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kidded himself it was a balancing act, that he only surrendered the environment but at all times maintained control of himself—set boundaries, established limits—the truth was, he was stepping into the unknown every time he entered a casino. Which hadn’t mattered until lately, because until lately, he’d not been in the habit of losing.
    It was the machines that had got him, those damn roulette machines, that had appeared in bookies it seemed like overnight. One-armed bandits, he’d never had trouble with: the clue was in the name. Those things were always going to rob you blind. But for some unaccountable reason the roulette machine was more alluring, more seductive . . . You started with a few coins, and it was astonishing how close you came to winning without actually winning, so you put a few more in, and then you won. Winning cleared the decks. Once you’d won you were back where you started, though with slightly less money . . . He’d played poker with Vegas pros and left the table walking; had scooped outsider bets on horses that were walking dog-food, and here he was, taken to the cleaners by a fucking machine, feeding it twenties like it was his firstborn. He’d once boasted he was the house’s worst nightmare: a gambler who played by the clock. As in, I’m leaving here at ten, ahead or behind . These days every time he looked at his watch it had skipped ahead thirty minutes, and every time it did, his next payday got further away.
    He’d been digging into savings. Had found himself studying the loan ads on the tube, the ones with rates that annualised at 4,000 percent plus. Cassie was going to kill him, if he didn’t shoot himself first.
    Worst of all, playing catch-up in office hours—logging onto casino sites in a bid to recoup lunchtime losses—he’d been snared by Roderick bloody Ho, Slough House’s answer to the tachograph. Which was why, tonight, he was Ho’s drinking buddy, with only cokehead Shirley Dander as backup. Yep, the toilet was the right place for him, but he couldn’t stay here forever. Heaving himself upright, he headed back into the bar.
    When he rejoined his colleagues Shirley was asking Ho if his mouth was connected to his brain. “‘Bitch’? You’re lucky I just slapped you.”
    Ho turned to Marcus with relief. “You believe that, dog?”
    â€œDid you just call me ‘dog’?”
    Shirley raised a hand, for the pleasure of seeing Ho flinch. “Mind your fucking language,” she warned.
    â€œDid he just call me ‘dog’?”
    â€œI think he did.”
    Marcus plucked Ho’s glasses from his nose and tossed them onto the floor. “I’m a dog? You’re a dog. Fetch.”
    While Ho went scrabbling again, Marcus said to Shirley, “I didn’t know you and Louisa were tight.”
    â€œWe’re not. But I wouldn’t fix Ho up with a nanny goat.”
    â€œSisterhood is powerful.”
    â€œGot that right.”
    They chinked glasses.
    When Ho sat back down, he was holding his spectacles in place with two fingers. “. . . What you do that for?”
    Marcus shook his head. “I can’t believe you called me ‘dog.’”
    Ho shot Shirley a glance before saying, “Did you forget the terms of our, uh, arrangement?”
    Marcus breathed out through his nose. Almost a snort. “Okay,” he said. “This is what’s what. We’re renegotiating terms, right? Here’s the deal. You breathe one word about those casino sites, to anyone, and I’ll break every bone in your chickenshit body.”
    â€œI’m not chickenshit.”
    â€œFocus on the broken bones. Are we clear?”
    â€œI’m not chickenshit.”
    â€œBut you will have broken bones.”
    â€œI will have broken bones. But I’m not chickenshit.”
    â€œYou pick weird places to set your boundaries. And you know what