'Might as well put the cunt to the floor, like.'
I don't turn around. They speak like a certain copper I know, but they've got the greasy sadism of a couple of bouncers. If I didn't get the point before, it's soon hammered home.
I told him, I said to him, nae fuckin' students.’
‘Cunts think they're special.’
‘Not too special to avoid a slap.'
We get to the casino, and I hang back as the bouncers head straight for the guys on the door. It's all backslaps and missing-tooth grins. I slip past, unnoticed. Into the reception and I get caught up in a gang of young guys and girls who think this place is a proper hoot. One guy with spiky hair and oily skin is trying to sign them all in. Another guy sorts out the memberships while the girls giggle to themselves. The musk of aftershave is overpowering; before I know it, my eyes are watering.
I hand over my membership card. The receptionist gives it a quick once-over and buzzes me in. When I step into the casino, it's like the place has been transformed. Blue-and- white lights fill the place. The Friday night crowd are out in force. The hum of conversation, the clatter of balls hitting roulette wheels, excitement in the air. The brand new, hip and happening gambling experience. It's a far cry from
Tiernan's club, but then that's probably the point. This is the new school.
George is still behind the bar. I catch his eye and walk over. He nods towards a guy, tall and reedy, playing roulette. I can only see him from the back, but his hair is speckled grey.
I stop, find a seat at the edge of the pit. A valet crosses in front of me, asks if I want a drink. I order a coffee. When it comes back, it tastes like someone shat in it. And judging from the look I get when I don't tip the valet, they probably wished they had.
The guy at the roulette table, he's hunched over the layout, his hands a blur. He has a dealer's reflexes, and a punter's mixture of bad luck and worse temper. When the dealer calls out a number, he falls back from the table like someone punched him in the face. When he's watching for the spin to stop, he plays with his chips, clipping them over each other. It's a nervous action, and one that gives him away as an ex- croup.
He turns his head and I get a look at his face. Too many wrinkles, a sign of stressful living. I'm starting to see the same lines on my face these days.
I finish the coffee and make my way up to the bar. George needs to be paid. And I need a good place to watch Rob Stokes in action.
THIRTY
'You got a room?' I said to the receptionist at the Premier Inn. I tried to be nice and cool about it, but me heart were skipping all over the shop. Tracked the fucker down. Once Rossie managed to work out that he had to stay out of sight, he got the whole tailing thing sorted. Saw Innes come back across the bridge. And we had a wander about. And there were Innes' Micra in the Premier Inn carpark. 'Sorry, sir. We're full.'
She were lying. And that weren't nice. But then I looked at Baz and took her side. Baz were standing by the door looking like he were after summat to nick.
'Westlife,' I said.
'Sorry?'
'Westlife're playing, am I right?’
‘At the Arena, yeah,' she said. 'You like Westlife?' She smiled. 'Not really.’
‘Nah, you're too old for them.' She just kept smiling. 'And she's too old for you,' said Baz. 'Leave it,' I said. Then, to the receptionist: 'Ta for your time, love.'
Breath of fresh air outside. I nudged Baz for a ciggie and he handed one over. I lit it and stood looking at the hotel.
'I told you, Mo,' said Baz. 'I ain't sleeping in the back of that van. It stinks.'
'You fuckin' stink,' I said. 'And nah, we ain't kipping down in the back of the van. We ain't kipping down anywhere. We're going to wait until Innes shows his face and then we're going to scare the fucker off.'
'What's the point in that?' said Rossie.
'It'll make me feel better,' I said. 'What the fuck d'you think the point is? We scare him off, we can go looking for Stokes ourselves.'
'You think we can scare him off?' said Baz.
'If there's one thing I know about Innes it's that he's a fuckin' bottler. And he don't want to be doing this anyway. So all we're gonna do is give him an excuse to get the fuck out of Dodge, know what I mean?'
I grabbed the pair of them and pushed 'em back towards the van.
THIRTY-ONE
I stay away from the hard stuff, maintain a buzz with the watered-down Kronenburg the place has on tap. George busies himself with other punters. A guy at the end of the bar has his flies open, but nobody seems to have told him. He watches a plasma screen above the bar. Sky Sports is on, a wealth of stats and breaking news sailing across the bottom of the screen. He's transfixed, until something breaks the mood and he scribbles on a napkin.
At about nine, the music kicks up in volume. What was Dionne Warwick and Kenny Rogers slips into The Who and David Bowie. Right now, Bowie's singing 'Heroes'. It's an odd choice, considering the clientele. They're young and stupid enough to think the song's from a mobile phone advert.
Stokes is at the same table as before, but the dealer's changed twice since I came in. I've watched him rake in a couple of decent wins, but it means nothing in the long run. Any winnings go right back onto the layout. He's tapping his knuckles against the edge of table. The woman next to him resembles a tanned skeleton. She looks down at the sound, her face creasing up like a cat's arse. Then she realises she has to get some chips down before the balls stops and panics, shoves a couple of reds onto a column.
The dealer rakes them in. She looks fit to spit.
I order another pint, a Coke to go with it, just to keep me alert. 'How long are your shifts, George?'
'What d'you mean?'
'It just struck me, you were in this afternoon. How many hours do you work?'
'I'm on a double,' he says. 'I'm stuck here till the bar closes.'
'When's that?'
'Two.'
'Right. That's harsh.'
'Tell me about it. It's the only way to make decent money, though.'
'How long does Stokes usually stay?'
'Until he's pissed away his cash, Mr Innes.'
It doesn't look like I'll have too long to wait. A quick glance at the roulette table, and I can see Stokes is short-stacked already. His back is all knotted up, giving him a stoop and a concentrated look. One more spin, and that look becomes desperate. He sticks the last of his stack on an outside bet.
True to form, it doesn't come in.
'Fuckin' bastard,' he says. Loud enough for everyone to hear. I take a drink from my pint. He'll be popular with the dealers in here, no doubt about it. That kind of showboating marks him out, especially on a night where most of the punters aren't taking the games too seriously. And for a guy on the run with someone else's money, he's suspiciously high profile.
But then, he's a gambler. And from what I know about Stokes already, he's stupid and arrogant enough to think he's invincible. Suddenly the idea of letting Mo off his leash doesn't sound too bad at all.
I stifle a belch as Stokes pulls himself away from the table, and storms out of the pit.
Straight for me.
I turn away, try to be cool about it. He looks too wound-up to pay me any attention, but I pretend to fade into the cigarette smoke anyway. He pulls out his wallet and I get a glimpse of enough cash to make my tongue feel thick in my mouth. I take a sip of my pint and watch the plasma screen.
Stokes sucks his teeth and slaps a fiver on the bar. 'Georgie, I'm having a shitty night.'
'Sorry to hear that, Mr Stokes.'
I catch a twitch in George's face, see him glance at me. 'I'll have the usual,' says Stokes.