“What are we going to gamble with?” I said. “The cash Frankie got for us won’t go far, not in a place like this. We need to be able to bet big, to win big.”
“I do have an account with the Shadow Bank,” said Molly. “With quite a bit on deposit . . . Don’t look at me like that! How do you think I funded myself before I hooked up with you?”
“Stealing things,” I said.
“Well, yes, but . . .”
Perhaps fortunately, Frankie turned up at that point. He slipped past the head waiter at his post with a nod and a wink, and the head waiter didn’t even look at him, never mind announce his name. Frankie pulled up a chair and sat down at our table without waiting to be asked, and Molly and I quickly filled him in on what we’d been discussing. He nodded quickly.
“You can’t use the money in your account,” he said immediately to Molly. “It’s strictly cash in the Introductory Games. Though you make the most money in side bets, gambling with the crowds on how well you’ll do in the games. But listen, you need to know this. I’ve been wandering around, talking with the staff, renewing old friendships and spreading a little bribery and corruption in all the right places, and the word is, the fix is in. The house will be taking even more liberties than usual this year, and squeezing the odds till they squeal. Apparently Parris is determined that this will be the most successful and profitable Casino Infernale ever, so he can take all the credit. Once you’re in there, watch your backs, and be prepared for treachery from all quarters. You can’t trust the games or the players or the staff this year.”
“Just our luck,” I said.
• • •
Frankie led us into the Arena of Introductory Games. With such a grand title, I was disappointed to discover it looked much like every casino and gambling house I’d visited in my time as London field agent for the Droods. No real difference from any of the after-hours drinking and gambling parlours that infest parts of the West End. Where you can get in only if you’re a member, but fortunately they sell memberships at the door.
There were roulette wheels, card tables, dice; all the usual means to part a sucker from his money. Deep pile carpeting, neutral-coloured walls, a general sense of opulence and comfort, but nothing distinctive enough to distract you from what you were there for.
The huge room was packed with people, expectation heavy on the air. Though soon enough that would be replaced with the heavier scents of perspiration and desperation. You don’t come to places like this to enjoy yourself; it’s all about the winning and the losing. After you’ve put a few hours in, and nothing’s gone to plan, and the people around you are betting more and more wildly to win back the money they’ve lost, that’s when eyes go cold and hearts grow desperate, and the wise man just chalks it up to experience and gets the hell out while the going is good. And your soul is still your own.
Casinos exist to take everything you’ve got.
Most people were just milling around, seeing what there was to see, not yet ready to commit themselves to a game until they’d seen what everyone else was doing. Waiting for someone else to take the plunge. There were no Big Names or Major Players here. They wouldn’t lower themselves to play this kind of game, in this kind of company. There was a continual low murmur of conversation, as people worked up the nerve to bet everything they had, and then beg for credit to lose even more. No one bets heavier than the man who can’t afford it and is desperate to hide that fact from everyone else. Pride, and face, are everything in the gambling world.
There’s no sportsmanship in games like these, and certainly no sense of fair play. It’s all dog eat dog, and devil take the hindmost. As far as the Casino management was concerned, these people weren’t even players. Just lambs to the slaughter, and sheep to be sheared. Games at this level were designed to bring out the worst in people, to tempt them and watch them fall. And then laugh in their faces when they begged for another chance.
I had been in places like this before, but I’d always had the good sense to stay away from the games.
“It feels . . . like walking into a room full of enemies,” Molly said quietly.
“We are,” I said. “No one here is on our side but us.” I looked at Frankie, who was smiling and nodding easily about him, perfectly at home. “You know this bear pit better than us, Frankie; where do you recommend we start?”
“Depends on your strategy,” said Frankie. “You do have a strategy, don’t you?”
“Win big, win fast, then get the hell out of here and on to the games that matter,” I said.
“Well,” said Frankie, “it’s risky, but . . . that’s your best chance, right there. Russian roulette.”
We looked across at the single table, standing empty and alone, with the gun lying on it. Two chairs, but no one sitting on them, yet. A group of people were slowly gathering around the table, looking at the gun with hot, expectant eyes and talking animatedly. While being very careful to stay well away from either of the chairs.
“It’s the old game,” said Frankie. “Two players, one gun, one bullet. Spin the chamber, take your turn, and hope you get lucky. It’s risky, but the odds are really no worse than most of the games here, and the side bets can make you a lot of money in a hurry. As long as your nerve holds out.”
“I can’t believe you’re even considering this!” Molly said angrily to me. “You are, aren’t you? We didn’t come here to die! It’s just another mission!”
“They have my soul,” I said. “I want it back.”
“No, Shaman,” said Molly. “I can’t let you do this. You’re still thinking like you have your armour to protect you. If anyone’s going to do this, it should be me.”
“No,” I said. “You can’t risk it, Molly. Not with your soul already owed to so many. I will do it, because I have just had a really sneaky idea. My Colt Repeater has no bullets in it because the gun teleports appropriate ammo into place, as necessary. You can tap into that magic, quietly and discreetly, and apply it to the Russian roulette gun. Any time a bullet threatens me, you just make it disappear.”
“I can do that,” said Molly. “But I can’t keep the gun empty all the time. Someone would notice. You might have to shoot someone, Shaman. Kill your opponent, to win. Could you do that?”
“He’d shoot me, if he could,” I said. “Are you in?”
“It’s sneaky,” said Molly. “I love it. Let’s do it!”
“You haven’t wasted any time getting into the swing of things,” Frankie said admiringly. “You’ll do well here.”
But I still hesitated. Molly was right. The whole point of Russian roulette is that you only really win when the other player dies. What was one man’s life, against the success of my mission? And any other game, you could get up and walk away when you’d had enough. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be allowed in this game.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Molly. “You always were too ethical for your own good. That’s why I should do this. Pulling the trigger won’t bother my conscience. I don’t have one.”
“They’d detect your magic if you worked it at the table,” I said. “So it has to be me.”
“I really wouldn’t worry about it,” said Frankie. “The kind of person you’ll be facing, you’ll be happy to see them die.”
I moved quickly forward before I could change my mind, pulled out one of the chairs, and sat down at the table. I looked at the gun before me, but didn’t touch it. All around me, people began talking excitedly in loud breathy voices. They looked at me with admiring, condescending eyes, as though I’d just volunteered to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. And some of them were looking at me in an eager, anticipatory way, because they had come to this table to see someone die. A few of them knew Shaman Bond, by reputation at least, and sent my name racing round the circle. And then my opponent pulled back the chair opposite me, and sat down hard on it, and the buzz of his nam
e was much louder than mine had been. Because everyone here knew Gentleman Junkie Jules.
He didn’t smile or even nod to me, didn’t even acknowledge my presence. Just stared at the gun, like there was nothing he wanted more in the world. I’d met Jules before in some of London’s more up-market early hours clubs, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t remember me. Gentleman Junkie Jules was wearing an expensively tailored suit that had seen much better days, like its owner. It hung shapelessly about him, as though it was a few sizes too large, draped unflatteringly about his spindly frame. No doubt the suit fit perfectly when he first bought it, but Jules had been through a lot since then. His face was thin and pinched, and unhealthily pale. His eyes were fierce and fever bright, and his colourless lips pulled back in a mirthless smile.
Word was, Gentleman Junkie Jules was a remittance man these days. Paid regular sums by his very well-off family, but only on the understanding that he would never come home to embarrass them. Jules was never that good a card player, but he always had enough money to get into the big games, and lose it all. Until the buzz of high stakes cards just wasn’t enough any more and some kind friend introduced him to chemical heaven. And Jules found out the hard way that heroin is a harsh mistress. Given how much he’d abused his luck all his life, I was amazed he was still around. But it did make perfect sense that he would be sitting here, opposite me, ready to play Russian roulette. He’d been playing it all his life.
I had to at least make a gesture, for my conscience’s sake. I raised a hand, to draw the attention of the manager Jonathon Scott as he drifted by. He immediately changed direction to approach the table, and the crowd opened up just enough to let him pass. While still staying close enough that they wouldn’t miss a word.
“Is there a problem, sir?” said Scott.
“I object to Jules as my opponent,” I said. “This man isn’t fit to play. I mean, look at the state of him.”
“As long as he can pick up the gun and point it in the right direction, he can play,” said Scott. “That’s all the rules there are in this game.”
“And it’s the only way I can raise enough money to get out of this shit hole, and back into the real games where I belong,” said Jules, in a dry, uninterested voice. He looked at me for the first time and he didn’t see me at all. I was just something to be overcome. Something in his way. “Stop wasting my time. Let’s get this done so I can get on with my life.”
“Do you even know who I am?” I said.
“Shaman Bond,” said Jules, just a bit unexpectedly. “I remember you. Always hanging round the edge of the scene in London looking for some small-time trouble to get into. Scrambling for crumbs from the rich man’s table. How did someone like you even get in here?”
“This is wrong!” said a loud carrying voice, and we all looked round sharply. Leopold the gambling priest was standing nearby, glaring at us all impartially. “Suicide is a mortal sin,” the priest said flatly.
“And gambling isn’t?” said Scott, quietly amused.
“Not the way I do it,” said Leopold.
“Butt out, priest,” said Jules. He’d gone back to staring at the gun again. “No one wants you here; no one wants to hear what you have to say. This is what I want.”
“Of course it is,” said Leopold, his voice suddenly kind. “When you’ve abused your body with as many drugs as you have, only the biggest thrills can even touch you any more. But it’s not too late to step away. You can lean on me, if you wish.”
“Of course it’s too late,” said Jules. “It was too late the day I was born.”
Leopold nodded slowly, and walked away. Heading for the big games, where he belonged. The manager went with him, perhaps just to see that the priest kept going. Cheating and assassination attempts were all very well, but nothing and no one could be allowed to interfere with the games at Casino Infernale.
A uniformed flunky turned up, to oversee the Russian roulette. A small characterless man with a brisk, efficient manner. He picked up the gun from the table, and showed it to the crowd. A Smith & Wesson .45, much used, brightly polished, well maintained. The flunky opened the gun’s chamber, to show it was empty, and then produced a single bullet, and pressed it into place. He closed the chamber, spun it, and placed the gun back on the table, exactly half-way between me and Jules. People pressed in close around the table, determined not to miss a thing. Some looked at the gun, some looked at Jules, and a few even looked at me. They wanted to be in close, for the kill.
They looked . . . hungry.
They disgusted me. Jules didn’t even notice them. He had eyes only for the gun. He rested his hands on the green baize tabletop. They weren’t shaking at all, but beads of sweat were already appearing on his face. I felt sick to my stomach. I was the only one there who knew the fix was in; that I had already condemned this poor broken man to death. For the mission. But there was no other way . . . I couldn’t even get up and walk away now. The Casino wouldn’t permit it, not now that I’d committed myself. If I tried, at best they’d throw me out of Casino Infernale. And then the plan would be a bust, and there would be a war in the streets over Crow Lee’s Inheritance. Blood and slaughter, inevitably spilling over into the everyday world, all because of me.
I looked Gentleman Junkie Jules in the eyes, and it was like there was no one there, looking back. Or was that just what I wanted to believe?
The flunky put his hand on the gun, and sent it spinning round and round with a practised movement. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Wasn’t the first time two men had sat down at this table, and only one of them had walked away. How many men had died, sitting in my chair? All the surrounding sound stopped, as everyone watched the gun spin round and round, gradually slowing, finally coming to a halt with the long barrel pointing in my direction. I sat up straight. Jules picked up the gun, with a steady hand. The crowd made a small, almost intimate sound. Jules aimed the gun at my head, right between my eyes. I sat very still. I knew the gun was empty, knew it had to be empty, but still my heart was hammering in my chest, and my breathing was fast enough to be painful. Jules’ hand was entirely steady. His overly bright eyes were fixed on me now, and he was still smiling his lipless smile, showing dirty yellow teeth. He didn’t seem to be breathing at all. He pulled the trigger, and there was a hard firm click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
The crowd let out the breath they’d been holding, with a sound that was almost orgasmic. Jules looked at the gun as though he couldn’t understand what had just happened. And then he slowly lowered the gun and placed it on the table before me. There was a loud buzz of conversation round the table, as money changed hands in the first run of bets, and everyone hurried to bet again. I waited for the flunky to give me the nod, and then I picked up the gun, spun the chamber, pointed the gun at Jules, and pulled the trigger. Again, an empty chamber. I put the gun down. Jules hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched, barely seemed aware that anything at all had happened. The sound from the crowd seemed angry, this time. I’d cheated them out of the drama they craved. I didn’t care.
More money changed hands; more bets were made.
Jules picked up the gun again. He held it a while, considering it, and then he spun the chamber with a hard, angry motion. He aimed the gun at my left eye. I didn’t move. Didn’t react. The crowd had gone silent again. Jules’ face was slick with sweat, but his hand was still steady. I looked down the barrel of the gun. I’d never seen anything so fascinating. I knew the gun was empty, believed with all my heart that it was empty, but I didn’t trust the gun or my heart. The flunky gave the nod, and Jules slowly pulled the trigger. On another empty chamber.
There was a fierce babble of sound all around us. The crowd was really getting into it now. Jules slowly lowered the gun onto the table, and took his hand away. I looked around. Money was changing hands freely, as many bets were paid off. Voices were raised, and hands waved excitedly as new odds wer
e set for the next round. I could see Molly and Frankie moving quickly through the crowd, making the rounds, taking bets wherever they could, backing me to win. I hoped they were getting good odds.
I picked up the gun. The butt was wet with sweat from Jules’ hand. I put the gun down again, took out a handkerchief, and carefully wiped the butt clean. Jules said nothing. I put the handkerchief away, and took up the gun again. It felt heavier now, as though just the significance of what we were involved in added to its weight, its reality. I spun the chamber, aimed the gun at Jules’ flat unwavering gaze, waited for the flunky, and then pulled the trigger. Nothing.
I put the gun down hard, almost snatching my hand away. I didn’t like the feel of it—how it made me feel. I hated the gun. Hated myself for what I was doing. I carefully didn’t look at Molly, but I couldn’t help thinking, Don’t stretch this out. Put the bullet in the chamber, get this over with. Let the poor bastard die. Don’t torture him like this. Don’t torture me.
Jules picked up the gun. He hefted it, almost thoughtfully. We looked into each other’s eyes. He could see me now. The gun had made me real to him. The man who might kill him. The contact between us was direct, without barriers, almost intimate. I knew what he was feeling; he knew what I was feeling. Two men, bound together by a death that hadn’t happened yet. I had killed men before, when it was part of the job. I prided myself they were all people who needed killing. That the world was a better, safer place without them in it. But I’d never had to sit opposite them, stare them in the eyes, while I did it. I could feel sweat on my face now. Jules and I were both breathing hard, almost in time with each other. As though we were both complicit in whatever happened next.