The Last Card Read Free Page B

from the businessman,the man felt the pressure ease. He folded his hand. Blackie was going to walk away with over two thousand pounds, but with the losses he had taken he would clear maybe eight hundred. He had been looking at a score of just under five grand.
    Without a word and without even pausing to collect his winnings, Blackie rose from the table and barged his way out of the room. A few moments passed, during which hindsight established he had flown down to the kitchens at the back of the shebeen, before Blackie returned wielding a meat cleaver. The panic that ensued did not prevent Blackie catching Cookie, slamming his right hand to the flat of the gambling table and chopping it off. It may or may not have been a coincidence that this was the hand Cookie had been holding his mobile with.
    Cookie survived the maiming but his smooth patter was never quite as smooth again. Soon after this incident Cookie disappeared. The word on the street was that he had returned to Tunisia.
    H crossed the room and slapped Blackie on the back.
    ‘Blackie, man, wassup!’ Blackie turned to H, a smile of recognition creasing his scarred, battered, fifty-three-year-old face.
    ‘Ey! Watcha now, my yout’! Wha’ gwan?!’ Blackie jumped up and the two friends embraced.
    ‘Good to see you, man, how’ve you been?’
    ‘Me a cool, you know. Me jussa try to keep a level vibe.’
    ‘So this is your new place?’
    ‘Yeah, man, me a hit de big time now, you know. I tired a run race in de Grove so me say, me a move wid man an’ man in de West End.’
    ‘Looking good, my brother!’ H stood back and looked Blackie over. In reality Blackie was not looking good at all. Since H had last seen him Blackie had become thinner, almost gaunt. One of his front teeth was missing. He was also sporting a long, thick scar on his forehead. H had heard this was left behind by an irate out-of-town fish who had entered Blackie’s shebeen in the Grove with over two thousand pounds. A straight thirty-six hours later, the fish had left, laughter ringing in his ears, with all his money gone, bar a crisp twenty-pound note for his cab home. The fish did not leave quietly.
    ‘So you come to give me a spin tonight?’
    ‘What, you think I’m here to watch?’ Blackie laughed and the twoagain embraced. The Chinese woman who had opened the door for H now approached.
    ‘Drink? Something to eat?’ Blackie threw an arm around her waist, drawing her into his body.
    ‘H, dis ’ere is Shampa. A good woman. Shampa, dis is H.’ Despite H’s smile of greeting nothing about him seemed to please Shampa. The sullen look on her fleshy face remained as tight as ever.
    ‘Hi, pleased to meet you.’
    Shampa ignored his greeting and there was a moment’s pause.
    ‘What you want to drink? Every t’ing on de house tonight.’ Blackie’s joie de vivre interceded.
    ‘In that case I’ll have a Jack. Jack Daniels.’
    Blackie turned Shampa’s shoulders and playfully slapped her arse, sending her off in the direction of the kitchen.
    ‘Who’s the new girl? She looks like fun.’ The ambiguity of H’s comment was deliberate. It didn’t do to be too playful with Blackie.
    ‘Das my sweetheart, man. I love ’er! Love ’er to deat’!’ H and Blackie watched her take short, quick steps on her way to the kitchen. Boo, the good-natured Nigerian, piped up. Despite being in his late thirties Boo liked to speak with the florid cadences of a teenage, African-American, Harlem homeboy.
    ‘Yo, nigger, wazzzzzup?’ With a bear-like hug he wrapped his big arms around H, squeezing him until he squirmed.
    ‘Man! You need to back up!’ said H, gasping for air.
    ‘And look at you, man!’ Boo continued. ‘Wearing your lucky suit ’n’ shit! Yeah, boeeeey!’ He slapped H’s hand, hard.
    ‘I’m not like you bums,’ countered H. ‘I’ve got things to do outside of gambling.’ He turned to Blackie. ‘So these are your new premises.’ H looked around. ‘This place has …