Mountains of the Moon (28 page)

“Sorry it’s worked out this way,” Heath says. “It’s just there’s a spark between Gwen and me and we kind of got it together while you were out.”

“What a state,” Gwen says. “Where have you been? You’ve got mud on your face. You’ve missed out on crumpets.”

“I don’t know that
crumpet
is the appropriate word given all the circumstances,” Heath laughs like a bastard.

“You.” Gwen slaps him.

They look at me. They look at each other. Gwen lights a cigarette, flaps the smoke way.

“Why are you such a wreck?” she says. “You’ve got leaves in your hair, fucking bluebells, whatever is going on with your lip?”

I dab with my tongue on my canine tooth, bitter taste of bluebell sap. Watch them both get taken aback. I lap at my swollen lump of lip where an Oak Tree bit and we made savage sound and fed off each other.

“Suits her, doesn’t it?” Heath’s hands open in his lap. “I did enjoy it, though; I want you to know that. You really are a great girl.”

“Maybe if she put on some weight?”

“God, no,” Heath says. “Her physique is beautiful; believe me, there isn’t anything wrong with her body.”

“What are we going to do with her?”

“Cheer her up.”

“I’m off to work,” I say.

“Well, wait for half an hour and I’ll give you a lift,” Gwen says. “I’m on a day shift as well.”

“I’m happy to walk,” I say.

“Suit yourself,” she says to me. “Oh dear,” she says to Heath.

Can hardly carry the false eyelashes; my eyelids limp. I scrub peat out from under my nails at the sink and swallow a handful of Pro Plus. Then go out to perform the afternoon matinee. Memorize my lines and move as directed. Gwen is on reception, taking the old Greek’s coat. I was sure she would phone in sick, half of the afternoon shift has.

Darren sees who he’s got.

“Blackjack Table 2, please,” he says to me.

Wissy is on Blackjack Table 1 sides me. We wait for Mrs. Herrington to climb up on her perch. It’s agony to watch, the pencil skirt don’t help or the eight-inch spikes she’s got for heels.

“Are you a bit of a tippler, Mrs. Herrington?” I say, but it’s just my magination.

Her name’s Barbara but everyone calls her Mrs. Herrington cos she’s virtually a God, with a black suit and a blonde bob. Spider’s eyelashes. Black widow. Normally she comes over to make me stupid and clumsy but today I int got any nerves left for her to play on.

“Afternoon, Babs,” I say.

She turns to see my empty hands fluttering. She sucks at the air like a night-feeding fish, casino suck; the sound brings a God and Darren over to witness the opening of the table.

“Are you OK?” Darren says.

“Whiplash, bit my lip,” I lies.

The other God brings the cards from the safe in the cash desk and slings the four packs on my table.

“Thank you.”

I peel the cellophane seal from the first pack, the cards are newborn slippery, you have to hold them firm and square. And yourself. I fan the deck flat on the table sweeping from left to right. Spades then hearts come pouring out and clubs and the diamonds wink one behind the other. I flourish the fan at the end with a flick on the diamond ace. And the joker stands to one side. The second deck comes below it, sweeps back the
other way. The joker stands to one side. For the third deck the arc is closer to me, tighter, but it lays down for me fluid and flawless, and the fourth, they hold their breath but mine sighs smooth to the end, put that in your pipe and smoke it, Barbara, I think.

Makes Darren smile.

“I’m glad we’ve got that on camera,” says the God in the shadow.

I look up at her.

“Check,” she says cos she has to. “Where’s your other earring?”

“I’ve only got the one,” I say.

“Well, you can’t wear just one,” she says, “take it out.”

I feel for the butterfly.

“Not here, you stupid girl, do it when you go on a break.”

I close my eyes; suck in a wash of bluebells ringing. Darren unlocks the cash-chip tray in front of me and the table is officially open.

The old Greek sauntering around dismisses Wissy with a smile and comes to my table. He raps three times on the baize with his knuckle, OK’s the four full decks and my handiwork. I flip the two furthest fans and watch the cards turn over, running the arc, passing each other midway. I do the same with the two nearest fans so all the cards are face down then blend and stir them all together, for three-point-five minutes.

Or til Mrs. Herrington says stop.

The old Greek is patient with her. When she says so, I gather the cards in, square the four decks into a block, then rifle through the shuffling procedures. I slide the red plastic cutting card to the old Greek and he cuts the block a viable quarter. While I settle the block into the shoe, he slips a crisp twenty from his wallet.

“Buying in—twenty pounds,” I say.

“Check.”

“Eleven—double or card? Eleven doubles one card only. Thirteen. Blackjack. Nineteen. Nineteen stands. Thirteen. Card. Fifteen. Card. New shoe. Twenty-five bust. Eighteen or split nines, splitting nines, one card only. Sixteen. Eighteen.” The words ring mental in my mind. “Twenty-one. Blackjack pays two to three.”

“Check.”

“New shoe.” I prepare to reshuffle. Someone taps me on the left shoulder. Squid.

“New dealer,” I say to the microphone.

I show my empty hands to Barbara and the mellow old Greek, and stepping backward, bow out.

I didn’t notice but Roulette Table 2 has got a crowd around it. I has to squeeze through it to get out on my break. The staffroom is full of smoke but no actual people; the extractor fan is sucking so hard my uniform pulls out from my body. I go into the changing room, walk light through the scene with the blue flowers and into a toilet cubicle. Rub the crown of my head on silver birch and woodland floor, on the back of the toilet door, tasting gain the blood on my lip where he bit and we lapped it up. Bluebells snap. Someone coming; the changing-room door swings open.

“…even think she’s all that attractive. Hook nose, un it? Blobby. On her chin. On the tops of her legs. Pigeon-chested. She is though, un it?”

Moonface. The other one coughs on hairspray, think it’s Dorit the waitress.

“Apparently she likes it up the arse,” she says, smacking her lippy. “And now they all want a go.”

I wait, case she gets shamed, talking about my treacherous ex-best friend like that.

“I’d better go out—give us a dab,” Moonface says. “R2 is down ten grand, you should see the crowd around Mr. Abdullah now. Darren’s doing his tank.”

The changing-room door swings twice. Gone. Someone else comes in humming. It’s Lois, can smell her Amarige perfume. She does a double take.

“What a transformation! When they designed these uniforms they had you in mind. Who did your hair—pinned up like this? It’s beautiful!”

“No,” I say. “It’s just a hairpiece.”

“Are you enjoying it?” She hitches up the leg of her tights.

“This is only my second shift, just small games.”

“It’s mental out there now; R2 is down twenty-two thousand. Aw fuck it! Now I torn them.”

“Sorry,” I say.

I look in the mirror, bluebells fill half of my vision. Mrs. Herrington, I think, my one earring. I feel for the butterfly. My diamond drops in the sink, my diamond flashes, bounces, dribbles on the rim, disappears down the plughole.

“I’m having a boob job on Friday,” Lois says.

I’m under the sink. The plastic U-bend fitting won’t unscrew.

“Twins,” Lois says, “36 double D.”

I kick the fitting.

“I thought 36 double D but now I’m not so sure.”

I wrench the pipe off the wall, off the sink; smash the U-bend fucker to bits with my heel.

“My husband wanted 40 double D. I’m not so sure.”

My diamond winks pleased to see me; I free it from limescale and hairball. I think of where to put it safe. I look at my coat. So black and splashed with bluebell sap. No one will take it, it’s
my
coat. I feel for the tiny hole in the pocket and poke the diamond earring through; it drops inside the shantung lining.

“Had best go back out, Lois,” I says.

Everyone is around Roulette 2. Everyone cept three dealers standing at empty tables, looking to see me coming back and if it’s them next for a break. As I pass through the crowd, the ball drops. Crowd roars, stands up, cheers, throws arms and beer mats up in the air and whistles. Someone picks me up and puts me down, people is even standing up on stools to see. Any minute Mr. Abdullah could leave and would want to take his winnings in cash. I see the cash desk is full of Quentin and sombre Gods preparing. Course Mr. Abdullah could take a casino cheque but it wouldn’t be as satisfying as an empty vault and a Securicor van parked out the front.

All of the Gods has come down, standing in shadow at the head of the wheel. I report back from break. Darren takes my elbow and leads me
off, to the far side of the Pit where the lights and microphones int switched on til the evening crew comes in. Wonder if I done a mistake. Don’t think so. Hearts bashing. I int got the stomach for another wrongdoing.

“I want you to go on R2.” Darren gets drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

Good joke.

“I don’t want you to go in unprepared.” He int joking.

We turn to look over at the crowd. Darren leans into my ear.

“The effervescent Mr. Crow, in the jeans and the red and green leather jacket, see him?”

“Number 9?” I say.

“He’s a thief—but he’s stealing from Mr. Abdullah not us. Now is not the time to challenge him if you see a sleight of hand. Quite a character Heath Crow. I would ban him but he’s so much fun he’s actually good for business. The table is down sixty-three thousand pounds.” Darren’s eyes wobble on the impossibility of it.

This isn’t meant to happen, especial not on a Monday afternoon.

“The ball keeps dropping in the Tier section of the wheel,” he says.

In theory it can’t happen.

“We’ve changed dealer three times, I wouldn’t put you in there Duchess, if I didn’t know how lucky you are. Don’t be intimidated by the sums of money. Don’t hang about. Your commentary needs to be loud and clear.”

Uh-huh.

Crowd roars. Gods watch me pass from dark to light. I tap the dealer on the satin shoulder. The crowd jeers and hisses, case changing the dealer breaks the spell. Mr. Abdullah himself don’t seem to mind. He’s so lucky today there int nothing on earth can touch him.

“Paying: seven thousand nine hundred and forty-three?” The dealer’s voice is so tight it squeaks.

“Check,” says the Camp Inspector.

“Check,” says Mrs. Herrington.

“Check,” says a God in the dark.

I stand to one side while the dealer prepares the payout. He can’t leave
the table til he’s done it. The chip-sorting machine is choking on the overload gone down it so I make myself useful and unjam it. Put stacks handy for the dealer to move. He’s in a terrible mess.

“Wheel,” I whisper to him.

He leans over just in time and saves it from an illegal standstill. A God comes from the cash desk with a briefcase full of cash-chips to top the table up. The payout is finally prepared and spread out and right, I reckon.

“Seven thousand nine hundred and forty-three.” The dealer still sounds unsure.

“Check.”

“Check.”

“Check,” Mrs. Herrington says but her eyes don’t quite tally.

Takes nine journeys cross the table to get all the winnings over there. The dealer is shaking so badly stacks keep collapsing on the way. Looks like he’s going to faint.

“New dealer.” He shows his empty hands and steps back to let me in.

It’s my table now and I don’t give a fuck. I hold my empty hands up for everybody to see.

“Good afternoon. Gentlemen,” I say for irony. “Place your bets please.”

Mr. Abdullah can’t get the chips on the layout quick enough or high enough, he gets those in the front line to help him. I see Heath’s cuffs and broken knuckles helping to straighten the towering chips. He takes a few chips off the top for his pocket. I pick the ball up and flick it.

“Place your bets please,” I say a second time so they know that the ball is spinning.

Heath is as loud as hell, whooping it up, running a commentary.
Tier section on the layout looks like a dinosaur’s backbone.
He int wrong. The ball changes key.

“No more bets,” I say. “That’s all now, thank you.”

Mr. Abdullah is well behaved and sits down and the crowd takes back all of its arms. Everyone is holding breath. Gods must look but can’t. Ball drops. Pings. Clatters.

Every light in the world goes out.

“Game void!”

“Game void!” Gods shout out in absolute darkness.

There int even a sliver of daylight in this place, all of us is so blind we could be down a mine. I know in the darkness fingers is squirrelling chips off the layout, searching out the cash. The crowd is mental, yelling objections.
Bang
. A gun goes off. Mirror explodes. I drop down and under the table.

Silence says
anything breathes I’ll kill it.

Somebody is moving. A paler shade of black in blackness. Other hearts machine-gun around me, all cowering down under Roulette 2.