‘Thanks, Nic, but I can’t take on any extracurricular work. I need the evenings with my family.’
He scrapes back a chair, sits down and looks at me earnestly.
‘Are you fucking serious? These people pay guys like you a fortune, and you do it during work hours, you moron. Christ, Danny, you’re in a position now where no one’s watching. At least meet the guy.’
He has a point. There’s no harm in meeting him.
‘I suppose I could,’ I say. ‘I’ll need to check with Jo.’
‘Great. Phone her now.’
That’s the thing with Nic: he never thinks things through. He isn’t going to budge until I call Jo.
‘That’s fine,’ she says when I call. ‘I’ll get a takeaway delivered. This is my chance for an Indian.’
I hate Indian food.
‘Then it’s on me,’ I say.
I hang up, and Nic claps his hands in glee.
‘Perfect. We’re meeting him at seven at the Royale casino. The food’s to die for. We’ll have a few bets after.’
‘You’ve already arranged it?’ I ask, surprised.
Nic laughs. ‘Time waits for no man.’
I open my mouth to say that gambling isn’t my thing. Truth is, I think it’s a mug’s game. But he’s putting work my way, so I say nothing.
That was my first mistake.
***
The casino entrance looms like a portal to another world; a world where fortunes shift like tides and the air hums with anticipation. I hesitate before stepping inside. Then the lobby envelops me in a kaleidoscope of crimson carpet, golden chandeliers and mirrored walls that reflect a glittering chaos. The aromas of perfume and aftershave hang heavy, making my senses reel.
To my left, rows of slot machines flash promises of wealth. Ahead, blackjack tables beckon, their green felt inviting.
I follow Nic, and as I walk I feel the soles of my shoes sinking into plush carpet. A swirl of voices, laughter, curses, and whispered secrets surrounds me. The players’ faces flicker between stoic determination and wild desperation. I wonder what stories hide behind their eyes. The gambler who’s lost everything. The high roller chasing a rush. The novice praying for a miracle.
‘Come on,’ says Nic. ‘Grub first.’
He pulls me off the main floor and towards a door to our left. That takes us into a sleek restaurant, where the air smells of grilled fish and barbecued beef.
‘Hey,’ he shouts, waving at someone. I follow his gaze towards a suited man who sits alone at a table.
‘This is Rupert Maynard,’ says Nic. ‘And this is the guy I was telling you about. Mr Financial Genius, Daniel Neal.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I say, half-laughing.
Rupert shakes my hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ he says in a smooth, cultured voice. I instantly feel out of my depth. Rupert is commanding and enigmatic. His tailored suit discreetly proclaims that he is wealthy, and that his wealth is of the kind that buys castles, estates and entire businesses. His salt-and-pepper hair is swept back with precision, his high forehead lends him a distinguished air.
‘Good things, I hope,’ I say, hearing the nervous edge in my own voice.
‘Nothing but. I’ve ordered Martinis. I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re teetotal.’
‘Far from it,’ laughs Nic.
‘I suggest we eat first,’ says Rupert. It sounds more like an order than a suggestion. ‘I hate discussing money on an empty stomach. I highly recommend the duck.’
