The stash is spread all over my body. Some in each breast pocket and the rest in my socks. I empty one pocket and place the wedge gingerly on the pile, making sure Vic sees the pocket is empty.

‘Sheee-it, you must be related to these dumb bitches.’ Vic clicks a finger at AJ, who springs to his feet as though the gravity holding him down has been siphoned off.

‘What, Vic? What? Shoot him?’

‘Nope. Just open the safe and bring me the cash.’

AJ is crestfallen and actually pouts, which might make him cute if he was thirty years younger and a person was ignorant of his tryst with Lady Liberty. He trudges to the bar and successfully opens a safe hidden behind a brewery mirror.

I chuckle. ‘Christ, he remembered the combination.’

Vic breaks out of his poker face for a fleeting smirk. ‘It’s 10– 28–18–86. The date the Statue was dedicated.’

In spite of everything, I can’t hold in a guffaw, and maybe for a millisecond I admire Victor Jones.

‘You are an evil arsehole, Vic. But that was a good one. You’ll have to change the combination now.’

Vic accepts the compliment with a royal wave, then plucks a brick of cash from AJ’s fingers, plonking ten grand on the pot. ‘Your three, and seven more. Now you are screwed again, Daniel. No pay, no play.’

I have him. A sense of savage victory glows like a light bulb inside my skull, and I close my mouth to stop it shining out.

Ooooh, says Ghost Zeb. You think there’s actual light shining outta your Irish mouth? I think you better phone that guy Simon.

It’s a fair point.

‘Don’t worry, Vic. I’m playing. I got one more pocket.’

I pull out two more wedges, each one wrapped in cling film. Any more and I have to go into my socks.

‘I see the seven and raise it another three.’

Vic struggles with his expression. It’s a challenge to keep the poker mask in place, and a winding vein swells between his ear and eyebrow. If he folds, he’s down ten grand plus. I hear rumours that Vic owes money to some real criminals; losing ten grand could cost him a lot more than ten grand. His only hope is to bankrupt me.

‘Fuck you, doorman,’ he says, and is that a tremor in his voice? ‘All in.’ He throws in his final wedge like a grenade. ‘Now go the fuck home.’