remember it all.
He leaned forward. "What did you say you did for a living?"
"I'm a pit boss."
"Stressful job?"
"No."
He clicked his pen, showed me both canines in a large grin. "Atopic eczema can be exacerbated by stress, Mr Ellis."
"I'm not stressed."
"I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying." I smiled. "Thank you, Doctor. But I'm not stressed. No more than usual, anyway." I picked up the prescription. "Thanks for this. This'll clear it right up, yes?"
"It'll help."
I stood. "Thank you."
Went to the door, but had to stop.
The doctor looked at me. "Something else?"
"Probably nothing, but I'm up for a job on the cruise ships, and I wondered if this would keep me from getting the job."
"Eczema? No."
"It's not that serious?"
Click-click. "No, not at all. Just do your best to avoid triggers like smoking, drinking, that sort of thing."
"I don't do either."
"Oh really?" Another double click. "Well then, you should be fine." He nodded at the prescription. "Remember: sparingly."
"Thank you, I will."
I didn't. By the time I reached the chemist, I was half-insane with the itch. I was three steps out before I'd cracked the cap on the tube and rubbed a good couple of grapes into my red, irritated skin.
Then, tired and sticky, I continued on to work.
The night shifts grew worse as the foul weather forced more punters into the Riverside. It was hot and damp and grumpy, punters elbow-to-elbow at the tables and a majority of the staff were too inexperienced to cope properly. There were a few kick-offs, more than a few camera checks, and all the while I kept an eye on proceedings, wondering where I was going to find that one clue that would bring inspiration. I watched the staff close up the tables for the night. Counted them off in my head. The same number, give or take, every night. And then I watched them head off to the changing rooms and staff room to grab their stuff, knowing full well they'd go up to the restaurant area. While they did that, I timed it roughly in my head as I went into the count with two dealers, an inspector and Jacqui.
I went to close the count room door and it stuck for a second. I fiddled with it, and it sprang back open.
Jacqui looked confused. "Graham?"
"It's not closing." I gave the handle a quick jostle and then pushed it properly shut. It clicked. I pushed it again to make sure it stayed closed.
"We ready?"
I nodded and joined the dealers and inspector over by the count table. I tuned out their chatter as they dumped the boxes onto the table, counting them off. I watched Tintin and the Spaniel in the cash desk. I saw the movement on the monitors in there – they had two cameras, one outside the count room door and one trained on the gaming floor. They were covered on both sides. I shook my head. Then I looked back at the count room door. I went over to it and tried it again.
Jacqui watched me.
"Sorry. I just wanted to make sure it was still locked."
"Is it?"
"Yeah, I think so."
I returned to the table, got on with the count.
The inspector was holding court. "What about Jerry tonight, eh?"
"What a fuckin' joke." This from a new dealer, acting like an old hand.
" Give us me fuckin' chips! " The inspector's breath smelled like stale coffee. I shifted away from him.
"Yeah, get 'em yourself, they're down the chipper."
I pulled tenners out into piles. They were talking about Jerry Grant. He was an accountant, apparently. Used to tell the dealers all about the odds, and how he had them all worked out because he used to work for JP Morgan. But Jerry was an emotional gambler for a man who professed a clinical mind and an iron nerve, and when he lost – which was often – he was prone to acting out. Luckily for the staff, the worst Jerry ever did was shout and scream, and that was amusing more than anything else – that impression the dealer just did hit it pretty much on the nose – a high squeal of a voice, edging onto indignant tears. I had to smile, which caught their
He leaned forward. "What did you say you did for a living?"
"I'm a pit boss."
"Stressful job?"
"No."
He clicked his pen, showed me both canines in a large grin. "Atopic eczema can be exacerbated by stress, Mr Ellis."
"I'm not stressed."
"I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying." I smiled. "Thank you, Doctor. But I'm not stressed. No more than usual, anyway." I picked up the prescription. "Thanks for this. This'll clear it right up, yes?"
"It'll help."
I stood. "Thank you."
Went to the door, but had to stop.
The doctor looked at me. "Something else?"
"Probably nothing, but I'm up for a job on the cruise ships, and I wondered if this would keep me from getting the job."
"Eczema? No."
"It's not that serious?"
Click-click. "No, not at all. Just do your best to avoid triggers like smoking, drinking, that sort of thing."
"I don't do either."
"Oh really?" Another double click. "Well then, you should be fine." He nodded at the prescription. "Remember: sparingly."
"Thank you, I will."
I didn't. By the time I reached the chemist, I was half-insane with the itch. I was three steps out before I'd cracked the cap on the tube and rubbed a good couple of grapes into my red, irritated skin.
Then, tired and sticky, I continued on to work.
The night shifts grew worse as the foul weather forced more punters into the Riverside. It was hot and damp and grumpy, punters elbow-to-elbow at the tables and a majority of the staff were too inexperienced to cope properly. There were a few kick-offs, more than a few camera checks, and all the while I kept an eye on proceedings, wondering where I was going to find that one clue that would bring inspiration. I watched the staff close up the tables for the night. Counted them off in my head. The same number, give or take, every night. And then I watched them head off to the changing rooms and staff room to grab their stuff, knowing full well they'd go up to the restaurant area. While they did that, I timed it roughly in my head as I went into the count with two dealers, an inspector and Jacqui.
I went to close the count room door and it stuck for a second. I fiddled with it, and it sprang back open.
Jacqui looked confused. "Graham?"
"It's not closing." I gave the handle a quick jostle and then pushed it properly shut. It clicked. I pushed it again to make sure it stayed closed.
"We ready?"
I nodded and joined the dealers and inspector over by the count table. I tuned out their chatter as they dumped the boxes onto the table, counting them off. I watched Tintin and the Spaniel in the cash desk. I saw the movement on the monitors in there – they had two cameras, one outside the count room door and one trained on the gaming floor. They were covered on both sides. I shook my head. Then I looked back at the count room door. I went over to it and tried it again.
Jacqui watched me.
"Sorry. I just wanted to make sure it was still locked."
"Is it?"
"Yeah, I think so."
I returned to the table, got on with the count.
The inspector was holding court. "What about Jerry tonight, eh?"
"What a fuckin' joke." This from a new dealer, acting like an old hand.
" Give us me fuckin' chips! " The inspector's breath smelled like stale coffee. I shifted away from him.
"Yeah, get 'em yourself, they're down the chipper."
I pulled tenners out into piles. They were talking about Jerry Grant. He was an accountant, apparently. Used to tell the dealers all about the odds, and how he had them all worked out because he used to work for JP Morgan. But Jerry was an emotional gambler for a man who professed a clinical mind and an iron nerve, and when he lost – which was often – he was prone to acting out. Luckily for the staff, the worst Jerry ever did was shout and scream, and that was amusing more than anything else – that impression the dealer just did hit it pretty much on the nose – a high squeal of a voice, edging onto indignant tears. I had to smile, which caught their
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