26. Tink
TINK
By that night, the pain’s almost gone.
Absentmindedly, I run a fingertip over the second skin wrap on the inside of my arm. Not so much a sting, but just kind of a dull throb. I already kind of wish I hadn’t gotten it on my dominant arm, but too late for that.
Too late to go back on a lot of things now.
“All right, people, look alive.” Pan strides across the floor of the shop, clapping his hands and smacking them together in anticipation. “Big night for everyone.”
“Let’s hope not,” Kit says. “How about a normal sized night?” He shoves a drawer shut on a metal tool chest and locks it.
A few paces away at the piercing station, Blue clocks it and snorts.
“You really think someone’s gonna pinch your fucking inks or something?” he says.
“No.” Kit’s cheeks darken a little. “I don’t want their dirty fingers all over it, at the very least,” he says, emphasis on dirty. He eyes Blue up and down and lifts his head as Fox comes in from the loft.
“What’s good, Fox?”
“Rugs?”
“Not much. We made a bunch of popcorn and I have about a bajillion movies lined up for her.”
“So cool, cool.” Kit nods, then looks at me. “You okay?”
Yeah, I’m fine. Kit used to be the one in charge of the float, but he never really liked doing it. Not that I like doing it either, but. It does let me keep an eye on Pan, and I think that’s going to be more crucial tonight than ever.
“All right, all right,” Pan says, rubbing his palms together again. “So, you’re babysitting—“ He points at Kit, who scowls.
“I would not call it that,” Kit mutters.
“You two”—Pan points his index and pinky fingers at Blue and Fox like bullhorns—“are watching the door and keeping people from roughing stuff up—”
They glance at each other and nod.
“And we”—Pan darts a finger between the two of us—“are going to rake as much money off of these idiots as possible.”
“And ask about Wendy’s brothers,” I add, so only he can hear. “You are, anyway. Right?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Pan says, looking around the room. “That—”
“You guys have ants in your kitchen.” A female voice and the clomp of heels comes from the back of the shop as Ruby, Emerald, and Pearl emerge from the back.
“Whoa,” she says, slowing a bit and taking in the shop. “Am I in the same place?”
“I know, right?” Pan grins. “You’d never know this was a two-bit tattoo parlor.”
“Hey,” Kit says, but shuffles off to the spiral stairs.
It’s true. Pushing things out of the way, turning the cabinets, setting up a table and a few artful screens makes it look…
I mean, nowhere near like a legitimate casino, but not bad either.
Welcoming. The lights are low. Blue put some music on the surround sound.
And even Pan’s dressed up a little. Well, as dressed up as he gets, in clean jeans and a matching vest with frayed seams at the arms and what seems like every earring he owns stabbed into his earlobes.
There is a fresh coat of black polish on his nails, and the gleam in his eyes is hungry—not predatory exactly, but ready to pounce all the same.
“Just try to keep the ants out of the drinks, okay?” I say to Emerald, who nods even as she wrinkles her nose.
“I mean, I’ll do what I can, but…”
“The last thing we need is people getting angry over petty shit,” I say. “For your sake, least of all.”
She swallows but tips her chin and stares at me, almost equal to my height in her high heels.
She’s dressed a little bit classier than her lagoon wear, a bandage dress in a teal-turquoise ombre.
Hoop earrings but tastefully small, not big enough to wear as bangles.
And her hair in soft, heatless curls. She looks nice, like a real cocktail waitress at a real upscale club.
“Yo, yo.” Pan sidles up and slings an elbow around my neck. “If it isn’t my two favorite blondes.”
Emerald rolls her eyes, sighs, and stalks away to the kitchen, gesturing the other girls to follow. As she does, Pan sucks his teeth near my ear, loud enough that I can tell I’m supposed to notice.
“Trouble in paradise?” I say in a low voice.
“Eh, you know.” He shrugs, not letting go of me. “Women.”
It’s all I can do not to snort. “Yeah.” I inhale sharply. “So what’s the plan?”
Pan lets me go, stuffs his hands in his vest pockets, and shrugs. “You know, the usual. You’ve got the cash box?”
“Yeah.” It’s back on the desk of the shop, near the cash register, but not mingled with the shop money, per se.
I’ve got the buy-in and cash-out sheet and a record for house credit, just like Kit had done before.
And Kit’s smart, but he’s not a numbers guy, or someone with especially good handwriting.
Kind of surprising, if I’m being honest, given that he’s an artist. But I understand the concept enough and I retooled the balance sheet a little.
Not that I’ve ever been that great at math, but I kind of had to learn when I was literally counting pennies.
“Yeah, so same old, same old,” Pan says. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Don’t give markers to anyone doesn’t look like they’ll pay ‘em back. And uh…”
“No, I mean,” I mutter, or shake my head, “you’re going to try and figure out what people know about Mike and JD, right?” I feel like I have to put it plainly because the closer we’ve gotten to this game, the less I’ve felt like he’s taking that part seriously.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, totally,” Pan says, nodding. He cocks his head. “You think I can’t multitask? I’ve got ulterior motives out the ass here.” He sticks his tongue through his teeth, smiling. “Lots of scores to settle,” he says idly.
I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t like the sound of it at all.
I think of Wendy upstairs with Kit, eating popcorn, hopefully entirely blissfully unaware of what’s going on down here.
In a twisted way, it is in her best interest. It’s the best of all bad options.
And if there’s anything I’ve learned in my months of being Tink, in my whole life, it’s that sometimes the best of all bad options is all you get.
I’m about to say as much to Pan, but there’s a rap at the front door. He snaps his neck around and stares. “All right, boys,” he says to Fox and Blue. “Send in the clowns.”
It’s busy, busier than I’ve seen one of these games before.
It was a trickle at first of players, guys I’ve seen before.
No one overly threatening. Middle-aged, overweight, balding.
Polo shirts and expensive watches. Reading glasses, salt and pepper hair.
Guys with kids and families coming in from out of town, maxed out on credit lines elsewhere but needing a fix, hoping to turn around their fortunes.
I learned a long time ago that the real whales—the guys who bet big, spend big, and mostly lose big—are not as flashy as you’d think.
They’re not movie mobsters in pinstripe suits or Hell’s Angel types in leather chaps.
They’re kind of boring, honestly. But boring can be good.
Means they’re not likely to throw a punch.
At least, not on any of us, not on someone who might be able to fight back.
From behind the desk, I swallow.
But now it’s picked up. It’s—I glance at my phone—nine forty-five, the night getting in full swing.
And the table’s packed, so much so that we broke open a satellite game.
The mermaids have barely stood still, picking up and setting down glasses in double time, yet still somehow finding a second or two to tilt their head and smile, even let the occasional hand graze their ass if it comes with folding money on the back end.
More guys show up that I don’t recognize.
Fewer of the suburban commuters, but nothing too creepy looking yet.
Blue and Fox mostly hover by the door at the lounge area, greeting people.
Not like they’re checking IDs or anything.
Sending them my way for a nominal seat fee and then buying in with their chips.
I haven’t moved much from where I’m sitting, mostly just watching but trying not to seem like I am watching, like I am observing too closely.
And even then, for the most part, I just look at Pan.
He’s in full showman mode, grinning, slapping backs, shaking hands, making jokes.
Sipping whatever the girls bring him and even tossing back an occasional shot.
Right now he’s hovering at the edge of the table as a guy in a T-shirt with Take it Easy and a parrot in sunglasses on it slams a hand of cards down on the table.
Pan gives him a bracing pat on the shoulder, tips his head, and then gestures at me with what looks like a question.
But the guy waves him off. Ashen-faced, Pan pouts a little, jabs him again, says what’s clearly “Come on, man,” but the guy brushes him off, gets to his feet, drains the rest of his beer, and stalks off.
I catch my cheek between my teeth. And Pan meets my eyes. He grimaces a little and walks my way.
“What’s wrong?” I say, quick as I can, as soon as he’s in earshot and away from the table.
“Ah, nothing.” Pan swipes the air. “Just couldn’t talk him into staying around. But there’ll be more.” He sips his cocktail, the onyx ring on his pinky flashing, and smiles. “We’re doing good though, right?” He glances down at my books, not that he can really see them upside down.
“Yeah,” I say. “Very.”
It’s hard to know exactly what the pot’s going to end up or how people are going to win, but the buy-in’s higher than usual, which means the rake’s higher than usual too.
“Most excellent,” Pan says, enunciating extra clearly. He sips his drink again, lifts his eyebrows. “You know what? I am going to sit on a hand or two.” He grins, drumming his fingers on the edge of my desk. “Sample my own product, you know?”
“Is that a good idea?” I say. I know it’s not. It’s obviously not. But I can’t say that outright or it’ll just make him want to do it more. I try to make it into a joke. “Don’t they say something about getting high on your own supply?”