Talking to staff is not my area. Having staff is not my area, for Christ’s sake. Travel light has always been the code I live by, and yet somehow here I am with a casino and a dozen people depending on me for a living.

My transplants are itchy.

Thank God the wages were paid yesterday.

What about me? Ghost Zeb pitches in. Don’t forget about me.

And Zeb is still Irish Mike’s captive. Irish Mike who collects a little tribute every month from Slotz. It seems every time I crawl out of no-man’s-land, the earth tilts and rolls me back in.

I hear Brandi’s steel heels clacking across the casino floor and I decide to face the music before she launches into another tirade. I rise, check my skullcap in a remaining shard of busted mirror and duck under the door frame to meet my public.

It’s a weird feeling to have subordinates smiling at you; didn’t happen a lot in the army. Mostly in the army people muttered gobshite under their breath when I was dishing out orders. But here, all I’m getting is happy faces.

Jason is still riffing on ‘YMCA’.

‘Dan-Mac-Evoy,

Is fucking awesome,

Dan-Mac-Evoy,

Kicked Victor Jones’ goddamn ass!’

He abandons the song’s structure for the last line, but nevertheless his efforts earn him an enthusiastic round of applause.

‘Okay,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘Okay. I thank you, Jason. The Village People thank you.’

More laughing. Marco tickles Jason in the ribs, which opens my eyes about a couple of things.

‘For tonight, we do everything as normal. Except the booths; no more hands-on in the booths. Anyone has a problem with that, talk to me later. Also, anyone working off a debt, you don’t owe me a dime, so from now on we all get paid.’

A couple of smiles from those no longer in the hole, but the hands-on girls don’t seem too thrilled.

‘If you get the opportunity to piss off Victor Jones, do not take it.’

‘Too late,’ chortles Jason, accepting multiple high fives. High fives? Christ, these guys are happy.

‘Don’t take it, because I don’t know how legal that poker game was.’

‘Legal?’ says Jason. ‘Vic’s been rolling girls for years back there. How legal was that?’

This is a good point.

‘You know any good lawyers, Danny?’ continues Jason.

Sure he does, says GZ. ’Cept Danny here has a tendency to get lawyers shot dead.

Marco trots across the floor, bearing a large Jameson on a scarred martini tray.

‘Here you are, Dan. You earned it.’

I accept the drink gratefully. The Irish whiskey is smooth going down, but has an aftershock like a jolt from a defibrillator.

‘Back to work everybody, enjoy the new management while it lasts. I need to think for a while.’