Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [14]
Desmond McCain. It had to be him. Alex would have known it even if he hadn’t been the only black man in the room. McCain was lolling back in his chair in front of a great window that had the effect of framing him, putting him at the center of the picture. Almost despite himself, Alex moved forward to get a closer look. He had been thinking about McCain only a few minutes ago. It couldn’t hurt to see what the laird of Kilmore Castle was really like.
McCain was gathering up his cards, which almost disappeared in his oversized hands. He was a huge man with an extraordinary presence that somehow drew Alex to him. He was completely bald, with a round, polished head that had surely never seen a single hair. His eyes were a strange shade of gray—they were dark yet alight with electricity—and his smile was quite simply dazzling. Like everyone else, he was dressed in black tie, but unlike so many of the others, he looked completely comfortable, as if he always dressed this way.
He picked up a glass of whisky, which he drank as if it were a cocktail, using a straw at the side of his mouth, and Alex remembered what Edward Pleasure had told him about the boxing injury. It was true. The man he was looking at had received a blow that had permanently dislocated his jaw. Worse than that, it had been put back together in such a way that it no longer fit properly. It was as if someone had taken a photograph of his head, cut it horizontally in half, and then reattached the two pieces a few millimeters apart. His eyes and nose were no longer exactly over his mouth.
And there was something else. McCain said something, turned his head, and laughed a second time. That was when Alex saw it. He was wearing a silver crucifix, not around his neck but on his ear. It was less than a centimeter high, pinned into the lobe. The jewelry was quite striking set against the intense, dark skin. This was a man who wore his faith openly, who dared you to argue against it.
Alex drew closer. The six of them had been playing a version of poker—Texas Hold ’Em—in which five cards turned faceup are used by everyone at the table. And the stakes couldn’t have been higher. Alex saw this at once from the number of different-colored chips spilling over the table—each one marked $50, $100, even $500. Each chip had been bought at its face value. The casino was using real money. Alex could feel the tension in the air. A scattering of cards, a few minutes’ playing time, and thousands of dollars could be changing hands. At the moment, McCain was clearly in the lead.
There was a whole mountain of chips stacked up in front of him, and only one of the players—a man with a shock of silver hair and a thick, fleshy face—came anywhere close.
McCain looked up and noticed Alex. At once the smile was there, drawing him in, making him feel that the two of them had known each other for years.
“Good evening,” he boomed. “Welcome to the Kilmore Casino. You’re frankly a little young to be gambling, I’d have said. What’s your name?”
“Alex. Alex Rider.”
“And I’m Desmond McCain. We’re just about to play the last hand. Why don’t you join us? It’s all for a good cause, so I think we can turn a blind eye to the age limit.” He gestured at the seat that had just been vacated. Alex could already hear that his broken jaw made it difficult for him to speak. Words beginning with f or r came out slightly blurred. “The cards have been quite interesting this evening. Let’s see if they have anything more to say before midnight.”
Alex knew he was making a mistake. He was meant to be looking for Edward Pleasure. He had agreed with Sabina. They