The clown looks over to the east side of the street at the apartment block whose ground floor is a dance studio, closed for the holiday. Upstairs in a second storey flat, George Carmichael deals cards in a room thick with the fug of hand rolled cigarettes. Seven other men sit around a table covered in a blue cloth with an oval drawn around it by hand in chalk. Fifty pounds buy-in, two pound minimum bet, unlimited rebuys. Carmichael knows Wedgy and Charlie; Charlie’s brought a couple of blokes from the depot and then there’s Ashif and his brothers. He sets the pack in the centre of the table and burns a card, placing it face down next to the pile. The men look at what fate has dealt them and the bets begin. Wedgy is small blind and places a pound on the baize in front of him. Charlie pushes two pounds over the chalk line and the others around the table add theirs. The flop, George flipping two of the three cards over with the third like a croupier. Three of hearts, seven of clubs, king of diamonds. Nothing unless you already have a three, king, seven or some other pair. Wedgy folding, Carmichael telling him he could have checked. Charlie pushing in two more pounds. Black Ralph is in too. Scotch John folds. Ashif who lives in one of the flats downstairs upping the bet to four and his two brothers matching him.
“We got a cartel here?” Wedgy looking over at them.
“Play your hand, man,” says Ashif.
Carmichael folds. Charlie puts in two more to match the brothers, Ralph folds. Four men in the game. Carmichael burns a card and turns over the fourth. Nine of clubs. Charlie tokes on a menthol, Ralph rolls one for himself. John cracks open a can of Carling. Charlie checks, Ashif playing another two pounds, matched by both his brothers.
“Fuck’s sake. You can think for yourself boys.”
Ralph not happy with the open brackets close brackets shit going on at the other end of the table. Charlie checking his hand. King of spades and two of clubs. Best he can hope for is another king, or a two, three or seven so he has two pairs. Ashif must have something. Maybe two pairs already. He drinks from a can of Bulmer’s and pushes two more pounds on the table. Fifty per cent chance. Or just under. Fifth card. Six of hearts. Charlie’s heart sinks. Back to a pair of kings. He checks. Ashif checks. His brothers too.
“Well there’s a fucking surprise,” Ralph shaking his head.
“If you’re not in the game, you shouldn’t be commenting,” George Carmichael says firmly. “Charlie?”
Charlie flips over his pair of kings. Ashif has nothing. A couple of twos. The brother next to him also has nothing, although he does have four clubs. The last brother has three threes. A set.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Scotch John looking to George. “Three fucking musketeers, all for one and one for all?”
“Five of you three of us,” says Ashif calmly as he pulls the coins down the table to his brother.
“George are you seeing this?” Ralph righteously annoyed at the cartel.
“Sorry boys, there’s no rules against it.”
Carmichael lights a slim Panetella as Wedgy shuffles and a brown skinned man named Sharzad stacks forty two pound coins in piles in front of him.
“John, Charlie, you in?”
Ralph wanting to beat the men at their game. Charlie shaking his head.
“How about I buy you a pint when I clean up?”
Ralph snorts and looks down the table. The men aren’t even drinking. One of them has a can of Rubicon, and he hates them.
“Less talking more playing eh, fellas?”
Carmichael calling order as Wedgy deals. Outside, the clown looks up at the window. Every now and then he joins them, but only when the big money is in town. The message finds him and he pulls up a chair, knowing he can’t lose; the poorer the cards, the keener he feels, emotion not something he takes for granted in a world to which he has become utterly desensitised. Having a Moroccan clear him out of a thousand pounds generates a high that no royal flush, no alleyway bunk up or even a knife’s blade can match. To lose is to die, and he feels mortal.