The croupier looked at me and shook his head. “Sorry. Your mistake.”
“The hell it is,” I said, and turned to Hashita. “Where did you put that chip, Hashita?”
He placed a thick, capable forefinger on the thirty-six.
The croupier said, “You’ll have to take this up with the manager.”
A man appeared as by magic at my elbow. “This way,” he said.
It was done that simply. None of that movie stuff of having a couple of tight-lipped men move up on each side — just a matter of putting the customer in a position where he had to beef, telling him to take the beef to the manager, and marching him through that door marked Private.
“Come on, Hashita,” I said.
The man who escorted us into the office didn’t bother to come in. He pulled the door shut. A lock clicked — probably an electric bolt which could be released by pressing a button somewhere on the manager’s desk.
The manager was a thin-mouthed chap with high cheekbones, grey eyes, and restless hands. The long, slim fingers seemed delicately fragile. The hands were those of a poet, a musician — or a gambler.
He looked up at me and said, “Sit down, Lam,” and then looked questioningly at the Jap.