‘That’s why.’

She sipped her wine, then folded her hands demurely on the table. ‘I have a proposition for you,’ she said.

‘And I’ve got one for you. You think they’re the same?’ He grinned and she smiled but shook her head.

‘I’d lay odds against it.’

They weren’t the words he’d wanted to hear.

Her eyes still danced at him, but there was a subtle change in her voice that had taken the playful banter out of the air. He took another mouthful of wine, then decided to behave like a grownup. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘I work for a consortium. When they – when I – see a card player I think they should … invest in, I tell them.’

Tom tried not to let the disappointment show on his face. This was a business meeting, nothing more. He nodded so he wouldn’t have to say anything that might betray him.

‘I’ve been watching you for a while.’

He flushed. ‘Not last week when I went all-in on queen high, I hope?’

She raised one perfect eyebrow drolly. ‘That was … surprising.’

They smiled, which broke the tension a little. Her shoulders relaxed and she leaned slightly towards him; he caught a whiff of scent – something spicy – which sent a small thrill through him.

‘It’s more than just the cards, Tom. You know how to hold your nerve. The money my clients invest, sometimes the amounts are large. And nerve-holding is … an admirable quality.’

His eyes fell on her scar again. The idea of touching it with his fingers – maybe even his tongue – suddenly seemed very important to him. ‘How large is large?’

The corner of her mouth flickered. ‘Very large.’

Tom knew that his next logical question should be: Who are these clients? But he didn’t ask because he already knew she wouldn’t tell him the truth. And instinctively he knew, too, that in this context curiosity would not be seen as quite the admirable quality that nerve-holding obviously was.

What she was asking him to do was illegal. It was money-laundering, pure and simple. Dirty money converted into small round ceramic chips and gambled on the tables of Atlantic City, Nevada and LA. If losses could be minimized or – even better – turned into wins, the money that would be counted out from behind the casino cash windows was clean. Maybe even tax-free, if the casino was in on it.

He recognized the swell of his own ego that came with the offer, and immediately attempted to correct it. He’d been working on his ego ever since the Pinball Kid – Garvey – had beaten his pocket jacks. Bastard. ‘Why me?’ he asked. ‘I’m not that good.’

She gazed at him coolly, not attempting to dissuade him from the truth, which he appreciated on some level. Like all gamblers, he didn’t like to dwell on his losses, but it didn’t mean they weren’t there. Sometimes they were all he had.

‘You’re good enough,’ she said quietly.

He understood. The last thing her ‘consortium’ needed was some Stu Ungar whizz-kid making a celebrity of himself – and his crooked money.

Tom’s synapses were firing fast now – faster even than when he made his customary sizing-up glances around the poker tables. His job was in the toilet – nearing the U-bend, if it was to be judged by his latest trip to Boise to watch a small oil slick meander through an already polluted and litter-strewn stream. He was still on half-pay – an option he’d chosen in preference to outright suspension on full-pay. He could do with the money. And the tug of his ego was still there. Still needed work.

‘What’s in it for me?’ God, he sounded like a criminal already.

‘Ten per cent of winnings. No charge for losing – although, of course, we’d rather you won. If we ask you to play out of town, all exes paid. Motels, food, drinks … company …’

For the first time he saw her straightforward confidence waver, but almost immediately she was back on track, looking into his eyes with not a little humour as she added, ‘… within reason.’

He couldn’t help smiling. ‘Who decides what’s reasonable?’

‘I would be your liaison. So I guess that would be me.’

‘Do you work on some kind of formula?’ he teased.

‘Sure. Twice a month is enough for any decent person.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Can we haggle?’

‘About frequency? Or decency?’

Her smile made up his mind – or what passed for it at that moment.

The smile faded. ‘One thing, though, Tom.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Your mouth,’ she said seriously. ‘It draws attention and gets you into trouble.’

He said nothing. What could he possibly say in his own defence that would be anything but a lie?

‘Attention and trouble are two things we really don’t need.’

The waiter brought coffee and Ness folded her fingers together in a businesslike manner. ‘Would you like time to think about it?’

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘I think thinking would be bad.’

*

Tom got home at ten p.m. The condo sprinklers had been on and there was the faint reek of the sewer from the reclaimed water that made the grass grow so goddamn green in this desert state. Kentucky-by-the-sea.

He stopped dead halfway up the path.

Halo Jackson was sitting on his doorstep, bleeding into a Taco Bell box.

‘Jesus!’

Halo pointed at Tom’s face half-heartedly. ‘Back at ya.’

Tom let him in, but made him stand in the tiled hallway until he had fetched a pan he could bleed into.

‘It’s stopping now.’

‘It can stop in the pan. My security deposit’s already teetering on the brink. What happened?’

‘I was getting food. For Vee and Katy, y’know? Just tacos ’n’ stuff. Got back to the house and I was getting out of the car and this guy slams me up against it and, like, twists my arm up my back. I thought it was going to break.’ Halo rubbed his shoulder and grimaced at the pain that lingered there.

‘Then what?’ Tom poured a couple of fingers of bourbon into a tumbler and put it down next to Halo.