When I checked on Beale, he was bucking the odds by making it through to the final table. Normally Beale was dead money in the tournaments. With his temperament and tendency to go on tilt, he was better suited to the no-limit tables than he was to the comps. While I waited, I did another fifty on the craps and then spent the rest of the time slumped in the bar. Beale hit the final pot, and squeaked out of there with a healthy profit. Part of me wished he'd crashed and burned just so he'd forget about the dealer game, but the near-win was enough to get him excited. "Should've seen us tonight, Alan, I was on fire, man." I nodded, but didn't say anything. On the radio, a warm-sounding DJ told me to get a tattoo of the station's name on my arse. If I did that at this special place, they'd pay me five hundred quid. Then he rattled off an address I wouldn't even visit for a grand, never mind trust them with needles. Mind you, the address Stevie had given us wasn't much better. Miles Platting, sandwiched between Collyhurst and Ardwick.
