The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [92]
I stare at it. “It just sort of slipped into my hand.”
“Heh. You come over to the bar and we’ll get you a real man’s drink. One that doesn’t taste like drain cleaner.” He turns and heads for the bar in complete certainty that I’ll follow him, so I do. The bastard knows I need to know what he knows and he knows I can’t say no. He leans on the bar and announces: “Two double tequila slammers on the rocks.” Then he turns to me and raises an eyebrow. “You’re wondering what I do here, aren’t you?”
“Um.” Well, yes.
He must take it as agreement, because he nods encouragingly. “Ellis Billington’s a big guy, you’ve got to know that. Big guys tend to pick up parasites. That’s nothing new. Trouble is, what Ellis picks up is a different class of blood-sucker. See, you know who his company subcontracts for: this makes him a target for people who don’t want just his money, they want a piece of him. So he hires specialist talent to keep them at arm’s reach. Mostly ex-employees of you-know-who, plus a few freelancers.” He taps his chest. The bartender sets two glasses down in front of us; crystals frost their edges and they’re full of a colorless, slightly oily liquid, along with a slice of lemon. “C’mon. Back to the table, bring your glass. Let’s play a round.”
“But I don’t gamble—” I begin, and he stops dead.
“You’ll gamble and like it, son. Or Ellis Billington ain’t going to make time for you.”
Huh? I blink. The brown envelope labeled EXPENSES feels extremely hot and as heavy as a gold brick in my breast pocket. “Why?”
“Could be that he don’t approve of limp-dicked limeys,” McMurray mugs. “Or could be it’s all part of the script. Besides, you’ll enjoy it, you know you will. Go on, over to the cashier. Get yourself chipped up.”
Moments later I’m swapping the contents of the envelope for a pile of plastic counters. Black, red, white: six months’ salary gone to plastic. My mind’s spinning like a hamster wheel. This isn’t in the script I’m working from, either the gambling or McMurray’s stark ultimatum. But it’s all running on rails, and there’s no way to get off this train without blowing the timetable. So I follow McMurray over to the table, trying to figure out the odds. House cards: nil. That’s four in fourteen of anything I draw. Then it’s modular arithmetic down to the wire, the sort of thing I could do in my head if it was in hexadecimal. Alas, playing cards pre-dates hex and I’ve just sunk four shots of expensive gin and I’m not sure I can build a lookup table in my head fast enough to be of any use.
I sit down. The old toad with the cigar nods at us. “I bought the bank,” he announces. “Place your bets. Opening at five thousand.” The croupier next to him holds up the shoe and six sealed packs of cards. Four elderly vultures in frocks giggle and hunch at one end of the kidney-shaped table and two guys in DJs and big moustaches sit at the other end. McMurray and I end up in the middle opposite the old toad. A couple more gamblers take their seats—a woman with skin the color of milk chocolate and the complexion of a supermodel, and a guy in a white suit, open-necked shirt, and more bling than the Bank of England. “Opening at five thousand,” repeats the banker.
Without willing my hands to move, I slide a handful of chips forwards. McMurray does likewise. The cards go into the mechanical shuffler in front of us, then two of the vultures squabble for the privilege of cutting them before they end up in the brass and wood shoe. My fingertips and nasal sinuses are itching: I actually want a cigarette, even though I don’t smoke. There’s a hollow sense of dreadful anticipation in the pit of my stomach as the toad positions the shoe in front of himself and then flicks out cards, facedown, one towards each of us. Then he repeats the deal. A second card lands in front of me, half on top of the first. I sneak a look at the cards. Six of hearts, five of clubs. Shit. Around me everyone else is turning their cards. I lay mine down face-up and watch