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for a moment watching as the three gangsters walked quickly away, and then turned back to H.
    ‘Kiss me back-foot!’ He whispered the words. H looked on while Sammy knelt down by Dipak’s body, careful not to step in the blood, and picked up his wrist, feeling for his pulse.
    ‘Is he dead?’ H wanted to know. The way Sammy looked back at him gave him his answer.
    ‘I’m out of here, Blackie, mate. I can’t fucking deal with this.’
    Sammy gently laid Dipak’s arm to the floor, picked up his remaining possessions from the table and headed for the door. Before he left he turned back to Blackie. ‘Sorry to leave you like this, but … are you gonna call the old bill?’
    ‘Wha’ you want me to tell dem?’ Again Blackie spoke in a voice just above a whisper. Sammy shrugged. This was clearly a new one for him as well. He left.
    ‘What’re you gonna do with him?’ H asked the question that was on all their minds and although he’d aimed it at Blackie it was Shampa that answered.
    ‘I don’t know what we’re gonna do with him but we’re certainly not doing a stretch for being accessories to murder.’ Shampa spoke with the efficiency with which she handled the playing cards. She looked at Blackie. ‘We’re gonna have to get rid of him.’
    H and Blackie both knew she was right. H used the corner of his jacket to wipe clean of all possible prints the gun that was still in his hands. Then he went to the gambling table and swept up all the money from the last hand. That was his. The chips he collected into a pile and counted.
    ‘There’s twelve hundred and twenty-five pounds here.’ Shampa went to the cash box that sat on the table and opened it up. It was stuffed with money that the table had taken over the course of the night’s gambling. She counted out H’s money and handed it to him.
    ‘A pleasure doing business.’ He looked over at Blackie. Blackie had now gone back to the window and was again looking out, his back to the room.
    ‘Hey, Blackie, man, did you know those guys were coming?’ Blackie didn’t answer. Dipak had been a punter at Blackie’s various clubs for at least twelve years. That didn’t necessarily mean that Blackie knew anything about him outside of his life as a gambler, but twelve years is twelve years. As H well knew, the gambler’s life could be all consuming. Character is always revealed during times of stress and the ebb and flow of life that surrounded the gambling table could be considered a seductive form of stress. Over the twelve years of support that Dipak had given Blackie’s games, H would guess that Blackie probably knew Dipak as well as anyone. He searched for something to say.
    ‘Still tired of running race in the Grove?’ Maybe it wasn’t the most appropriate comment but H was shocked by what had just happened. When Blackie didn’t answer he knew it was time to chip.
    ‘Adios amigos. Welcome to the West End.’ With that, he picked up his shot glass, downed the remaining Jack Daniels, and walked quickly from the room.
    ***
    As H hit the cool night air and made his way back up Wardour Street, he suddenly realised how tired he was. Dipak’s death hadbriefly shocked the tiredness out of him. He’d pulled his first late night gambling session for some time. His body wasn’t yet used to the shift in time. Something like jet lag.
    H crossed quickly into Oxford street and could now see his Mercedes up ahead. Leaning against it was a figure wearing white shell pants and a black, hooded, leather coat. H approached, eyeing Stammer warily.
    ‘Where’s mmmmmy m … m … money?’ H couldn’t believe it. The tiredness seeped out of his body as he could feel himself becoming more and more angry.
    ‘Leave it, Stammer, just leave it. And why are you leaning on my car?’ He kept the edge out of his voice but it was hard.
    ‘You m … m … mmmust …’ H didn’t know what Stammer was trying to say but the effort of waiting had used up his remaining