Caribbean Casino

By David Lisle

Katie Moore and her baby die on a small tropical island because its hospital didn't have the necessary equipment to save them. Local politicians had stolen money earmarked for this, and Katie's brother Alan found out. He also finds out the baby's body was sold for medical research.
Alan is the manager of a London casino and is able to steal two million pounds from it. The money is not discovered missing for a long time, as casino profit margins aren't reliable in the short term. He decides to add a casino to a run-down hotel on the island and manage it himself. He vows to use his profits to build the missing hospital wing and to avenge the death of his sister and nephew.
The colourful mob-connected owner of the London casino eventually discovers his losses, and who was responsible. He eventually tracks Alan down in the Caribbean and tries to kill him.
There is plenty of action, including corrupt politicians, a paedophile bishop, a Columbian drug cartel, a gigolo dive instructor, property scams and banking intrigue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Lisle
• Release date: Oct 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215479551

Book preview

1

Alan Moore plucked the mother-of-pearl ball from the seventeen slot and, in the same smooth motion, started the wheel spinning anti-clockwise. He kissed the back of his hand, leaned over to the right side of the wheel and flicked his fingers effortlessly. The ball shot out of his hand and whirled around its channel with a loud whine in the opposite direction.

As the ball slowed he spread his hands over the layout and called, No more bets...

At that moment, a large wad of banknotes landed near the top of the table, scattering chips in all directions. A guttural, Usual bet. wafted out from under a red chequered turban, as its owner swept past, to the bathroom around the corner from the American Roulette table.

No bet! No bet! screamed Alan, grabbing the notes off the table and attempting to re-arrange the scattered chips in their previous locations. He was known in the business as Mr. Cool, but on this occasion several beads of sweat broke out on his brow.

The ball dropped and bounced tauntingly a couple of times on the diamond-shaped studs. There was silence as it dropped, followed by several moans as people strained to see the number.

Thank God, no one’s on it this time, breathed Alan to himself. Then, in as neutral a voice as he could muster, he announced, Seventeen, black, odd and low.

He couldn’t resist a smirk as he looked over at Ben Tobler, stuffing his pockets full of notes at the cashier’s desk. Tobler had almost cleaned the table out with a large bet on seventeen the previous spin, but was now cashing out after a long and profitable night. If he had stayed and repeated his bet, Alan would have needed to call for a large advance, incurring the wrath and suspicion of Bob Mitchell, the casino’s owner.

As it was, there were only a couple of winning chips on the even-money bets, so it looked to Alan like the panic was over. He would soon be able to hand the table back to the dealer he had pushed aside, and who was hovering in the background waiting for a signal.

As usual, when things went badly, Alan’s superstitions came into play with a vengeance. He’d ordered several out-of-turn dealer changes. He’d changed the ball three times. He’d told the dealers they were spinning the wheel or the ball too fast or too slow or in the wrong direction, all to no avail. It was said that he even changed his shoes on these occasions, but no-one could ever prove that. It was unusual for a Pit-Boss to take over as dealer, but he was desperate. Maybe his trademark hand-kissing would do the trick.

Alan always dressed impeccably and, at work, he always wore the same style of black patent leather Bruno Magli loafers. He kept a dozen pairs in his private changing room, along with an identical black Dior tuxedo for every night of the week, and two to spare. Identical hand-tailored white dress shirts from Cuthberts of Savile Row filled a complete wall, and if one had the slightest stain or wrinkle, it immediately went into the laundry bag. A blemish of any sort that might not come out in the wash relegated it, or any other piece of Alan’s apparel, to the throw-away bin. Many a novice dealer (and some not-so-novice) had started very adequate wardrobes by staking out the casino’s back door when the throw-away bin was placed for pick-up.

As Alan casually placed the glass marker on the uncovered number seventeen in the middle of the layout, and was paying out the few winning bets, the flowing white and gold robes of Prince Abdul Bin Aziz swished imperiously into view.

Ah-hah, I won, boomed the prince. Just give me a cheque for seventeen thousand. I don’t want to carry all those chips around. Keep the thousand in cash for yourself.

Alan looked up with alarm. What do you mean, seventeen thousand? he choked out. I’m sorry sir, I had already called for no more bets when you threw your money on the table. In any case, I don’t know what your usual bet is, and I don't know how much money you threw.

He felt affronted that someone should try to throw their weight around and break all the rules like this. These damn Arabs were all the same—they had so much money, it had no meaning to them. They’d long forgotten that other people had to work hard for theirs; if they ever knew.

He held out the wad of notes and pointed to the sign above the table. It explained very clearly that no bets would be accepted after the dealer said No More Bets, and that all cash had to be exchanged for chips before it could be used as a bet.

Don't be ridiculous. thundered the prince. Everyone knows I play a thousand on seventeen. Two hundred on the number and a hundred on everything around it. That’s all I ever bet on this silly game.

He brushed the money out of Alan’s hand. Count it if you want. He delved into the depths of his robes and pulled out five similar bundles. See? Here are some more. They’re all the same. A thousand each. Now just give me my money and let me get back to the Chemin de Fer table.

The aroma of the inevitable La Romana Cuban cigar preceded the five foot nothing, but very ample, frame of the casino’s owner as he waddled over. Bob Mitchell liked to be efficient with his language. Whassamadder? he demanded.

History has proved that no-one should take Mr. Bob Meathook Mitchell lightly. The nickname had been awarded following several incidents at Smithfield’s Market, where business associates who hadn’t answered Mr. Mitchell’s questions to his satisfaction had been found dangling from the ceiling, frozen among the sides of beef, pork and lamb. Although he’d never been charged—he always had a cast-iron alibi—it was generally accepted that it was best to tell Meathook exactly what he wanted to know.

Sir, this gentleman says he won, but he didn’t. He threw some cash on the table after I said no more bets. He scattered everyone else’s bets and now he says we owe him seventeen thousand.

Payim, snapped Meathook, I wanna get back to the Chemmy.

Alan’s gasped But sir... was nipped in the bud by a harsh jab in the ribs from the tall and dapper General Manager, Justin Everest, who had appeared out of nowhere, scooped up the cash, and was now writing out a cheque with a gold Mont Blanc fountain pen.

Here you go, prince. He tore off the cheque and handed it over with a flourish. He slipped the cash into his pocket and told Alan, Mark down that I’m adding a grand to the personnel tips.

Justin was the picture of elegance in his maroon alligator shoes, midnight blue tuxedo, powdered blue dress shirt with frills around the sleeves, and a black strip around the collar instead of the bow-tie required for all other casino employees.

He smoothly ushered the prince, and a couple of other Chemin de Fer players on the way back from the bathroom, out of the room. Panic over, thought Alan—everyone’s happy. Everyone who mattered anyway. The prince was slightly vindicated over his losses at Chemmy. A terrible player, he had no way of winning his money back this session. Mr. Mitchell would get his cut off the top of the million pounds the prince was about to cap out at. Justin had a grand in his pocket, and the only personnel to see it would be the barely legal-aged nymphet he intended to visit later, before he went home to Melanie and their three daughters.

Melanie always understood that late nights (all-nighters, sometimes) were just the price she had to pay for the unbelievable salary he brought home and all the perks. She suspected that his late nights were not always all business, but she didn’t care too much as long as the money kept rolling in, and as long as he only smelled of the masculine Brut perfume he wore somewhat liberally. She didn’t think he was that good in bed anyway, and she had her eye on the guy who cleaned the pool.

Meathook put his arm as much around Alan as he could. Listen mate, he whispered, E’s doin’ a million at Chemmy. Wassa couple grand?

He screwed up his right eye in a half-wink that sent a shiver up Alan’s spine. Unlike a real wink, the eye never fully closed, and Alan knew he was under intense scrutiny the whole time.

Meathook looked around to make sure nobody else could hear, then continued: You know I'm movin' Justin to manage my other casino in Dean Street, right?

Alan nodded Yes sir.

Well, if you play your cards right, his job here’s all yours. I just need you to do a couple things for me first, OK? Come to my office in the morning at 10 o'clock and we'll talk about it.

As his boss lumbered out of sight, Alan had very mixed feelings. The promotion would finally let him put his plan into action, but he dreaded to think what the couple things could be.

2

Mitchell had fired people for being late. Sometimes worse. So, despite a restless night, Alan got ready thirty minutes early.

He searched the street for a taxi as he jumped down the three concrete steps outside his Chelsea flat. His ankle buckled under him and he fell in a heap. He screamed and clutched his foot. A man in a pin-striped business suit nearly tripped over him. Are you OK, young man? Shall I call an ambulance?

Physical and mental pain fought each other as he weighed his options. He really needed that promotion. His plans depended on it.

No, thank you, it’s just a sprained ankle. If you could help me to that railing, I just need a few minutes to get myself together. Alan didn’t really believe what he was saying, but took the man’s arm and hobbled to the railing. He said Thank you, I’ll be fine. Don’t bother to wait around. To take his mind off the pain, he brushed at the dirt on his suit. Luckily the fabric was not torn.

Finally, the soreness subsided just enough for Alan to limp to the curb. He desperately waved at a taxi heading west, the wrong direction. Ignoring oncoming traffic, the cabbie did a U-turn and screeched to a stop. Where to, mate?

Alan wrenched open the door and pleaded, Adam Street. The Lucky Lady casino. If you get me there before ten o’clock, I’ll double your fare.

I’ll do me best, mate, but it’s quarter to ten now. It’s a twenty-minute drive, easy. He slammed the cab into gear and ran the red light just ahead of them. You got a hot bet going or something?

Alan rubbed his ankle and swatted his suit some more. No, I work there. I’ve got an interview for a promotion. My boss hates people being late, and I really want the job.

As they neared Buckingham Palace, they could see the traffic ahead almost at a standstill.

Shit, said the cabbie. The Queen’s probably walking her friggin’ corgis.

Can’t you go up Piccadilly? Alan was getting desperate.

The cops’ll have my licence if they see me do a U-turn here. Anyway, it’s anyone’s guess what the traffic’s like on Piccadilly.

I’ll make it three times the fare.

OK mate, I’ll risk it. They heard some angry shouts as the cab turned in its own length and screeched off to the north. Alan winced at some of the risks the cabbie took after that, but there was no choice.

They skidded to a halt outside the casino, and the meter said five pounds even. Alan threw a twenty-pound note in the cabbie’s lap. Keep the change.

The cabbie put a finger to his forehead. Thanks, mate. Good luck with the interview.

Alan panted up the stairs to Bob Mitchell’s office right on ten o’clock. Relief, plus anxiety about the couple things outweighed his ankle pain.

He scanned the waiting-room pictures. He found it intriguing that one of the most ruthless mobsters in London had rubbed shoulders with royalty, business tycoons, film stars and all manner of VIPs. Either Mitchell’s cover was excellent, or someone was good with PhotoShop.

A heady aroma preceded Mitchell’s entry. No, they’re not fakes, if that’s what you’re thinking. He waved his La Romana at the biggest of the pictures. That’s the one I’m proudest of. Prince Philip giving my boy the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award at Eton! The ol’ prince musta shit a brick when he saw me standing behind Tommy.

Alan had tried for that award himself and knew how difficult it was. Congratulations, sir. Your son did well to get that. He wondered how a mobster’s son got into Eton.

Mitchell must have seen many puzzled expressions about that. Used to be upper class only, but money talks these days. Anyway, take a seat over there.

Listen, mate, here's what I want you to do. Mitchell took a deep puff of his cigar. I’m selling my boat in the BVI, the British Virgin Islands. You know where they are?

Er, yes sir, they’re in the Caribbean aren’t they? A bit north of Su... he coughed as he remembered his promise to his sister. She didn’t want anybody even suspecting her connection with Summer Island. Um, a bit north of Puerto Rico, aren’t they?

No, they’re south of Puerto Rico. You get a connecting flight in Miami. Anyway, my boat’s there and this guy’s going to pay half a million US dollars for it. I need you to give ’im this bill of sale and get the cash. The banks down there aren’t as uptight as the British or US banks. They’re used to seeing large amounts of cash changing hands, if you know what I mean. Half wink.

You want me to bring half a million dollars back here in my suitcase? Alan’s eyebrows rose into his hairline.

No, you idiot–you think I’m goin’ to risk it being grabbed by Customs? Or maybe you ‘losing’ it somewhere? I’ve got an account there. Deposit the cash and bring me the receipt. Just ask for the manager and he’ll take care of everything. He’s a friend of mine. Half wink. After the guy gives them the cash, and you get the deposit slip, you’ll take ’im to the boat. There’s some special features you have to show ’im.

Alan gulped. I don’t know anything about boats, sir.

You don’t need to know nothin’ about boats, mate. Mitchell threw a set of keys on the desk. A large flotation fob of yellow foam was attached. "In the master cabin, there’s a hidden compartment in the closet. You control it by holding down the ceiling fan chain and turning the left bedpost knob. Clockwise to open, anti-clockwise to close.

You’ll find an envelope in there, and some packages you don’t have to worry about. They’re for him. Just bring me the envelope. Go to the bank and get the cash. When they’ve counted it and given you the receipt, show ’im the boat, give ’im the bill of sale and the keys. That’s it. Any questions?

Alan shook his head. He had a lot of questions, but he needed that promotion.

Mitchell held out the keys and bill of sale. Okay. Get your tickets from my secretary this afternoon. By the way, if you get any ideas about not coming back, try calling your brother. He’s my guest at Smithfield market until you get back. Half wink.

3

Spectacular death has occurred at London’s Smithfield market for about a thousand years. In the twelfth century it was called Smoothfield, home to the most debauched and drunken holiday on the calendar—Bartholomew Fair. Joustings and other deadly tournaments took place on its ten acres just outside the city boundary. It was a favourite spot for public executions of heretics and dissidents. Edward I had William Wallace hanged, drawn and quartered there. Richard II had Wat Tyler decapitated there. During the reign of Mary Tudor, over 200 people were burned to death there for their religious beliefs. Swindlers and forgers were boiled in oil.

Nowadays it’s known as Smithfield and its deaths are mostly of four-legged creatures. However, late in 2010, two of Bob Mitchell’s gang-boss rivals were discovered in the same week hanging, icy cold, among sides of beef, pork and lamb. Mitchell was in the Caribbean at the time and the police were never able to pin anything on him. Nonetheless, the incident earned him the nickname of Meathook Mitchell.

A decade later, the silver Rolls Royce glided to a halt at the western entrance of the market. Mitchell emerged from the rear and looked up at the grey clouds dropping a light rain. Typical, he grumbled to the huge guy with a boxer’s face who ran round from the other side of the car with an umbrella. Sean Pugsy Malone was a fearless ex-IRA thug. He’d been responsible for countless broken limbs and the death of several English soldiers in Belfast. After The Troubles ended he fled to London to escape the Bloody Sunday enquiry. Bob Mitchell’s previous bodyguard had mysteriously disappeared in the bathroom of his Soho Dance Club. He found Pugsy’s qualifications a perfect fit and hired him immediately.

They walked the half-dozen yards to the elegant arched entrance and Mitchell turned to the driver. Pick us up here in thirty minutes.

They walked down the wide central aisle of the market. The high domed roof and supporting iron beams reminded Mitchell of a railway station. They passed several pairs of red telephone boxes, and he looked up at the uniform-sized white vendors’ names on blue panels over their storefronts. White-coated butchers and porters bustled in all directions. Some had whole animals slung over their shoulders; some pulled pallets of assorted bodies and limbs. Ribald insults were hurled as they passed each other, mostly in a good-natured fashion. Many were whistling through poorly maintained teeth.

When Mitchell saw the name J. JONES & CO he turned in between the glass-covered cabinets with their displays of bloody, red meats. Pugsy followed close behind, as always.

Jim in his office? said Mitchell as he brushed past a young butcher and pushed open a swinging door with his foot. Inside was a short corridor with three unmarked doors. He knocked on the nearest door and opened it as a voice called Yeah?

Hi Jim. How’s our friend? Mitchell didn’t believe in small talk.

Hi Mr. Mitchell. How you doing? I did everything you told me, and he’s not happy.

I can’t help that. I need insurance that his brother does what I want. Did he try to escape, or yell for help?

Nah—I put him in the freezer for half an hour, like you said, then I let him out and explained the facts of life to him. And the room he’s in is almost soundproof.

Okay, lemme see ’im.

Jim led them down the corridor to the last door and took a bunch of keys out of his pocket. He unlocked the padlock and the deadbolt securing the heavy iron door. Let me know when you’re done. He pushed the door open and stood aside.

Wait ’ere, Mitchell told Pugsy. If you hear anything naughty, come in and beat the crap outta him.

Sure boss—it’ll be my pleasure. The deep scar between the bodyguard’s left ear and lip crinkled as he grinned.

Mitchell pushed the door closed and noted the heavy insulation with approval. A slim young man in his mid-twenties cowered on a makeshift bed along one wall. There was no window, and a screen didn’t do anything to mask the smell of the porta-potty behind it. The rest of the furnishings consisted of a green threadbare armchair facing a small table supporting a television and a DVD player. There was a small stack of books and DVDs beside the television.

Here, kid, I’ve brought you some entertainment. What’s your preference, two men, two women, or one of each? Never mind, I brought ’em all. He reached into his overcoat pocket and threw three DVDs with lurid covers on the table. Each bore the proud emblem of his adult entertainment company Mitchell’s Mates.

W-why are you keeping me here? Tony Moore’s lower lip trembled. Alan would never cross you, Mr. Mitchell. He’s scared stiff of you. There’s no way he would give everything up for a few pounds.

Listen, kid, I learned a long time ago not to trust anyone. Especially with my money. Anyway, there’s a lot more to it than that. Mitchell checked his watch, They feeding you OK?

"I can’t eat much but yes, the food’s fine. How long do I have to