Not His to Take by J S Ellis

Author:J S Ellis [Ellis, J S]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789995715632
Publisher: Black Cat Ink Press
Published: 2019-10-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Acey

“Acey?” Mum said on the other end. I pictured her on a deck chair, enjoying the sun, and drinking a cocktail, Dad diving in the pool, or eating hummus and feta cheese.

She’s fine. They’re fine, I thought. Sinclair hadn’t got to them yet.

“How’s Greece?” I asked casually.

“Oh, Greece is wonderful. Where are you?”

I glanced out the window, where it started to piss down.

“I’m in London.”

“Do you have another of your tournaments?”

“Yes.”

“And all is good?”

“It’s going great,” I lied.

“Acey, are you in trouble? Is that why you’re calling?”

“... I just called to check up on you.”

“Hmm...you don’t usually call just to check up on us. Have you spoken to Philip?”

“Mum, you know I don’t speak to him.”

“That was five years ago. It’s been a long time.”

“Not for me, it hasn’t.”

After I hung up, I toyed with the idea of going to a casino and hitting the games before I ran out of cash. It was a dangerous move. Sinclair was likely to find out, but with what I had on him—how he cheated all those players at poker—I planned to use that information against him. I wasn’t going to get cocky, though.

I used to watch Sinclair on a laptop. On his tiepin there was a secret camera where I could see what he was doing. That’s how he cheated those games. Those were my winnings, not his. He never gave me a dime. I deserved that one million pounds. He had so much money, I was sure it wasn’t going to affect him that much.

I was wrong, however. He wasn’t chasing me for the money, but to prove a point.

No one steals from Sinclair Diamond and gets away with it.

I left Carrie’s apartment and took a taxi to Soho to one of the casinos there. I located the poker table and went for the kill. I kept a close eye on my opponents, picking up the weakest player. I looked at my cards. Seven dunces in the suit. Christ. Not a great start.

The goal was simple: strike fear. Coloured chips and overflowing ashtrays—some with cigars, others with cigarettes—decorated the table. We were seated in padded leather armchairs. I didn’t know any of these opponents, but I was out of their league. I bet some of them knew who I was. The dealer had worked with me twice before I watched him shuffle. He had beautiful hands, well taken care of. He was very good in the industry. That’s what we call it. The industry. His nails were cut short and manicured. A man with a sheer pride. Frank was his name.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Tonight’s game is Texas Hold ’em. Blinds are twenty-five and fifty. The game is table stakes and the usual rules apply.”

He dealt the first hand. I took a sip of cognac and licked my dry lips. I looked at my cards again. Okay, it’s showtime; let’s not blow this one up. I didn’t socialise at the table. I heard only what I needed to hear, said what needed to be said, and kept my eyes on my opponents.

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