The Last Card

by Kolton Lee

  ‘Yeah, mate, must be the cream between your toes.’ Sammy spoke but it was Dipak that laughed.

  ‘What did you say?!’ H looked at his watch. The game had been going for just under five hours and he could see that Boo had already lost most of his money. Not that he needed to see that. The note of challenge in Boo’s voice would have told him that. It was time for H to think about moving on.

  ‘I said shutcha yap, I’m trying to think here.’ This would normally pass for everyday conversation, but the note of edge in Boo’s voice should have warned Sammy to be more diplomatic. But then Sammy, a man passing through his 68th year and still driving an illegal cab for a living while gambling away anything of any value that his family had ever managed to acquire, was not the most sensitive punter around. Again Dipak laughed.

  ‘And wha’ de hell you laughing at?!’ Boo demanded of Dipak. Dipak, having a good night, chose to reply in Urdu. Neither H nor anyone else spoke Urdu but the words ‘drug dealer’ and ‘motherfucker’ needed no translation. One of the few gambling shebeen etiquettes however, over which there was no flexibility, was the foreign language rule. Blackie quickly enforced it now.

  ‘No foreign, my friend, no foreign.’ H thought that despite Britain’s all-pervasive class system – with the queen sitting at the top – gambling was perhaps the country’s greatest social and racial leveller. In Blackie’s shebeen, and most shebeens throughout London, you could speak the Queen’s English, Jeremy Paxman’s English, Chris Eubanks’ English, even Jonathan Ross’s English, but it had to be English.

  ‘Yeah, man, speakie English! Where the fuck you think you at?!’ Boo was back to Harlem homie speak. H shifted in his seat recognising that the flash point had passed. Boo had regained control of his frayed nerves.

  Sammy now tossed the last of his money into the pot. Boo cursed and threw his cards in, as did the casual Dipak. Shampa dealt the remaining players their last cards, face down, to H, Stammer and Sammy. The three looked at their cards and one by one they turned them up.

  H now had two pairs, kings and nines; Stammer also had two pairs, aces and queens; Sammy had a pair of tens, plus a king and an eight.

  ‘Stammer to bid, ace of hearts.’ H looked at Shampa and had to admire her technique. Whatever shit went down at this table, she was sure as hell going to maintain her cool.

  ‘Check.’ Stammer knocked once on the table. Sammy did the same. ‘Check.’ H considered his hand. He lifted up his hidden card and took a peek. He thought carefully about his next move, dipping his hand into his pocket, pulling out his lighter and fingering it. And then he made his decision. He shoved the lighter back into his pocket and looked over at Stammer. He casually tossed three grand into the middle of the table. The noise of air being expelled through gritted teeth and pursed lips was heard throughout the room.

  ‘Godt … dammn, nigger! You cooking with gas!’ Boo’s eyes bugged from his head.

  ‘Three thousand pounds is the bet. Stammer?’

  Stammer looked away but he knew H was still looking at him. He stood abruptly and walked aggressively towards H. As he reached him he leant behind H and picked up a heavy, black leather-hooded coat. He put it on, zipped it up to his throat and threw up the hood. He returned to his place glaring round at the others. They were all staring at him.

  ‘My lucky c … c … coat.’ He bent down and, lifting one of the legs of his satinny, white, Nike track bottoms, he dug into a fluffy, white, Nike sock. He pulled out a bundle of high denomination notes and tossed them into the middle of the table. Boo let out another low whistle, whiplashing his big, rusty index finger on to the finger next to it. A loud whhap! cracked around the room.

  ‘Get-the-fuck-outta-here-nigger!’

  ‘You’d better check those notes for cobwebs,’ Dipak laughed. Yes, big fun for everyone who wasn’t still in the hand.

  Stammer fixed Dipak with a glare that silenced his laughter. He then turned to Sammy.

  ‘M … m … make your m … m … move!’ H looked at Sammy and could tell that yet another shot of adrenaline had just kicked in. His sixty-eight-year-old nicotine stained fingers were trembling.

  ‘Please, Stammer! Please! Please! I’m thinking!’ No amount of politeness could hide the effects of what was suddenly coursing through Sammy’s body. H could see it and so could a now smiling Stammer. For a joke Stammer pretended to lean over and look at Sammy’s cards. Sammy snatched them away.

  ‘Fuck off!’ Stammer fucked off with a laugh. And now that he was no longer in the hand, Boo was also up for some fun.

  ‘Take him, Sammy, this is your house, man, this is your pot …’

  While all eyes turned back to Sammy, Blackie cracked the knuckles of hands that had surprisingly well-manicured nails. H remained impassive. By his calculations he had a good, a reasonable chance of winning this hand and if he did it would be his biggest win in a while. No point in blowing it now with a ‘tell’; a sign that his heart-rate had suddenly picked up and that the room was beginning to feel oppressively hot …

  Sammy suddenly stacked, flinging his cards to the middle of the table. H allowed himself to breathe an inward sigh of relief and suddenly everyone wanted to talk.

  ‘’E’s got a full ’ouse! I know it!’ Sammy was shouting now. ‘’E’s got a full fucking ’ouse! I’m telling ya!’

  H continued his blank look. It would take more than Sammy’s hysterical bleating to cause the merest flicker of emotion to register on his face.

  ‘So why did you put in your twelve hundred?!’ An urbane Ghadaffi.

  ‘B … b … because the man is a f … f … f …’

  ‘F … f … f … fuck you, Stammer!’ Sammy.

  ‘F … f … f …’ Boo slapped Stammer on the back.

  ‘Fool!’ Stammer was practically snorting with the effort of making the one word observation.

  ‘Turn over, gentlemen, please.’ Now that there were only two left in the game Shampa wanted to move things on. H flipped over his blind card. Bodies craned forward to see what he was showing. Sammy was right. A full house; two kings, three nines. The rubber necks now turned to Stammer.

  ‘Stammer? Your card?’

  Stammer did not do as he was bid. Instead, he flipped his cards face down across the table. The move was quickly followed by loud ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.

  ‘Full house takes it.’ The laughter from Sammy was now unnecessarily loud and obviously false.

  ‘Ha! I told you! I told you he had a full..!’ But Stammer was in no mood to hear that H had a full whatever.

  H shrugged, almost apologetically. Almost.

  ‘Easy, man, relax you’self, Stammer.’ Blackie had no reason yet to be concerned. H now reached forward to sweep up the cash and chips from the centre of the table. This was indeed his biggest win in some time but even though he’d won the hand he still couldn’t relax. No, that didn’t happen until he left the premises, the money safely tucked in a wallet nestling against hip or chest. Accordingly, the expression H showed the room as his hand dropped on the money and chips was blank. It remained so even after Stammer’s big hand slapped down on top of his. Only now did Blackie ease forward, ready to intervene.

  And that’s when the evening took a surprisingly violent twist. It was the moment that was to shape the rest of H’s life.

  2.

  Gavin sat in the front seat of the champagne-pink BMW with the cream leather seats and stewed. He was annoyed. He had a thumping headache, it was 3.30 in the morning and he was tired. He had just spent an unforgiving three hours at home in Purley, Surrey, enjoying the pleasures of his latest conquest, green-eyed Brenda. Now finding himself in the middle of the West End at this time of the morning was not his idea of fun. And so he sat in silence next to his Spanish driver, Emmanuel, and stewed. He could feel the two monkeys behind him staring at his back, impatiently waiting for the action to start.

  ‘Er … what’s the hold up, Gav?’ That was Eric, possibly the dimmest man Gavin had ever had the misfortune to me
et. Eric was so dim that when Gavin first met him he was sure he had premature Alzheimer’s disease. Twenty-six-year-old Eric, who still lived within one square mile of where he was born, in Brentford, West London, was just dim.

  Next to Eric sat Hodges. Hodges was all right. If you didn’t spend too much time in a confined space with him. Hodges turned the body’s natural cooling system into an art form, sweating with reckless abandon.

  These were the thoughts that ran through Gavin’s throbbing head as he cursed his ill luck while sitting in his champagne-pink BMW in the middle of the West End at 3.30 in the morning.

  ‘Gavin? What’s the..?’

  ‘Yes, I heard you! I’m thinking!’ He paused. ‘Okay. This is what we do: we go in, you leave the talking to me.’ Gavin stopped to twist round in his seat. He was trying to keep his sentences short, his instructions clear, with enough pauses between each sentence to give the meaning time to sink in. ‘I tell the Negro that’s moved in about the new realities of his lease; then I collect the rent.’ He again paused. ‘If there’s a problem at this point that’s when I would like you to make your presence felt.’ He looked Hodges and then Eric, in the eye. ‘But only if there’s a problem. I’m not expecting one.’ Hodges nodded, Eric looked blank.

  ‘What kind of problem?’ Gavin’s head began to throb a little harder.

  ‘Well, for example … if the Negro decides he doesn’t want to pay?’

  ‘Oh. That kind of problem.’ Eric smiled through broken and battered teeth.

  ‘Any more questions?’ Both Hodges and Eric were now clear on the modus operandi. ‘So let’s go.’ Gavin turned to Emmanuel. ‘I’ll see you back at the club.’ Emmanuel shrugged. The three exited the car into Broadwick Street. Emmanuel started the engine and pulled away.

  The street was quietening down now. The prancing homosexual frenzy that Gavin thought Soho had become was just a memory. The coming day would start the merry-go-round all over again but for now the area was quiet. Gavin hated homosexuals. He couldn’t understand how they had been allowed to colonise Soho the way they had. He glanced into the store for women’s underwear, Agent Provocateur. His eyes caressed the frilly, see-through knickers that barely covered the mannequin’s bottom.

  Gavin now turned into Duck Lane. He eased his head from side to side, hearing his thick neck give a pleasing crack as he approached the nondescript door. He’d left green-eyed Brenda in such a hurry he’d had no time for his usual morning stretches. After first glancing behind him to check that Eric and Hodges were there, Gavin knocked on the door.

  Moments later a thin, sleepy, anaemic-looking man in his early twenties opened up. Without a word he stood to one side, allowing Gavin, Eric and Hodges to enter.

  They swept past him and along the dimly-lit hallway. In a trundle of steps on naked floorboards, the three mounted two flights of stairs. As they approached the closed wooden door at the top, they could hear muffled voices. A red light leaked out from under the door. Gavin paused, Eric and Hodges readied themselves behind him. The pale young man who had let them in was at the top of the first flight of stairs. Through hooded eyes he observed them and the way they paused outside the door. Without a word, he turned on his heel and went back down the stairs.

  Gavin suddenly and violently kicked the door open and he, Eric and Hodges strode into the room. As they entered the room, all action froze. Now what? thought Gavin as he surveyed the room. Typical, I’ve got two large Negroes, each with a hand on a large pile of money. And it’s hot in here and one of them is still wearing his fancy leather hooded coat. There’s a smaller one with a scar on his head – that must be Blackie – he’s the only man standing.

  The only woman in the room was a dumpy Chinese-looking woman, staring at Gavin with dark eyes. In fact all nine people round the table were staring at him.

  The one with the scar now spoke.

  ‘Wha’ de blood clat you a deal wid! A come in my yard and kick off de door!’

  Gavin ignored the outburst, walking slowly round the table. Eric and Hodges stayed by the door, feet spread, hands hanging loosely by their sides. They bristled with aggression. All eyes followed Gavin as he made his way round the table.

  ‘My name is Gavin.’ As he walked he passed the only window in the room; between the cheap curtains he caught a glimpse of his reflection. He paused and rocked back on his heels to take another look. He looked good. His strawberry blonde hair was beginning to thin, but it didn’t show. Gavin walked on.

  ‘I’m here on behalf of my business associate, who I’m sure you’ve all heard of. White Alan.’

  ‘But wait! You a step in my yard ana chat ’bout …!’

  ‘Quiet!’ The authority in Gavin’s voice forced Blackie to silence. ‘White Alan would like you to know that since you’ve moved into the area – without a word of permission from him – you’re likely to need his protection. There are some big, nasty people out there, with big, nasty guns.’ Gavin looked meaningfully at Eric and Hodges. Eric caught the look and unzipped the bomber jacket he wore. Tucked into the waistband of his jeans was a German-built, heavy-looking Mauser Parabellum with a three-inch barrel. The move naturally attracted the eyes of those around the table. Gavin knew he had the attention of the room now. The two Negroes who had their hands on the money in the middle of the table slowly leant back in their seats.

  ‘We don’t want no trouble in here, my friend.’ Blackie’s tone was now much less belligerent.

  ‘Exactly. Neither does White Alan.’ Gavin looked down at the money lying on the table. ‘To make sure that this … establishment has a long and prosperous history, all he wants is three thousand pounds. Every week.’

  ‘You fuckin’ jokin’, man!’ Blackie’s eyes narrowed, his lips poked out, he looked like an angry gargoyle.

  Eric and Hodges stepped forward but Gavin raised a hand to stop them. He knew his tailored blazer emphasized his strong, well-built shoulders, hiding the spreading girth that he spent hours trying to keep in check on the Stairmaster. He not only towered over Blackie, he was probably twice as heavy.

  ‘What did you say?’ Gavin stared coldly down at the black man. Blackie didn’t flinch but he didn’t say anything either. Gavin and Blackie eyeballed each other for a good thirty seconds. When it was clear to Gavin that Blackie was neither going to say or do anything he turned to Hodges.

  ‘Count up this money. Take out three thousand pounds and let’s go.’ He pointed to the cash on the table.

  Hodges, a sheen of sweat now clearly visible on his forehead, nose and upper lip, stepped forward and began to pick out the cash amongst the chips. Gavin, meanwhile, continued on his way, walking slowly round the room.

  ‘This money doesn’t belong to the house.’ Gavin glanced around at the gambler who spoke.

  ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ Gavin dismissed the intervention and turned back to examine his reflection in the window. The thought struck him that he looked damned good for 49. Not that anyone knew that was his age. As far as White Alan and green-eyed Brenda were concerned he was 39.

  ‘This money belongs to me. I just won it.’

  ‘Tough luck!’

  Gavin didn’t even bother to turn round this time. Thus it was that behind his back, one of the black guys took Hodges completely by surprise when he swept his hand off the money and punched him smack in the middle of the face. As Gavin now whipped round to the commotion unfolding behind him he saw Hodges stagger back across the room, the loud crack that accompanied the blow indicating that Hodges’s nose was broken. Eric yanked his gun out from his waistband, flicked the security catch and aimed it. Everybody immediately scattered, ducking down or hitting the floor. As Eric fired, the black gambler dived behind an elderly Asian man who caught the bullet in his stomach. At the sudden deafening blast of the Mauser everyone froze. The Asian man dropped, screaming, blood ballooning beneath the ratty, yellow cardigan he was wearing.

  Gavin couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The Asian man continued to screa
m and the room now suddenly came alive. A number of the gamblers around the table scrambled to their feet and headed for the door; Eric, apparently in a state of shock, made no move to stop them. He just stood there, looking at the writhing man on the floor, the gun hanging limply in his hand. Hodges, who had been leaning up against the wall holding his face in his hands as they pooled with blood, now gave an enraged yell. He charged at the guy who had punched him. Gavin continued to stare. This wasn’t supposed to be happening! The black man was big, but surprising nimble on his feet. As Hodges charged at him, he stepped back to give himself room, used his arms to spread Hodges’ outstretched arms and then used Hodges’ forward momentum to head butt him in the face. Gavin winced sharply as Hodges staggered back, tripped and banged his head on the wall as he hit the floor. He rolled on to his side and stayed there, dazed. Meanwhile Eric now came alive and again raised his arm to aim the gun. But this time Blackie was too quick. He slapped Eric’s arm away, knocking the gun sliding across the floor. He grabbed him round the neck, yanking him down to his waist. Eric struggled in the headlock for a while but red in the face and with saliva drooling from his mouth, he soon gave up. It was all over in a flash.

  Gavin looked at Blackie, then looked at the man who had done for Hodges. Apart from those two, only the Chinese woman, the wounded man whimpering and gurgling on the floor, and an old white man remained in the room. Gavin turned back to Blackie.

  ‘This doesn’t change anything, you know. You’re still going to have to pay.’ He slowly and carefully approached Blackie. He gently eased aside the arm locked around Eric’s head. The relaxation of pressure allowed Eric to choke and splutter as air was suddenly released back into his windpipe. While he did this, the other black guy who had dealt with Hodges went over to the discarded Mauser Parabellum and picked it up. He didn’t aim it at anyone, holding it in his hand openly for Gavin to see. Moving with as much authority as he could muster in a situation that had clearly veered wildly out of his control, Gavin went to the fallen Hodges and helped him to his feet. The three of them headed for the door. First Eric, then Hodges went out. Just before Gavin left he turned back to the black with the gun, staring at him.