every chip handled. There had been scammers, of course; there always were. But no one had yet beaten Gracie’s system.

So what were the cops doing here?

‘Miss Doyle?’ asked the male uniformed PC.

It was funny how, after all this time, she still half expected to hear her other name, but now she used just plain Gracie Doyle. Head of Doyles. She was proud of her achievements. She’d feared she would sink without her dad at the helm, but she’d swum. Hell, she’d powered through the waters of the casino world, glad now that Dad had insisted she work her way up the ranks; she’d kicked against it sometimes, but he’d been right.

She knew the business inside out. She’d started as a slots trainee, then a dealer; then she’d graduated to box man – or box person, to use the politically correct term. Then she was a floor person, then a pit boss, a shift boss, and finally she was shadowing the casino manager – Brynn. Today she was proprietor, sole owner. The buck stopped, very firmly, with her.

Now, when she walked through the vast sliding double-doors and into reception, moved with her easy, long-legged stride down the sumptuously thick gold carpet of the boulevard of slot machines and into the casino proper, she felt like a queen – and everyone treated her as such.

Gracie loved the late-night casino world; the ping and tinkle of the slots as players, ‘comped’ with free booze and soft drinks, chanced their luck; the intense concentration of the high-stakes punters as the gold-liveried croupiers scooped up their brightly coloured plastic chips and positioned them on this number or that, then spun the roulette wheel. Their howling yells of triumph when they won; their disappointment when they lost – and usually they did lose – but always, always, they came back and tried to beat the house again.

Someone really ought to tell them it was impossible.

This place was Gracie’s life. She loved it all. Let the punters gamble, that was fine; but she played things straight down the line, paid her taxes, ran a good business.

So why the cops?

She quickly slid her feet back into her black high-heeled patent-leather shoes and stood up, rising to her full six feet. She smoothed down her navy narrow pinstriped skirt suit, straightened her open-necked cream shirt, ran a hand briefly over the long dark red plait of hair that hung, thick as knotted rope, down over her shoulder. Assembled herself. Took a breath.

‘I’m Gracie Doyle,’ she said, planting her hands on the desk. ‘How can I help?’

‘I’m afraid there’s bad news, Miss Doyle.’

‘Oh?’ Gracie tensed, thinking. Here we go. The Christmas curse of the Doyles strikes again. ‘This is a legitimate business, officers. Run strictly within legal boundaries.’

It was the truth. Her dad might have bent the rules a time or two – she particularly remembered his habit of only ever paying red bills – but Gracie liked sleeping nights, and if that meant being legit and paying her taxes, so be it.

‘News of a personal nature,’ added the female PC, glancing at her colleague.

Personal?

How could it be personal? All she’d had in the world was her dad, and he was gone.