The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

through the bar and foyer by six well-built men with stubble on their faces and tattoos on their hands. They had all put time in at the gym and the four guests didn’t stand a chance. Normally, King wouldn’t have stood by and watched something so unjust, but he had to remind himself of the odds, and what he had on the line.

The Russian had this place sewn-up. His money was everything here. There was no touching him.

King ordered a beer when the waitress hovered over his table. She returned a few minutes later with a frosted glass, but a little too much foam on top. He didn’t complain, but nor did he tip. He drank down half the meagre glass, stood up and walked out onto the casino floor.

The casino was running at about half capacity, with croupiers on every table, but plenty of seats at the Chemin de fer table and the bank of blackjack tables. There were poker games on raised plinths, three or four people at each table, and a whole host of slot machines with thousand euro pay outs. King changed up two-hundred euros and headed to the roulette tables. He played randomly numbered odd reds for twenty spins and walked away forty euros up. He had finished his drink and went to the bar for another. It was only when he had drunk half the glass and completed his fifth spin on even blacks and lost fifty euros, that he looked up and watched Sergeyev walk from the opposite roulette table to the nearest of the six blackjack tables. There was nobody else at the table.

One of his minders carried his chips, while Sergeyev managed to carry what looked like a large scotch all by himself. He sauntered over, ignored the croupier’s greeting and tapped his finger on the table. The minder dutifully placed the considerable pile of chips beside his boss and stood back a pace. King wandered over as Sergeyev reached twenty-one and beat the house. He couldn’t help wondering whether it was luck, or if he had been dealt a softener, something to ease his mood and bolster his ego.

King pulled out a chair, put down his glass and put his meagre pile of chips next to it. The croupier glanced at the Russian, then dealt King a card when the Russian did not look up. King flicked over the card, a seven. Sergeyev got a nine. The house got a six. King’s next card was a six. The Russian got a four and the house dealt down a five. King took another seven and naturally held. Sergeyev got another nine and lost a whole lot of chips. The house got a three, then a ten. King won fifty euros. He watched the Russian’s pile go to the house. He wouldn’t have earned that much in a month, but Sergeyev already pushed another pile across, bigger than before.

“Something I can help you with?” Sergeyev said, without looking up.

King picked up his glass, drained the beer in one. “You can get me another drink,” he said. “Or one of your monkeys could get one, if they’re not too busy looking tough.”

The Russian looked at him this time, his eyes hard. But King saw the flicker. Nobody had ever stared into his own eyes and come off better. King’s were grey-blue and glacier cold.

“What?”

“Buy the winner a drink.”

“You call that winning?”

“Sure,” King said. “Hell, with what you’ve got in the bank, you didn’t exactly lose just then. You’ve probably made more since.”

“What do you know about me?” The Russian asked incredulously. As if to back up the man’s disbelief, his minder stepped over behind King.

King smiled. “Now, I wouldn’t recommend that,” he said. “I won’t go down like that poor fella in the bar.” King turned around in his chair, looked at the minder. He was built like a side of beef. Looked as intelligent too. “Go and fill up your boss’s Scotch. I’ll have another house lager. But get them to work on the foam-beer ratio. They’re making enough money tonight.” He turned towards Sergeyev. “So, are you playing or what?”

The Russian smiled, but there was no humour behind it. “You know something of me, and you think you can talk like this?”

King shrugged. “Shitty world. Don’t always assume you’ve done more, or worse than the guy sitting next to you,” he paused. “Get your monkey to fetch our drinks, you might want to talk with me in private.” He looked up at the croupier. “Deal another hand, will you?”

Sergeyev nodded to the croupier and she dealt out two cards. A ten for King and a seven for the Russian. The house got a nine. King was hit with another ten and held. Sergeyev got a seven. The house took a ten. Then the Russian was dealt with a nine. The house got a four. King won another fifty euros and the Russian handed over close to four-thousand.

“Well, it’s one way of cleaning your money, I suppose,” King said. “You own this place, don’t you? You take money from drugs and arms and prostitution, and you lose it here. To yourself. Back in the system, cleaned and ready to go. Nice.” He tapped his chips beside him. “Thanks for my win, by the way.”

“Don’t thank me. You won fair and square. Shame you won’t spend it though,” he paused. “Two things can happen when my bodyguard returns,” said the Russian. “You pitch your angle and I like it, well, then you leave tonight, but with a beating. And without your winnings. Or, you say what it is you want to say, and I don’t like it… well, you will get beaten like you wouldn’t imagine possible, taken by car to the forest, dragged out pleading for mercy, and take a bullet in the head.” He smiled. “So, I hope it was worth it.”