‘Lucia?’ He heard the door lock.

She didn’t come out, even when he said he was sorry. Even when he said he needed to use the toilet.

He ended up pissing out of the window and crawling into bed alone.

He woke around five a.m. to find the bathroom door unlocked and Lucia asleep in the tub. At some time during the night she’d tugged the top cover off him and taken a pillow. He knelt beside her and stroked her hair until her eyes opened warily.

‘You’ll get cold in there,’ he said.

She didn’t answer, but let him help her out of the bath and put her into the bed where she fell asleep again almost instantly. He wanted to hold her – if only to let her know he could be trusted just to do that – but felt awkward about getting in beside her, and didn’t quite trust himself.

Instead he showered, dressed, put his moustache back on, and drove her little car back to the Normandie, where he put down a hundred bucks and won four hundred and seventy-five before breakfast.

He took bagels and coffee back to the room. Lucia was awake and worried by his absence. They ate in virtual silence.

Afterwards he sat beside her on the bed, not knowing where to start, or even what he wanted to say to her. Just staring at the wall and then at his feet, and then at the wall again.

‘I want you to know something,’ she said quietly.

He looked at her, waiting for her to go on. She bit her lip, working up to it.

‘What I did with you. That first time? It’s the only time I’ve ever done that.’

‘Then why did you do it with me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Lucia … Last night when I … y’know … I wasn’t assuming anything like that.’

She seemed unsure of his meaning.

‘I just wanted … I didn’t mean to treat you like a whore. I’m sorry if I made you feel like one.’

The two of them sat and looked at the wall for a while. Then he took her hand and was grateful when she didn’t pull away.

*

At the Bicycle Club, it was only by lucky chance that he saw the Weasel before the Weasel saw him. The man was coming out of the john, straightening his tie. He had to stop and look down to step around a little cordon marking the place where a waitress had dropped a tray of Chinese food.

In another instant, his eyes once more raked the room, but by then Tom had ducked behind a pillar, grateful that this was the brick-and-mortar Bicycle, not the pillar-less big-top of the Honolulu.

His mind raced. One of Lucia’s neighbours had apparently cut off the Weasel’s cuffs before wondering why they might be there. Probably Stanley’s too. Shit.

He circled behind the Weasel and hurried to the car. Suddenly LA clubs seemed like Fox searchlights criss-crossing the sky – he was sure to be caught in one of them soon.

He was already back in the hotel parking lot when he decided to swing round and make for the 888. The Weasel was definitely at the Bicycle. That took him out of the equation. Maybe they couldn’t cover every club every night. The 888 was north of the city. He’d never been there with Ness and had only been there alone once about five years earlier when he’d been in Santa Anita on a Piper crash. Maybe the 888 was safe.

Tom knew the logic was shaky, but he also knew that he couldn’t go on picking up a few hundred dollars here and there indefinitely. He was having a reasonable run, but he was staking too low to win a sum of money that would give him options. He needed to take a risk.

And tonight he was in a risk-taking mood.

*

The 888 was smaller than he’d remembered, a low, ugly, industrial-looking building creaking under the disproportionate weight of the biggest neon sign Tom had ever seen flashing 888 and two tired, half-burned-out aces. Eights and aces: the dead man’s hand.

He felt nervous at first, the unfamiliarity of the place making him jumpy, but he figured it was better to be safe than sorry and took his time at the bar, scanning the room from behind his shades.

After twenty minutes he started to breathe normally, and took his place at a two-four table, figuring it was a good median point for someone who wanted to stake low but win big.

The crowd at the 888 could have come direct from the Normandie or the Honolulu. Tom glanced around his table and saw the usual mix of fat men, college boys, Chinese businessmen and token female – this one a meek-looking grey-haired woman, who might have wandered in from a church social.

Tom didn’t care if she’d wandered in from Paradise. He eyed her with the same cold thought as he had the others: I’m going to fucking cripple you.

And that was how he played, with iced anger in his veins that this was all he had left. What he hadn’t lost by himself had been taken from him. Everything but a few hundred bucks, his resilience, and a strip of dirty green baize to try to rebuild a life on.

He lost steadily but didn’t hesitate to keep changing up more money. It was as if he were going all in with his very life, shoving his heart and soul into the middle of the table and baring himself to Fate.

With only a hundred and seventy-five left between him and a cardboard box in downtown, Tom started to win.

And win big.

He won with the same dogged blankness with which he’d previously lost, pushing, forcing, bluffing, intimidating. Never speaking, even when Church Lady said, ‘Well done,’ as he scooped a four-hundred-and-eighty-dollar pot towards him.

When he hit two thousand he got up and moved to a six-twelve table and continued to win as if he’d never been interrupted.

At around three a.m. he lost three hands in a row on okay cards, and decided his luck was spent.

He cashed up more than eleven thousand dollars. It wasn’t great, but it was enough. Enough to get out of LA. Enough for some breathing space.

It took him almost two hours to drive back to the Best Western and the sky was lightening by the time he got there.

Even so, Lucia must have been awake because, before he could knock twice, the door was opened.

By Ness – with a gun trained on his face.

40

TOM’S GUTS SPASMED. They regarded each other for a long moment. Tom could feel his heart beating in his throat. The muzzle of the gun looked as big and black as a well. Big enough to fall into and disappear for ever. He wondered what it would be like to be shot in the face, whether he’d be dead before he found out, or whether he’d feel the copper jacket burst in his eye and drive a molten wedge through his brain.

He took a breath and raised his eyes to Ness’s. ‘Where’s Lucia?’

A look flashed across Ness’s face that might have been hurt, although he was no judge. ‘She’s here,’ she said flatly. ‘She’s fine.’ Then she stepped backwards, lowering the gun.

Tom pushed past her into the room to find Lucia propped up on the bed in her pyjamas, with her wrists and ankles bound. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Who’s she?’ demanded Lucia. Just like a woman.

‘She’s Ness,’ he said curtly. This was no time for hurt feelings. ‘Can I untie her?’