High Stakes

He'd been visiting Jenoff's a couple of nights a week for a few months now. Sometimes he won big - the stakes were always high and there was always a lot of cash up for grabs. Sometimes he was not so lucky.

He was known by sight, around the place though. The English demon, known as only The Repo Man, always gave him a toothy grin whenever they met - and Doyle couldn't shake the feeling that the demon was looking forward to the day he would mess up so bad that he would find himself at the pointy end of Jenoff's soul sucking fingers and his body would be handed over to The Repo Man. There was just something unnerving in that sharp, shark's tooth smile that told Doyle the other demon was sizing him up and wondering what he would taste like.

But even with the threat of a bit of inter-demon cannibalism hanging over his head, he still kept on hitting the tables. Even Mr. Jenoff, himself, knew Doyle by sight - and on nights when Doyle spent a lot of money, the demon boss would have free drinks sent over to the Irishman … and somehow, when those drinks started rolling in, Doyle always ended up spending more.

Tonight was no different. Having won big a couple of days ago, Doyle was feeling flush and he put down a lot of money on his first bet. Some of the demons in the game sucked on their teeth, inhaling sharply, when they saw how much he was betting - and they folded then and there. Within moments, Mr. Jenoff had sent a scotch to the table - and by the time Doyle had drunk it, there was already another one waiting.

It was his turn to raise or fold. There were only a few demons left in the game now. He glanced down at his cards. It wasn't the world's greatest hand … but the scotch was making his head buzz pleasantly, and he was on a roll with the bluffing. He'd already seen off most of the players, and it was probable at least some of them had had a better hand than he did. It was all about holding his nerve. He took another glug of his free drink, slammed the glass down on the green baize and then pushed his chips into the middle.

Another demon folded.

It was just him and a scaly Kritzmar demon now, even the guy with the x ray vision had folded. Doyle stared into the Kritzmar's yellow eyes - it was the moment of truth. 'OK gentlemen, show your hands,' the demon said.

Slowly, Doyle laid out his cards - three of a kind, three sevens. Not bad - but not great. He heard the angry rumblings from demons who had folded, who realised now they could have beaten him if they'd only held their nerve … but it wasn't their hands that were important. He stared at the Kritzmar expectantly. The demon smiled, flashing sharp, pointed fangs and laid out his own hand. Three of a kind - three eights.

Doyle groaned, and the Kritzmar began pulling all the chips towards himself.

The dealer collected all the cards and began to shuffle them, asking who was in - just as another drink arrived at Doyle's elbow. He took it, and decided to stay for the next round. He still had some chips left, he'd just have to bid less recklessly this time.

But the game started up - and the cards were not falling his way. If he folded he'd lose everything, he had to keep playing in the hope something would come up. He took another card - it was a four of clubs. Not a lot of use.

The graxlar demon beside him folded and slammed his hand down on the table. It got to its feet and shambled off, muttering something about going to the can and to not touch his stuff. Doyle felt his eyes slide, unbidden, to the side; to the heap of chips and the abandoned hand of cards.

There were a lot of chips. Doyle had so few of his own left ... Surely the graxlar wouldn't notice if just some of them were taken? He felt his heart rate pick up at the thought of the theft, but he had robbed banks - he could do this. He glanced to the side again. He coughed. Then he - apparently carelessly - dropped the napkin, which had come with his free drink, onto the table - so it partially covered the graxlar's heap. He coughed again. Then he reached out to pick up the napkin, palming a handful of chips as he did so.

He dropped the napkin and the chips into his pocket, he would bring them out a few at a time - so no one noticed he suddenly had more to play with.

As he realised no one had noticed, his heart rate began to slow. He smiled - though he tried to suppress it, and took a hasty glug of his scotch.

'What'll it be, half breed?' the dealer asked him. Doyle took three cards, reviewed what he had and jettisoned the worst of his hand. Things still weren't looking great. He glanced to the side again … the graxlar's cards were right there. If he could grab the chips unnoticed …

He looked around, to see if there was any sign of the demon coming back from the bathroom. The casino was busy as always, crowded and buzzing, which made it hard to see - but from what he could tell, the graxlar was still not headed back in their direction. If he could just palm a card, take a look at it and then put down whatever didn't work...

His heart rate picked up again. He felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead and start to trickle down his brow. This would take a more cunning sleight of hand than grabbing the chips had done. But he knew a few card tricks, had learned them when he was a boy and used them to impress classrooms full of children when he was a teacher, he could manage sleights of hand.

Slowly, carefully, he shuffled his stool a little to the side, so he was closer to the graxlar's cards. Then he picked up all his own cards and fanned them out, looking at them intently and frowning, as if he was studying them. He planted both his elbows on the table and began to rearrange his cards, his face twisted in concentration, his eyes never leaving his hand the whole time. To anyone at the table, watching, he was completely engrossed in his own hand.

Then, when the demon two seats down from him folded, and the one next to that took another card from the dealer, Doyle's right hand came down, touched the table for the briefest of moments and then came back up bearing an extra card.

Immediately, he shuffled his cards back together, to hide the fact there were now six and - pretending his head was back in the game - started sorting through to decide which one to drop back down into the graxlar's pile.

He selected which one to jettison and - with another glance around the busy club - brought his right hand down to the table, the unwanted card concealed in his palm.

It was only an inch from the green baize when he felt his wrist suddenly seized. He felt his heart freeze in his chest and his stomach plunge and, slowly, he turned his head to see who had hold of him. He came face to face with the grinning Repo Man. The Repo Man's sharp teeth gleamed white under the lights. 'Dear oh dear, Mr. Doyle, we do seem to be in trouble don't we?'

He pulled Doyle from his stool - the seat fell to the floor with a loud clatter, which gained everyone's attention. Doyle was aware of every eye in the club suddenly on him. 'What's this then?' The Repo Man asked, twisting Doyle's wrist so that his right hand was forced palm up, revealing the hidden playing card. The Repo Man tutted sorrowfully. 'I'm afraid Mr. Jenoff takes a very dim view of cheating, Francis, you're going to have to be punished - for your own good…' he flashed the shark's smile, 'I'm sure you understand.'

He slammed Doyle's hand back down onto the table - exposing his wrist - and then took out a sharp and nasty looking dagger. He raised it high, and Doyle's eyes grew wide as he realised what the demon intended to do. 'No!' he cried out, desperately. 'Please no. I'm sorry.'

'They're all sorry when they're caught, Mr. Doyle. Always sorry after the fact.'

'No - please - I'll do anythin' - anythin'!'

But The Repo Man just grinned more widely. Doyle struggled, twisting to try and free himself, aware of everyone in the casino staring, watching - waiting with bated breath. 'I suggest you hold still, Francis,' The Repo Man said. 'It'll hurt less if it's a clean cut. You don't want me to not make it first time and have to saw through the bone and gristle do you? And you awake and screaming the whole time…'

Doyle felt his knees go weak. 'Please - please don't. I promise - I'll do anythin'.'

'They all say that.' The dagger fell.

Doyle screwed his eyes shut and twisted his head away, waiting for the pain as his hand was sliced clean off … but it never came. After a moment, he risked opening one eye to see what had happened.

Mr. Jenoff himself was standing there, in his tuxedo, he was smiling - though maybe it wasn't the friendliest smile. He seemed to have stopped The Repo Man from cutting - and the spiky, green demon seemed more than a little put out about it.

'Now, now,' the casino owner said. 'Perhaps we can clear all this up.' Doyle felt weak with relief. 'I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding,' Mr. Jenoff continued. 'Francis is a good patron of our little establishment - a valued customer, I'm sure he wouldn't deliberately set out to steal from me.' His smile became even more sinister - and Doyle felt a little of his relief evaporate.

'Now - do you mean it, Mr. Doyle?'

Doyle had snatched his hand away from the table, 'mean what?'

'That you'll do anything to keep your hand, of course.'

'Oh - uh -' he glanced between the casino owner and The Repo Man, trying to shut out the stares and the air of excitement coming off the watching demons in waves. 'I mean …'

'Come now, that wasn't just talk, was it?' Jenoff said, sounding a little disappointed. 'Not just a hollow promise to try and prevent you from losing your hand?'

'Uh - no - no. I meant it. N - name it.' His voice wavered.

Jenoff's smile grew bigger. 'Well - how about instead of your hand … we take your soul?' His fingers twitched. Doyle noticed. He had seen enough eyeless, lifeless bodies thrown to the floor to know what Jenoff meant. He felt his mouth grow dry.

'Uh - I mean, when I said "anything"...'

'If you didn't mean it, The Repo Man can take your hand right now.'

The Repo Man looked delighted and raised his dagger once more. Doyle looked at the blade and gulped. Mr. Jenoff continued talking. 'Of course - this is a house of gambling. We'll give you a chance. One game with me - your choice - and if you win, you walk away. If you lose…' his fingers twitched again, 'I get your soul.' Doyle just stared at him in horror. '... or you can just lose your hand now and we'll say no more about it,' Jenoff finished up. 'The choice is really up to you.'

There was a collective intake of breath, as the watching demons leaned in closer to hear what Doyle would decide. Doyle stared between the dagger and Jenoff, trying to blot out the crowd, wishing the earth would just open up and take him whole. 'Um…'

'It's a generous offer, Francis,' Jenoff told him. 'A chance to walk out of here in one piece. There's not many who cheat me who get to do that.'

Doyle nodded. His mouth was completely dry now, his lips were parched. He nervously ran his tongue across them to try and moisten them, but his mouth was so arid it did nothing. He didn't feel able to speak … and his legs didn't feel all that up to supporting him. But his nod was enough.

'Splendid!' Jenoff beamed. 'Now - me against you, what shall we play: poker? Texas Hold em? Seven card stud?'

But Doyle shook his head, he didn't think his nerves could last an entire game. 'Let's - let's just get it over with,' his voice was raspy and hoarse. 'A roll of the dice.'

'Just a roll of the dice, Mr. Doyle? That takes cojones. OK - you heard him, clear the table.' The dealer hastily grabbed up all the cards and chips leaving the green baize bare. 'Highest roll wins,' Jenoff said, 'do you wish to go first, Mr. Doyle?'

Doyle shook his head. 'You - you go.'

'Very well.' Mr. Jenoff took out two dice and stepped up to the table. There was a scrum as the demons pushed and shoved to get the best view. And then - once there was silence - Mr. Jenoff blew on the dice, shook them in his hand and then rolled them across the green baize. He got a five and a three.

'Eight,' he declared. 'Not bad. But not impossible to beat. Your turn Mr. Doyle.'

Feeling like his legs were turned to water, Doyle stepped up to the table and scooped up the dice. 'He'll let me have your body when he's done,' The Repo Man hissed in his ear. 'I've never had a half breed. I wonder what you'll taste like.'

Trying to blot him out, Doyle closed his eyes, blew on the dice and shook them in his hands. He prayed. He didn't know why - he'd never believed in God, even as a boy - and the run of luck he'd had in the past few years should tell him exactly how this would end. But still he prayed - to any higher power there was out there - that if they would just let him win, he would do whatever they asked of him.

It was just putting himself in more debt. He was only gambling with his soul to try and repay the debt of keeping his hand. He had only nearly lost his hand to try and stave off losing another poker match, he was only losing that poker match because he kept coming to Jenoffs and he only came to Jenoff's because he had robbed a bank. He'd only robbed a bank to get Darin McNamara off his back … and now here he was trying to save his soul with promising something else to somebody else - simply trying to defer the payment. That's all he ever did these days, try and defer payments of loans - getting in over his head with worse and worse trouble as every debt came due. This was all his life was now - what was one more deferred payment? So he promised anything to any god who would listen and - with his eyes still tightly shut - he threw the dice.

He heard them hit the table and roll, and - with the blood pounding in his ears and his heart beating so fast it felt like it would explode in his chest - he pried one eye open. The first had landed - on a four. The last one was still rolling, tipped on the edge and waiting to see what side it would come down on; hovering between a three and a five.

He held his breath, 'anything,' he promised silently. The dice clunked down. Five. He let out his breath in one, long stream; gripping the table so his legs didn't give way. 'Nine,' he said, gasping. The sweat was pouring off him. 'Nine.'

There was uproar amongst the demons watching, as they settled the scores between them - working out who owed what in the bets they had laid on the outcome. But the noise sounded oddly distant to Doyle, he felt completely separate from it. Still breathing heavily, he turned to look at Jenoff.

The casino owner was still smiling, though now he was tight lipped. 'Very well,' he said. 'I'm a demon of my word. You're free to go.' His brow furrowed and his next words came out with a threat laced through them, 'but don't ever try anything like this again, Francis. I'll not be so accommodating next time.'

Doyle nodded and stumbled away from the crowds on jelly legs. He staggered out of the casino and, once he was outside and in private, vomited copiously onto the wasteland. He wouldn't be trying anything like that ever again. He had learned his lesson. He was never returning to Jenoff's.