The street was unusually crowded for a dreary weekday evening, crowds of businessmen and women thronging toward the queue of waiting cabs. Rain trickled from their guardian umbrellas as the gray sky precipitated unrelentingly. A suited man emerged from the throes, smoothing his impeccable lapel as fat droplets hit the material. He watched the crowd bob eagerly, indifferent to the torrential downpour. A smirk crossed his wet lips at their impatience, the way their eyes lit up as a taxi became vacant, the flitting hope before being expropriated out of a ride by thriftier passerby.

He tilted the dark tailored hat over his forehead, shrugging his way through the line. He glanced around, then, after side-stepping a line of orange caution cones, slid smoothly down a set of slick, inconspicuous stairs behind a dilapidated hot dog cart. The burly merchant eyed him churlishly as he proffered an overcooked sausage to a potential heartburn victim. The well-dressed gentleman dropped a silver dime on the ground, enticing an imperceptible nod of admittance from the vendor. The suited man didn't reciprocate the gesture, but deigned to flick two ornately ringed fingers nonchalantly, and continued into the sub-station stairway.

The symphony of chaotic New York bustling faded, the drone of voices, car horns, and vendor pitches floating down the stairs like a memory. Here there were no city goers, and the only sound was the occasional drip of moisture from the degrading pipes.

Due to a series of extremely fortuitous circumstances, this station was permanently under construction: ironically, sections of the city rails and byways were so frequently shut down for public works that most Yorkers didn't pay it any mind. Oblivion served well for the Underground. Keeping your nose in your own business was the way of life here. People were better off not knowing, a fact well observed, so naturally, the perpetual reconstruction of this particular tram station went unnoticed.

Thus, the man continued on his way uninterrupted, the lone occupant of the crumbling cement walkway along the track. Throngs of fat rats scurried in his wake as he meandered into the derelict depths. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as they squeaked and squirmed in the overflowing trash bins; seemingly unemptied since before the station was shut down, the piles of rotting refuse had become a haven for the detestable pests. The stench permeated his suit, but his disgust didn't reach his pocketbook. He had far bigger rodents to exterminate, weasels with very generous bank accounts. A glutinous appetite and the promise of riches drove him onward.

He paused in front of a rusting door, the maintenance closet label chipping from the metal. Glancing back to see if he was unfollowed, he raised a hand and gave a sharp rap to the paint-peeled façade.

Metal locks rasped as bolts slid from the jamb, and a large, scrutinizing eye peered at him from the dark entry.

"Phrase?" A gruff voice prompted.

"The coin bleeds the hive." The suited man answered smoothly.

The door shut again, then opened just enough for him to slip through after the chain lock was released.

"Pardon." He excused himself, nearly bumping into the sentry. Heavily muscled, with bulging oiled arms, the bouncer motioned stiffly down a long hall.

"What are the rules tonight?"

"Texas Hold 'em. Winner takes all."

"Perfect." He casually shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the rack to his left. "Going to take a bet tonight, Badrick?"

"No, Mr. Director." The bouncer's dreadlocks danced around his cheeks as he shook his head.

"You always say no." The Director grinned. "Why?"

"I know my place." Badrick issued in his heavy Jamaican accent.

The man grinned and removed his hat, unveiling his silver lined coif. "That, my faithful comrade, is why the Elect keep you around."

"You should hurry." Badrick replied, face devoid of emotion. "The Shah has already won a round."

"Excellent!" The Director clapped his hands and sauntered importantly down the hall. As he eased open the rough, wooden door the dense stench of tobacco roiled out, smoke pouring from the entry. Everything was hazy, a thick cloud of debauchery and ravenousness permeating the small room. An oval table sat in the far corner between the support beams, past the bar, where a hunched man repeatedly wiped a glass with a tattered rag. Beyond that was a small stage where a hired jazz band played reminisces from the forties and fifties. Every now and then they tossed in a classic seventies rock number, which the Director enjoyed.

Accepting his usual whiskey from the bartender, he approached the bass player amicably, but after his request was tastefully denied he resigned himself to sit at the last empty seat.

"How is it that I always manage to get the chair with the uneven legs?" He mused aloud as he settled himself, taking the offered hand from the thin, hawkish dealer.

A sallow-skinned man grunted amusedly across from him, fanning his cards in his hands thoughtfully. "Perhaps if you showed up on time, Director, you would get a better chair."

"I'll make a note to my secretary to remember that for me."

"It must be nice to have an office aide. Living like a king, with your most recent acquisition?"

"Play your hand right, Minister, and I'll be sure to appoint you one of my best." The Director assured.

"I should loose then, shall I?" His choppy Bulgarian accent carried over to English roughly.

"Let's leave that to the cards." A squat, portly man rumbled.

"Don't they usually screw you up that sizeable derriere of yours, Lord Fulton?" The sultry feminine voice issued from a leggy, curved Arabian sitting to the director's left.

"Not as much as I'd like you to." The Brit replied roguishly, waving an object that looked suspiciously like a dildo. He winked and she scoffed, crossing her long limbs in denial.

"You wish." Her large, deep brown eyes narrowed warningly over her mesh hijab.

"Gents," the dealer chided delicately "and gentlelady. Are we playing or not?"

The ill-suited troupe mumbled their objections reprovingly but submitted themselves to pour over their cards in silence, eager to start the bets.

"I fold." The Arabian set her hand facedown, pushing them dejectedly back toward the dealer.

"Already spent, Alainna?"

"Fulton, you don't even remember where it goes." She issued smoothly, tossing a curtain of smooth raven hair over her shoulder. "I have thousands on the table, I'd better not risk more. Besides, I like a little foreplay, so maybe next time."

She gazed wantonly at the large pile of bills in the center table.

"Well. I can't see how this will help me any, given this hand." Sighed the lord, ruffling through his wad of cash. "Grand more. I'm upping the ante, gents."

"Then I'm out." The Bulgarian sighed, tossing his cards. "If you bet, Fulton, there's no hope for me."

"Nonsense. This is just getting good." The quiet figure next to the Director rumbled.

"Finally joining this debasing and rather boring conversation, Stalton?" Alainna smiled, the clink of ice barely discernible as she raised her liquor to her silky lips.

"You know he only speaks when things heat up."

The director grinned. "I do believe we are missing something. Stalton?"

"Here." The pale, slim man proffered a small piece of paper. "Bets are on, for those still in."

"Shadow." The dealer proclaimed, setting the parchment face down on the pile. "Ready?"

There was a synchronous nod from around the table and he deftly flipped over another card. Ace of spades.

The Director kept his face deadpan. He had two face cards and just needed a third.

"Let's see the flip." He cast a glance at the other two remaining players, each as unreadable as he.

"Read them and weep, boys." Fulton chimed boyishly, fanning his hand in a mocking display as the cards settled face-up. "Three Queens."

Stalton's face was unreadable as he lazily flipped his cards over. "A pair."

The Director smirked and showed his hand, waving the kings around in Fulton's face. "Three of a kind, high card."

"Such poor sportsmanship." Fulton pouted. "You Americans have no clout."

"I don't need to. I just won without it." Director Stevens grinned. "Oh, where will this company go now?" He mused, twirling the piece of paper between his fingers.

Alainna scoffed. "Enough. Let's drink and dance, hmm?" She unfurled her endless limbs and grasped Stalton's hand, firmly yanking him out of his seat. "You need to loosen up."

He scowled reprovingly, begrudgingly following her lead to the upbeat tempo of the band as they started up a Sinatra number.

Fulton and the Shah were quickly becoming inebriated, eyes glossing over rapidly from the influence of scotch, gazing lustfully at Alainna's bare legs as she gyrated sinuously against Stalton. "Until we meet again." The Director took this as his cue to leave, gently tipping his hat. He slithered quietly out of the club, his silhouette melting into the blackness of the subway tunnel.