From the corner of his eye he saw the leg-shaker coming at him and managed to get an arm part-way up in front of his face. The deflected blow still spun his head round and knocked him off the chair. The man was on him in an instant, almost under the neighbouring table, dropping his knee into Tom’s groin as he pounded his fists onto his face.

It was over quickly, but not quickly enough. Security guards pulled the man off him and Tom curled up tight on his side, not even feeling his face as the pain in his balls swept over him and he threw up onto the garish carpet beside his head.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, but resisted the attempt to roll him onto his back. He needed to be in this position for a while yet. Maybe for ever.

He was dimly aware of people’s feet moving around him as he breathed hard into the carpet, which smelt of vomit over shoe-dirt. Two pairs of shiny black military-style boots were scuffing and bracing either side of an incongruous pair of red cowboy boots, which Tom registered must belong to the leg-shaker.

Stupid red boots.

Another wave of nausea hit him and he spewed again. This time the hands didn’t try to turn him over, just pulled him a little away from the puddles of vomit. Tom was pathetically grateful that he wasn’t lying in his own puke.

Slowly, slowly, the agony between his legs subsided and he started to breathe again. At the same time his face and head started vying for attention from his central nervous system. His face pulsed with pain, and he tasted blood in his mouth.

This time when the hands touched his shoulder, he allowed them to help him to sit up. Someone handed him a bar towel with Bud Lite on it, and he spat blood and flecks of vomit into it, then wiped his mouth. He winced as he scraped across his torn lip. Blood dripped into his eyes and nose and trickled down his throat. Fuck – what a mess.

He remembered his chips and looked up to see the dealer holding his trays for him. She met his eyes reassuringly.

Then he looked round to see who’d given him the towel and met the dark grey eyes of the Pinball Kid’s erstwhile blonde.

‘Okay?’ she said.

Before he could answer, a boy of about twelve dressed as a medic hunkered down in front of him and shone a torch into his eyes, making Tom feel old as well as beat-up.

‘How many fingers?’

‘Three.’

‘Good. You think you can stand up?’

‘Not straight.’

The kid grinned at him. ‘Take one in the nuts?’

Tom nodded weakly and the medic stood up. ‘Get the ice bag, Lis!’

By the time Lis appeared with the ice bag, Tom was resting his forehead on the table where he’d been playing, although the Honolulu staff were hovering nervously with towels in case he threw up on the baize and put the table out of action all night.

The medic put butterfly plasters on the cut over his eye and dabbed stinging disinfectant into his other cuts and scrapes. Tom felt like a five-year-old who’d come off his bike. He sure smelt like one.

The blonde was still near by, he was embarrassed to note.

A narrow, weather-beaten man in a tuxedo, with a tag reading ‘Manager’, appeared at his elbow and spoke to the medic. ‘He okay?’

‘He will be. The cut above his eye needs stitching.’

‘Okay. I’ll take it from here.’

The medic hesitated. ‘You’ll have to sign off on that, sir.’ The manager said okay, and Lis fetched a clipboard. Tom watched dully as the guy signed for him like a pound puppy, then asked Tom to follow him. Tom straightened with difficulty, clamped the ice to his groin and managed to walk after him with only a hint of a limp and a pained expression. The blonde caught his arm. ‘I’ll wait here for you.’ He nodded, wondering why.

The manager walked slowly so Tom could keep up. The dealer walked behind him with his winnings.

‘Would you like us to cash that up for you, sir?’

‘Please.’ The dealer peeled off.

By the time they reached the door marked ‘Manager’, Tom’s head was clearing and the ache in his balls was bearable.

Inside, two burly security guards with buzz-cuts stood at either side of the leg-shaker, who glared at him, chin and crotch thrust forward belligerently. The manager sat behind his desk and motioned to a chair. ‘Sit, please.’

Tom adjusted the ice bag he held over his balls. ‘I think I’ll stand, thanks.’ The manager nodded his understanding.

Tom noticed a CCTV camera in the corner above the desk. Behind him the dealer came in and handed him his money in a thick roll.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said nervously.

The manager asked her what had happened and the dealer gave a brief and accurate account of what had taken place. The only defence the leg-shaker could muster was that Tom was ‘a fucking wise-ass’. He didn’t even look as though he’d convinced himself.

The manager sighed and addressed Tom. ‘Mr …?’

‘Patrick.’

‘Mr Patrick, I am Robert Tarryk, the manager. I can only apologize for the assault you have suffered at the hands of another player. My security staff stepped in quickly but I’m afraid when these things happen they happen very fast, as you’ll appreciate. I do hope it has not put you off returning to the Honolulu.’

Tom shrugged noncommittally. ‘Have you called the cops?’

He saw the look Tarryk gave the leg-shaker. ‘Not yet. I thought I would let you decide how to deal with this.’

Tom was caught off-guard for the second time in five minutes. He gave Tarryk a questioning look.

‘Obviously we like to maintain our image as a desirable addition to the neighbourhood, Mr Patrick, and for that reason we prefer to handle things without recourse to the law whenever possible.’

Tom’s interest was sparked now. He dabbed at his eyebrow with the towel and waited Tarryk out.

‘If, for example, Mr Stanley here …’ Tom glanced at the leg-shaker ‘… was prepared to make some kind of reparation?’

Stanley didn’t react. Tom didn’t react. Tarryk tried again. ‘For instance, how does two thousand dollars sound?’

This time Tom couldn’t hide his surprise. Tarryk was offering to pay him off.

‘I don’t want your money. He’s the one who stomped on my balls.’

‘And I’m sure Mr Stanley sincerely regrets it.’

Tom glanced at Stanley: he didn’t look sincere or regretful as he shot a glance of suppressed fury at Tarryk. But it dawned on Tom that that was what would make him feel better: an expression of sincere regret on Stanley’s face.

‘We’re all reasonable people. I’m sure we can work this out, Mr Patrick.’