“You’ve shorted me.”
“The house takes five percent,” says the cashier. “You’re in the Aces High Room. Third door on your right. Toilets are out back. Drinks are extra. You want to nap during games, find a couch. They can’t be reserved.”
I take my chips and move along the corridor, not bothering to knock before entering. Nobody looks up. Four men are sitting at a green baize table in a circle of bright light and a haze of cigarette smoke. Each has a pile of chips in front of him and tumblers of various spirits. The dealer is a young woman, perched on a stool.
I clear my throat.
The dealer eyes me curiously. “Hello, Sunshine, you’re new. Are you waiting for someone?”
“No, I’m here to play.”
One of the men laughs. “Go home and watch Sesame Street.”
The dealer kicks him under the table. “Where are your manners?”
The fat man rubs his shin and fetches a chair from against the wall, positioning it next to him.
“You sit right here, young lady,” he says, pretending to dust the seat. “You’re going to bring me luck.”
“You need more than luck—you need divine intervention,” says a large black man with tight curly hair and a small emerald stud in his left ear.
A third man is wearing sunglasses that seem to swallow half his face and a T-shirt that says: “I could give up gambling, but I’m no quitter.” He continues the conversation. “You’re so unlucky—if you fell in a sack full of tits, you’d come up sucking your thumb.”
A fourth man interrupts, his voice shaking the room. “Why don’t you all shut up and play the fucking game!”
His face is drooping on one side as though collapsing in on itself, while the other side is so animated that one eye sparks dangerously.
“What are you staring at?”
I look away, wishing I could unsee the image.
The dealer leans closer. “Don’t you worry about Barnum—he’s all bark and no bite.”
“All jacks and no aces,” says the fat man, who blows his nose on a tissue and shoves it into the pocket of a shapeless jacket.
The dealer is in her late twenties, dressed in black trousers and a white blouse. “I’m Katelyn,” she says. “You want something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Come on, have a drink,” says the black man, holding up a bottle of Scotch. “I’m Livingstone.”
“Don’t force her,” says the fat man, whose paunch is like a pregnancy.
“Deal the fucking cards,” says Barnum, drumming his manicured fingers on the baize.
“We’re playing Texas Hold’em,” says Katelyn. “No limit. The buy-in is two thousand. The blinds are ten and twenty.”
I arrange my chips on the table in order of value, so that I can see at a glance exactly how much money I’ve won or lost. The first hands are playing quickly as I feel my way into the game. Even when I draw strong hole cards, I fold quickly, letting others fight for the pot.
The fat man is easy to read. He talks too much and fidgets, constantly counting and recounting his chips. Shades is also an open book because he procrastinates before making each bet and always checks on the river. Livingstone reveals himself through his superstitions, betting from a different pile of chips depending on the strength of his hand. Barnum is the wild card because of his drooping face and his impatience, constantly trying to speed up the game. He’s the kind of player who waits until he has good hole cards before committing himself to a hand, but reacts carefully, often betting or raising before the flop, but folding quickly if it threatens him in any way.
Two hours later, I’m five hundred pounds to the good, having won regularly but never too much. Each of them has tried to bluff at some point. I let them go. Folded. Watched.
Midnight comes. The game is down to four because the fat man has gone home. I’ve doubled my initial stake. More. “That’s it for me,” I say, getting up from the table.
“What’s wrong, girlie? Past your bedtime,” says Barnum.
“Let her go,” says Livingstone.
“She’s taken all our money, so she can stay for one more hand—what’s the harm?”
“Don’t let him bully you,” says Katelyn.
I know I should quit while I’m ahead, but I’m well ahead. Retaking my seat, I watch the hole cards being dealt. I get a pair: two nines. Barnum pushes a stack of chips into the center without counting them. He’s making a play, keeping his eyes fixed on mine, challenging me, but he’s got nothing. Zilch. A clumsy bluff.
I match his wager and wait for the flop cards, which give me another nine.
Barnum isn’t looking at me now. Instead, he lifts and drops a stack of chips, counting them between his fingers. He pushes one stack into the center . . . then another. Three thousand pounds.
I hear Katelyn’s intake of breath. A voice inside my head tells me to fold, to walk away, to pocket my winnings. Don’t play this game. Don’t trust this man. I look at the pot. I could run a long way with that much money. I could set myself up.
“Come on, girlie, show us what you’re made of,” Barnum brays.
I don’t like him, but I can’t let that influence me.
His head is down. His hands are covering his cards. I want him to look at me. I need to see his face.
“Are you going to grow a pair or fold?” he says, tilting his head. His good eye catches the light.
I push my chips into the center of the table, all of them.
The mood in the room has changed. This is no longer a game. It’s combat.
The river card is dealt—the jack of spades. Barnum throws back his head and laughs. Something is wrong.
“All jacks and no aces, eh?” he says, sliding his hands away from his cards and flipping them over. He has three jacks.
I don’t bother turning my cards. I get up from the table and take my coat from my chair.
“You played a good game, but you got schooled,” says Barnum.
I turn slowly and whisper, “You cheated.”
Air leaves the room like a lung collapsing.
Barnum gets to his feet, growling, “What did you say?”
I lean across the table and turn the jacks. “These are newer cards. You swapped them in.”
I know I’m right. It’s written all over his face. The lie.
Shades holds up the cards, comparing them to the rest of the deck. Two of them look newer.
“She’s a liar!” says Barnum.
“Empty your pockets,” mutters Shades.
“Fuck off!”
Barnum holds the bottom of his shirt, creating a basket, and scoops poker chips from the table. Livingstone grabs him by the wrist. Barnum swings a punch with his other hand, but the black man is bigger, quicker, and stronger. Poker chips spill across the floor, rolling and rattling under the table and chairs.
Barnum is pushed face-first against the wall with his right arm twisted behind his back. Playing cards fall from his other sleeve—two queens and two kings, along with a seven of clubs and a six of hearts. He’s been holding picture cards, waiting for his chance to swap them in.
The bouncer’s boots are heavy on the stairs and his shoulders threaten to widen the door.
Katelyn pulls me away, shepherding me into another room.
“But my money!”
“I’ll fix it.”
She locks the door and we listen to the blonde cashier yelling at Barnum, telling him he’s barred. Barnum threatens to call the police and “have you all arrested!”
“And I’ll tell your wife how much money you owe me,” yells the cashier.
Katelyn pulls a packet of cigarettes from the strap of her bra. “Christ, you were cool in there. How did you know he was cheating?”
I gesture with a lift of my shoulders.
“I’ve never seen anyone play poker like you—the way you stare people down. You’re fearless.”
She offers me a cigarette. I accept, wishing I could stop my hands fr
om shaking. The lighter flames. Smoke is exhaled in a cloud.
“You should play professionally,” says Katelyn. “You’d be a rock star.”
I don’t answer. I want to get away from this place.
“You could join the poker tour,” says Katelyn. “There are big tournaments all over the world, televised events. With your looks and your skill, you’d be top table in no time.”
“I don’t want to be on TV.”
“We’re talking millions of dollars. All you need is a decent stake. I could help you. We could be partners.”
“I don’t need a partner.”
“I could get you sponsorships and brand deals.”
Why isn’t she listening?
“I want my money.”
“OK, OK, I’ll talk to the boss.”
I follow Katelyn out of the room. The cashier is on her hands and knees picking up the fallen poker chips.
“They’re hers,” says Shades, motioning to me.
“Can she prove that?” asks the cashier.
“I’m her proof.”
“And me,” says Katelyn.
Back in her booth, the cashier opens a safe, taking out bricks of cash, which she begins counting.
“If you like, I could mind this for you—keep it in the safe. You can pick it up tomorrow or the next time you play.”
“I’m not coming back,” I say.
The cashier looks annoyed. She hands me my money—more than seven grand. I shove it deep into my coat pocket and descend the stairs.
The bouncer has gone, along with Shades, Livingstone, and Barnum. The streetlights barely touch on the darkness and the air is damp with mist.
Katelyn has followed me outside. “Do you want a lift?” she asks. “My car is just there.” She points to the vacant lot where two cars are parked amid mounds of rubble. I can’t see her face.
“Good luck finding a cab at this hour,” she adds, lifting the collar of her coat. “Not around here.”
“How far is the station?” I ask.
“Trains won’t be running.”
I sniff at the silence.
“You could come back to mine,” says Katelyn. “I got a sofa. My boyfriend won’t mind.”
The quiet descends again.
“Make up your mind. I’m freezing my tits off out here,” says Katelyn. She sets off. Halfway across the road, she yells, “Hope you don’t run into that asshole Barnum.”
I glance up and down the empty street, wondering if she’s right. She’s almost at her car. I run to catch up. She opens the passenger door and leans inside to sweep envelopes and fast food wrappers onto the floor. She straightens and holds the door for me.
“Mind your head.”
I duck. In that split second I realize my mistake as Katelyn takes hold of my hair and drives my forehead into the frame of the door. It bounces off and she does it again. My legs fold and a knee rises up to meet me on the way down, snapping my head sideways. And then darkness.
39
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
The night feels tilted.
I’m cradling my pager in my hands, staring at the screen, willing Evie to send me a message . . . any message. She can abuse me for all I care. She can call me names or make threats or go back to Langford Hall. I just want to know she’s safe.
When we first met, Evie told me that people wanted her dead. I thought she was exaggerating or turning every setback into a catastrophe. What threat could she possibly pose, a teenage girl, who has spent a third of her life in care?
Sacha Hopewell’s parents were the same—convinced their daughter had been hounded out of her home and forced to hide by some nefarious, nameless conspiracy.
I shouldn’t have shouted at Evie for stealing the envelope. I should have remained calm and let her explain. It should have been a discussion, not a confrontation, but I fucked up. Despite my training, I’m unequipped for this. Floundering.
I’ve searched Evie’s room. She didn’t take a rucksack with her clothes or her makeup. I think she’s wearing the dress and boots that Caroline Fairfax bought her for the court hearing.
The other thing I noticed was that she’d decorated her bedroom, painting the walls with vertical green and white stripes. She must have found some old paint in the laundry or garden shed. I wonder how she managed to get the lines so straight.
Again, I’ve misjudged her. All this time I thought she was skulking around the place and poking through my stuff, but she was doing something useful. Apart from painting, she reorganized the pantry and the laundry, lining up cans and bottles in alphabetical order and according to size, the labels always facing out.
I don’t know what to do next. What if she’s jumped off a bridge or thrown herself under a train? She could be unconscious or have amnesia. I’ve called the city’s hospitals, asking about admissions. The obvious next step is to contact the police, but I know the ramifications of that. Evie will be classed as a runaway and returned to Langford Hall, where Guthrie and the others will make sure she stays. I don’t mind being proved wrong. I didn’t force Evie to stay with me. I gave her a choice. I bought her clothes, a new bed, vegetarian food, and sugary breakfast cereal. I promised her a phone. I’ve offered her normality, a home, freedom . . . In the same breath, I chide myself for being so stupid. Evie is damaged. Broken. Wild.
Victims of childhood abuse don’t associate kindness with trust. There is no fairness or balance. I am everything Evie has learned to mistrust. Men. Authority figures. Experts. Just being here—alone with me in this house—must have worried her, possibly frightened her.
The last time she lived in a house with a man she was sexually abused and kept in a secret room. She became so reliant on her abuser and traumatized by her ordeal that she didn’t run when she had the chance. She hid from his killers and the police and the tradesmen who renovated the house.
Even as I rationalize this, another thought occurs to me. I look around the room again—at the freshly painted walls and the aging furniture and the bed that still smells of plastic. On the landing, I glance up the stairs and begin climbing to the top floor. This part of the house is closed up, with the rooms used for storage or awaiting a purpose. I enter each of them, turning on the lights. Not all of them work.
The remotest of the rooms is in the attic, reachable by a narrow, uncarpeted set of stairs that creak under my weight. The small recessed window is grey with cobwebs and dust. Boxes of my grandparents’ things are stacked beneath beams that follow the sloping roofline to the eaves. Everything seems to be made on a miniature scale, so that I feel huge.
There are signs of disturbance: finger marks on the dusty flaps of cardboard boxes and smudges on the floor where a trunk has been moved and pushed back into place. Subtle alterations. I picture Evie finding this place, going softly through the stillness and shadows. What was she looking for?
As I turn to leave, I notice how some of the boxes have been stacked to form a partition with a small gap in between. Crouching and peering into the space, I discover a nest of sorts. Evie has spread a dust sheet over the floorboards, perhaps as protection against splinters. She has added blankets and throw pillows; two bottles of water; a packet of dry biscuits; a volume of Encyclopaedia Britannica, letters G to H; and a collection of marbles and pieces of colored glass.
Is this where she sleeps? I wonder. Do I frighten her that much?
The doorbell rings. My heart lifts.
I’m all the way at the top of the house and it takes an age to reach the front door. I pull it open, expecting to find Evie, but the man on my doorstep is an old family friend—or perhaps a friend for someone who has no family.
Jimmy Verbic pulls me into a bear hug and holds me for a beat longer than is comfortable. I can feel his breath on my ear and the smoothness of his unshaven cheek.
He lets me go.
“Dr. Haven.”
“Councilor Verbic.”
“I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I say, unsure of why he’s here.
Behind him I see two bulked-up minders whose bodies are shaped like port-a-loos and make their expensive suits look like sacks. Most politicians travel with PR types or chiefs of staff. Jimmy has muscle.
“I saw the light on.”
“Because you happened to be passing.”
“I know you’re a night owl.”
He looks past me along the hallway.
“I like what you’ve done to the place. Shabby chic.”
“No, just shabby.”
With a nod of his head, he tells his minders to wait outside and wipes his expensive Italian shoes on my doormat. He’s dressed in pleated trousers, an open-necked shirt, and a blazer, each item matched to the other. I doubt if Jimmy has anything in his wardrobe that isn’t stylish and color-coordinated or perfect for the occasion.
Rich beyond counting, he has twice been mayor of Nottingham and otherwise served on numerous committees, boards, and charitable foundations. He is Nottingham’s man for all seasons, a churchgoer, philanthropist, politician, yachtsman, pilot, and entrepreneur, with a finger in every pie and a toe in every Jacuzzi.
Jimmy often boasts about his humble roots, growing up in a soot-stained pit village and losing his father to black lung disease, but there is nothing working-class left about his lifestyle or his business interests, which include nightclubs, child-care centers, and a five-star hotel. Yet he possesses the common man’s touch, able to chat to football fans on the terraces or hobnob with opera lovers at the Theatre Royal. I’ve seen him goal a slap shot from just over the blue line in a charity hockey game and hit a two-hundred-yard five iron to within three feet at a golfing pro-am.
People say he’s handsome, although I’ve always found him to be slightly androgynous with his smooth egg-white skin and wet brown eyes. Now in his early sixties, he has escorted a string of beauties over the years, filling the society pages and gossip columns, while remaining stubbornly single.
When my parents and sisters were killed, it was Jimmy who paid for the funerals and set up a trust fund for my education. He didn’t know my family or me. He did it anyway. Perhaps he felt sorry for me, but so did everybody else. It was Jimmy who stepped up. As the caskets were wheeled from the cathedral, he put his arm around my skinny shoulders and said, “If you ever need anything, Cyrus, you come to me. Understand?”
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 21
