nearby Gents’ toilet, and Leon caught a whiff of disinfectant and stale urine. He turned his face to the wall and lowered his voice.
‘Just stick with her. I want to know everything she does. But don’t get too close. Blow your cover, and the deal’s off.’
He disconnected the call and moved over to a door marked private. He stood in front of it, rubbing his hands along his trouser legs. Then he eased open the door and stepped inside.
The room was the size of a prison cell and just about as well decorated. Light from a single overhead bulb bleached the walls and carpet of any colour. The door closed behind him with a thunk, blocking out all sound as though he’d been sucked into a vacuum. He stepped over to the green baize table where four other people were seated.
‘Come on, Leon, are you in or what?’ The dealer scowled at him, his sun-damaged skin corrugated with wrinkles. His name was Mattie, and Leon heard he spent most of his life crewing other people’s yachts in the Mediterranean. The rest of the time he played poker.
Leon nodded and resumed his seat on Mattie’s right. He slumped in the chair and closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose. The only sound was the slick-slick of the cards being dealt.
He hadn’t expected the girl’s apartment to be clean. There had to be a record of the money somewhere. Where the hell was she hiding it?
Mattie slapped the deck on the table beside him. Leon straightened up and tried to concentrate on the game. Being distracted was no way to play high-stakes poker.
They were playing no-limit Texas Hold ’Em. Each player was dealt two cards face down, which he had to combine with five communal cards to make a poker hand. Usually it was Leon’s favourite game, every betting round another opportunity to coax money out of some loser’s pocket. But tonight it felt as though he was the loser. And if he didn’t win the next hand, he was fucked.
He slid his two cards towards him, lining up their edges, one on top of the other. He peeked at the bottom card. King of spades. He glanced around the table but no one was paying him any attention. He squeezed the top card out from behind the first, just enough to see one corner of it. Another king. His heartbeat broke into a little canter and he worked hard not to let it show.
The player on Leon’s right tossed a handful of chips into the centre of the table. ‘Raise a grand.’
Leon threw him a sharp look. The guy was built like a professional wrestler, with grey hair scraped back into a ponytail that reached halfway down his back. His face was unreadable.
Leon made a show of playing with his chips, but he didn’t stall for long. With kings back to back in the hole, he intended to hit them hard. ‘Yours plus another thousand.’
Mattie shook his head and flung his cards on the table. The old bald guy to his left consulted his hole cards and consigned them to the muck along with Mattie’s.
Next up was Adele, the only woman at the table. Leon had played with her before. Blonde and in her forties, she always dressed in a smart business suit and played a tight game. She studied Leon’s face for a moment and called his raise.
Leon waited for the Wrestler to decide if he was in or out. What the hell did he have? Leon was in no mood to work it out. Sal Martinez could have done the maths in an instant, but that kind of stuff made Leon’s head hurt. All he knew was the pot was now over eight thousand euros, and he needed to win it badly.
It didn’t help that he was playing almost entirely with his clients’ money. A couple of businesses whose accounts he’d audited had sent him cheques for owed income tax, cheques that Leon was supposed to submit to the Revenue Commissioners. Somehow the money had made an unplanned pit-stop in his own pocket. Just for a few days.
The Wrestler’s chips clattered into the centre of the table. ‘Call.’
Leon took a deep breath and flexed his shoulders. He could hear the bones cracking at the base of his neck. Mattie flicked the three flop cards face up on the table, the first of the five communal cards. A king, a three and a five, all different suits. Electricity surged through Leon’s veins. Now he had three kings.
Adele checked, and didn’t look happy about it. The Wrestler was up next. With hands the size of baseball gloves, he grabbed a fistful of chips and raised by two thousand euros.
Leon examined the other man’s face. The features were immobile, all apart from a tiny pulse in one eyelid that jumped like a sand flea. It was all Leon needed. He knew that at best the guy was holding a three and a five, giving him two pair. It didn’t beat trip kings.
There were two more cards to come. Should he call or risk another raise? Play the man, not the cards, Martinez would’ve said. But then Martinez was a pretty loose player. Leon had seen him win half a million in a single pot, only to lose it minutes later on a bluff with a pair of threes.
Fuck it, self-confidence was half the game. Leon raised another three grand.
Adele chucked her cards on the table and settled in to watch the rest of the hand. The Wrestler took his time. He riffled his chips, separating them into tall stacks and then splicing them back together with a flick of his jumbo-sized fingers.
‘Call,’ he said finally, challenging Leon with a long stare. ‘Just you and me now.’
Leon didn’t like the smug look on his face. By now there was nearly twenty thousand euros in the pot, and eight thousand of it belonged to him. Or more precisely, to his clients.
Leon’s stomach curdled. Christ. Reduced to pilfering funds from lousy shopkeepers. What the fuck happened? Nine years ago he was making millions, trading on nuggets of inside information. Between them, he and the rest of the trading ring had made over twenty-five million euros in a single year. Sweet deals, every one of them. Until the Sorohan deal, of course. That fucking Martinez.
He took a deep breath, trying to focus on the game. He still hadn’t shaved and he could smell the sourness of his own body. Time for the turn, the fourth communal card. Mattie flipped it over on the table. Another five. Leon sat still. The table now showed a king, a three and two fives. It gave Leon a full house of kings and fives.
The Wrestler pushed a stack of chips into the pot. ‘Five thousand.’
Leon saw the tightening around the other man’s mouth and knew he was still ahead. The Wrestler could be making trip fives, maybe filling a house with threes, but not much else. He called.
Now for the river, the fifth and final card. Leon watched as Mattie rolled a five.
Shit. Now there were three fives on the table. He searched the Wrestler’s face, looking for tells. Could he possibly be holding the last five?
The Wrestler’s forehead glistened in the overhead light. He looked like a melting waxwork. He shoved out the biggest stack yet. Six thousand euros. The middle of the table was beginning to look like a model tower-block city.
Leon gazed at the pot. There was now over thirty-five thousand in there. He almost whimpered out loud. He knew that the thirteen thousand he had contributed was no longer his. It belonged to the pot, and to defend it with more of his own money would be downright stupid. The wise man would fold and walk away.
Leon scooped up his last remaining chips and piled them high in the pot. ‘Call.’
He locked eyes with the Wrestler. Time to reveal their hole cards. The Wrestler went first. Almost in slow motion, he turned over his top card. The three of clubs. So far, that just gave him a house of fives and threes. Leon’s back was drenched in sweat. He stared, transfixed by the second card. The Wrestler rolled it over. The five of diamonds. The only card in the deck that could beat him.
Leon sank back into his chair. Four unbeatable fucking fives. Nausea roiled like an eel in his stomach. His head started to pound, and his vision turned blurry at the edges. That fucking Martinez prick – he’d brought him to this. He’d ruined everything. Leon ground his teeth and choked back a howl of rage. That girl of his deserved everything that was coming to her.