‘Vic, you’ve been rolling girls back here for years. Every one of them begged you for a little leniency. You screwed them all. Cheated them, then screwed them.’ I pile up the cash and chips. ‘You still owe me for the chips. That’s four grand give or take. And I’ll take, if you don’t mind.’

Vic’s poker face has collapsed in on itself, and in its place is raw desperation.

‘Fuck you, doorman. I’ll see you. Let me see those cards.’

‘Show me your money.’

Vic wrings his hands, and the chains around his neck jangle. ‘I got the club.’

Bingo.

‘You don’t even own this fire hazard, shithole.’

Vic does not dispute my description. ‘I got a twenty-year lease. That’s gotta be worth fifty grand.’

‘Yeah? And I got a shoe that’s worth half a mil.’

‘Come on, Daniel. I’ll throw in the lease for a look-see.’

I mull this over. ‘If you win, you cut these girls loose anyway. And if you lose, then this club and every stick of furniture and bottle of booze in it belongs to me. I don’t want any haggling; this isn’t a divorce.’

Vic nods, not able to speak the words.

I push the pot back in. ‘Show me the lease.’

Brandi hurries to the open safe and fishes about. She can see where this is going. In two minutes there could be a regime change around here. She returns with a manila envelope tied with string.

‘This it?’

Vic looks like he’s going to puke. ‘Yeah.’ And then adds, ‘Bitch.’

Brandi is aching to respond; it’s in the square of her chin, the flash of her tawny eyes. But this deal is not sealed just yet. No one outside the game speaks, because this is one of those situations that will be talked about for years whatever happens, and details are important. Also the whole thing has an unreal quality about it, like something out of a TV show, and not the good ones with budget behind them; the afternoon reruns from the seventies with stereotype villains and a cheap set that wobbles every time a door is closed.

I check the document. Most of it is legalese; could be a guarantee for a deep-fat fryer for all I know. Even if it is legal, the entire situation is probably bullshit that any halfway-decent attorney would tear apart without spilling his latte.

In spite of all that, I say: ‘Okay. Looks good. I accept the wager.’

A little formal, but it’s that kind of night.

Vic’s jowls are shuddering. ‘Show me, goddamn you, doorman.’

Calm drapes me like a shroud and I know the club is mine.

‘Two pair,’ I say, flipping the cards. ‘No bluffing on this side of the table.’

Vic doesn’t bother with his cards. He’s screwed, and killing a few people is the only way out.