by Kolton Lee
‘You’re right, I don’t have a job,’ H said to Matt, listening to the telephone ringing at the other end. ‘But, man … I’m really tired.’
***
The Mercedes was gun-metal grey. It was a 1973 model, a classic, the bodywork in mint condition. H parked it and then eased his bruised body out, pausing before deciding whether he should lock it after him. One of the few things that actually worked properly in the car was a cheap cassette deck. If anyone wanted to steal it, it was better to leave the car unlocked rather than risk a window getting smashed. But something about leaving his Mercedes unlocked offended H’s sense of ownership. He did what he usually did; he left the car unlocked, turned and walked down towards Oxford Street.
It was a cool, clear, spring night, just after half-past ten and the centre of the city was teeming. Clubbers, tourists, the gay crowd, trendies, workers, drinkers, diners, streetwalkers, theatre-goers, cab drivers … the list was endless and it was one of the things H loved about the city. Whatever the nature of London’s unpredictable weather, the city teemed with life. As he strode purposefully towards Blackie’s shebeen, wearing his lucky suit, H momentarily felt a part of all that was good about London.
Truth to tell, H did indeed look good. He had on his one good suit, a two-piece, charcoal grey, one-hundred-per-cent wool affair, made by the black designer, Derek Lilliard. It was his lucky suit, the suit that he wore on his special gambling holidays. For that’s where H was going, into the throbbing, underground heart of the gambling shebeens of Soho.
H turned off noisy Wardour Street, into the quieter Broadwick Street. He paused outside Agent Provocateur before crossing the road and heading into Duck Lane. Duck Lane finished in a dead end, but a little way before that H came to a plain, metal door. He rapped on it twice. Almost immediately, with the slow grinding squeal of metal on concrete, the door opened.
H entered a dimly-lit hallway. In front of him, leading the way, was a short, dumpy, doughy-faced, Chinese woman. She led him up two flights of stairs, both barely lit, and then into the room where the gambling went on. It was Spartan and dark. In the centre of the room stood a large green baize gambling table, and eight wooden chairs. On either side of this were two smaller tables. The far end of the room was a small kitchen area and on the kitchen counter were sandwiches and drinks.
High on one of the walls, a silent TV was showing a fight. H’s eyes immediately turned to it: there was Mancini; in the middle of an elimination bout H knew would earn him a crack at the world title. In a packed-out Albert Hall Mancini was putting the final touches to the destruction of Colin ‘Sweetwater’ Joseph. Joseph may have been sweet before this meeting, but he wasn’t sweet tonight. In the seven years since H had fought Mancini, the Bugle Boy from the bad side of Manchester had gone from strength to strength. His upper body had bulked, he’d learnt one or two classy combinations and someone, somewhere, had taught him how to bob and move. Mancini could now box. The Trinidadian was finding it out the tough way.
H looked away. He could no longer stand watching boxing on television.
Various unsavoury characters milled about the room, drinking and chatting. Some H recognised, some he didn’t. In the middle of one group sat Ghadaffi, the smartly-suited, Oxbridge-educated, Libyan nightclub owner; beside him was Boo, Nigerian hard man and petty thief. Sharon, a thin, pale junkie from East London, was helping himself to a sandwich and ignoring Stammer, a big but dumb-looking Jamaican in an white shell-suit and large gold chains, who played alone, as usual, on a one-armed bandit. There was Sammy, South London’s hardest-working mini-cab driver; and finally Dipak, a Ugandan Asian, who had seen good days, bad days, and was old enough to know that gambling was an addiction. Dipak owned the all-night grocer’s on Shepherd’s Bush Green and was one of Blackie’s best punters.
Sitting at the large table stacking chips sat a soberly dressed, dark-skinned Jamaican, Blackie. Blackie’s skin was so black it almost looked blue. He was the Houseman; this was his shebeen, newly moved from a spot in Ladbroke Grove.
Blackie wasn’t big but nobody ever crossed him. Not twice anyway. The last person to do that, as far as H could remember, was Cookie, a young, smooth-talking Tunisian. Cookie loved the sound of his own voice and could talk his way out of any kind of problem. Cookie especially loved to talk on mobiles, loudly and without inhibition. Women loved to hear him because he could string together wonderfully fragrant phrases; sentences that could charm a nun. H winced as he remembered the story. Blackie had been playing a big game in a shebeen in North London; five-card poker, or stud poker as some people call it. It was a big hand, there was a lot of money on the table, and the man playing opposite Blackie was a fish. He had his own carpentry business and was loaded. Blackie had, apparently, been stringing him along all evening, allowing the fish to win just enough of the small hands to sucker him into a big hand where Blackie would move in for the kill. As the hand approached its climax, a hush had descended over the game. Blackie was slowly reeling the fish in when Cookie entered the room, talking on his mobile. Checking out the clientele Cookie had doubtless seen a number of attractive women in the house. And so, instead of lowering his voice as protocol dictated – given the stage of the hand Blackie was playing – Cookie raised it. Braying loudly into his phone, he looked around to see who was listening in to his conversation.
Blackie, apparently, didn’t react immediately. According to the story he kept his focus, his eyes trained on the businessman. The man’s forehead glowed as he chomped with apparent nonchalance on a fat cigar. It was his move. For Blackie this moment was the difference between collecting the pot as it stood, or at least doubling it. The moment was tense. But for Cookie’s braying. Anyone who looked closely would have seen the vein in Blackie’s left temple begin to throb: the first indication that all was not well. When his right hand began to paw distractedly at the baize of the table, it should have been a clear warning for anyone who knew Blackie. But Cookie wasn’t looking at Blackie. He was looking at the full, frank bosom of an attractive Ghanan woman..
Finally, Blackie turned to Cookie. ‘Stop oonu blood clat chat, no man! You cian’ see we playin?!’
Cookie looked round, startled. But at that moment Blackie was undone. Once he had taken his eyes away from the businessman, the man felt the pressure ease. He folded his hand. Blackie was going to walk away with over two thousand pounds, but with the losses he had taken he would clear maybe eight hundred. He had been looking at a score of just under five grand.
Without a word and without even pausing to collect his winnings, Blackie rose from the table and barged his way out of the room. A few moments passed, during which hindsight established he had flown down to the kitchens at the back of the shebeen, before Blackie returned wielding a meat cleaver. The panic that ensued did not prevent Blackie catching Cookie, slamming his right hand to the flat of the gambling table and chopping it off. It may or may not have been a coincidence that this was the hand Cookie had been holding his mobile with.
Cookie survived the maiming but his smooth patter was never quite as smooth again. Soon after this incident Cookie disappeared. The word on the street was that he had returned to Tunisia.
H crossed the room and slapped Blackie on the back.
‘Blackie, man, wassup!’ Blackie turned to H, a smile of recognition creasing his scarred, battered, fifty-three-year-old face.
‘Ey! Watcha now, my yout’! Wha’ gwan?!’ Blackie jumped up and the two friends embraced.
‘Good to see you, man, how’ve you been?’
‘Me a cool, you know. Me jussa try to keep a level vibe.’
‘So this is your new place?’
‘Yeah, man, me a hit de big time now, you know. I tired a run race in de Grove so me say, me a move wid man an’ man in de West End.’
‘Looking good, my brother!’ H stood back and looked Blackie over. In reality Blackie was not looking good at all. Since H had last seen him Blackie had become thinner, almost gaunt. One of his front teeth was
missing. He was also sporting a long, thick scar on his forehead. H had heard this was left behind by an irate out-of-town fish who had entered Blackie’s shebeen in the Grove with over two thousand pounds. A straight thirty-six hours later, the fish had left, laughter ringing in his ears, with all his money gone, bar a crisp twenty-pound note for his cab home. The fish did not leave quietly.
‘So you come to give me a spin tonight?’
‘What, you think I’m here to watch?’ Blackie laughed and the two again embraced. The Chinese woman who had opened the door for H now approached.
‘Drink? Something to eat?’ Blackie threw an arm around her waist, drawing her into his body.
‘H, dis ’ere is Shampa. A good woman. Shampa, dis is H.’ Despite H’s smile of greeting nothing about him seemed to please Shampa. The sullen look on her fleshy face remained as tight as ever.
‘Hi, pleased to meet you.’
Shampa ignored his greeting and there was a moment’s pause.
‘What you want to drink? Every t’ing on de house tonight.’ Blackie’s joie de vivre interceded.
‘In that case I’ll have a Jack. Jack Daniels.’
Blackie turned Shampa’s shoulders and playfully slapped her arse, sending her off in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Who’s the new girl? She looks like fun.’ The ambiguity of H’s comment was deliberate. It didn’t do to be too playful with Blackie.
‘Das my sweetheart, man. I love ’er! Love ’er to deat’!’ H and Blackie watched her take short, quick steps on her way to the kitchen. Boo, the good-natured Nigerian, piped up. Despite being in his late thirties Boo liked to speak with the florid cadences of a teenage, African-American, Harlem homeboy.
‘Yo, nigger, wazzzzzup?’ With a bear-like hug he wrapped his big arms around H, squeezing him until he squirmed.
‘Man! You need to back up!’ said H, gasping for air.
‘And look at you, man!’ Boo continued. ‘Wearing your lucky suit ’n’ shit! Yeah, boeeeey!’ He slapped H’s hand, hard.
‘I’m not like you bums,’ countered H. ‘I’ve got things to do outside of gambling.’ He turned to Blackie. ‘So these are your new premises.’ H looked around. ‘This place has … life.’ Blackie’s new shebeen could probably have jostled with The London Dungeon for gruesomeness and lack of life. Despite there being something of a crowd tonight, the collection of dead-beats, hustlers and petty criminals, combined with the general pall of poverty that hung over the room, reminded H of the funeral of a boxing buddy he’d once attended in Birmingham.
Stammer, the big Jamaican, ambled over and broke into the conversation. ‘B … B … Blackie b … b … business good, boy!’
H gave him a quizzical half smile. A thought, once again and not for the last time, flashed through his mind: he really ought to give up gambling. Why did he need it? Blackie was okay but there were few people in this room that H really liked. Something inside him would just not let him walk away. Always, always, either when he was down, or when Bev was giving him earache, or when he just felt like he had to get away, he was drawn back to this nocturnal world.
Shampa returned with H’s drink. The small shot glass was barely wet with the tiny measure of Jack Daniels in it. To show his contempt for her portion H reached out a hand and, with barely a pause in motion, downed the drink in one, handing back the empty glass. The Chinese woman with the Indian name surprised H with her harsh East London accent.
‘Are you firsty or wot?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘This stuff’s expensive, d’you know what I mean.’
‘So? Are you buying it?’
‘No, but …‘
‘Well keep it coming and stop squawking!’
‘Oooo-oooh!’ Both Stammer and Boo liked that one. H glanced over at Blackie but Blackie just shrugged and turned back to sorting the chips on the table.
‘You better check the next one carefully … you might find some gob in it!’ She turned and walked away. Blackie looked up, his face creased into a broad smile.
‘I don’ know wha’ ’appen to she, but she ’ave fire in she body. You ready to play?’
The group wandered over to the main table and took their seats. Including H, there were eight players. All put money on the table, varying from £100 to £500. The serious money wouldn’t come out until later in the evening.
Shampa returned with H’s drink and slammed it on the table next to him. H checked it carefully as the others sniggered. Shampa then sat, picked up two new packs of playing cards and handed each to a player on either side of her. Stammer and H broke the seal on the cards and handed them back. For one with such short and stubby hands, Shampa shuffled the two packs together with extravagant skill.
As the players round the table sat quietly watching her, H dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his Zippo lighter. H rarely smoked these days. A few years back he was on a seriously destructive jag and smoking was part of his attempt to give himself an excuse for losing in the ring. He was through that now but he still liked the smooth, weighty feel of the Zippo in his hands.
H twisted the lighter – or talisman as he called it – round in his hands before placing it gently on the table next to his money.
Shampa finished shuffling the cards. She dealt, gracefully and accurately, flicking the cards across the table to the eight players: one card each, face down, in the hole. As Shampa dealt, each player tossed their opening stake, ten pounds, into the middle of the table.
‘Anyone blind?’ Shampa droned mechanically as she looked round the group. The players all shook their heads. Shampa then dealt each player a second card, face up this time. As the cards slid smoothly across the table, Shampa called out the name of each one.
‘Nine of spades, queen of clubs, jack of hearts, eight of diamonds …’
H watched her deal. No wonder Blackie had latched on to this woman. She may not be the life and soul of the party, but bring her into a sleazy, all-night, illegal shebeen and boy, did she know her way around.
‘… Ten of clubs, ace of diamonds, queen of hearts, king of spades. Ace of diamonds starts the bidding.’ Shampa finished dealing the hand and scanned the players at the table.
Sammy had the ace and considered his cards. The game was on. H’s heart began to beat just a little bit faster, the adrenaline kicking in. He picked up his talisman and fingered it. This is why he gambled! It wasn’t for the camaraderie; it wasn’t for the patter; and it certainly wasn’t for the women. It was for the buzz. Something that had been lacking from his boxing for some time.
‘Twenty.’ Sammy, a conservative player at the best of times, tossed a twenty pound note into the middle of the table. Shampa deftly changed the twenty for the round, plastic, house chips. H studied Sammy’s face; Sammy’s eyes flicked up, made contact with H’s, and then dropped back to his cards. Too quickly for H. Wanker! The wanker was bluffing. Still; this was the first hand. And the first game of five-card stud that H had played for nearly six months. No need to go on the offensive first game back. H was going to ease himself in. Savour the moments. Enjoy them. Luxuriate in the feeling of being back, being on holiday, indulging himself in a favoured pastime.
Hours had passed and the room was now heavy with smoke. It hung in the air, glowing red from the light in the window, white from the light above the table, blue from the glow of the silent television. The thickness of the air seemed to muffle sound as the players concentrated on their game. Movement in the room, be it the collecting of money, the passing of cards, the scratching of a forehead, was made efficiently, economically. The only gamblers left were those around the central table, hunched together like conspirators. As H looked around he was acutely aware of something: these people weren’t here to play; they were here to work. For the patrons of Blackie’s shebeen gambling was a way of life. H knew he couldn’t stay in the gambling world for too much longer. Maybe until he’d had one more big win. Just one. Really.
The money and chips whic
h lay on the table had now shifted around according to each player’s respective fortune. H and Dipak were having a good night and large stacks of notes and chips sat in front of them. H’s talisman was nowhere to be seen, buried deep in his pocket.
Shampa dealt the next round of cards.
‘Eight of clubs, nine of diamonds, king of spades, jack of spades, jack of hearts. King of spades starts the bidding.’ She looked blankly over at H. H sat staring at a pair of kings with a nine card. Not bad. Not bad at all. He flicked a glance over at Sammy and the loot sitting before him on the table. Six hundred squid. H casually tossed a wad of six hundred pounds of his own into the pot. Bosh! If the wad of notes could have landed with a crash it would have. The pot in the middle of the table was already piled high with big notes and fat chips. H even noticed some funny money, some Euro notes, in with the real stuff. A big hand.
‘Maximum bet, all in. Stammer?’
Stammer had a pair of queens and an ace showing. H thought about the cards that were already on the table, the cards that had passed through the pack, and the various permutations which Stammer might try. It was a tough decision, he could swing a number of ways with this. Stammer might not be the smartest guy on the planet but he knew how to play the cards. He was the kind of dingbat who would happily lose two hundred pounds in a one-armed bandit in the course of an hour, but would play poker for five hours to win twenty pounds. He looked over at H, a thoughtful look on his face. H stared back at him, blank, non-committal.
Stammer, reluctantly, covered the bet. Next to go was Sammy. Sammy had a pair of tens showing with a king. Sammy let a minute go by. Sammy carefully peeked at his card in the hole. Sammy let another minute go by.
‘What are you doing? Are you playing de game or are you not playing de game?!’ Boo had a lot of money riding on this hand and the pressure was telling. The Harlem homeboy accent was gone and what H heard now was hard-core, down-town, Lagos. ‘Shit, man, I’ve seen cream curdle faster dan de way you seem to play de game!’
