“Not The Lightbulb?”
“The very one.”
“How much will he cost?”
“I’m getting him on a free. Mind you, he’ll still cost twenty-five grand a week but still no transfer fee.”
“You’ve got to be happy with that,” said Ingot, blowing a huge smoke ring from his Cohiba.
“Happy? I’m tickled pink. The daft yam yams don’t even know he’s gone yet.”
“It’s a done deal then?”
“Of course, we still have the medical to do on Friday, but after that, it’s boing boing bone.”
Ingot nodded in agreement and called the start.
“They’re off.”
Bullion was frothing with enthusiasm. “Come on, come on!”
Arugula Baby went flying out into a three-length lead. But where was The Shuffler? He was buried deep in the chasing pack of nine snails in just over a kilometer race.
“Come on you dopey pseudopodia. I can’t half pick ‘em sometimes. What was I thinking? Surely his name would have given me a clue? There I go again, listening to others and watching the price instead of following my gut.”
Arugula Baby flashed past the post followed by the pack six lengths behind with The Shuffler firmly embedded in the middle, finishing fifth.
Ingot tried to focus on his bet, but he could see Bullion’s motherboard sparking.
“Calm down, Boss. It’s only the first race. Plenty of time to catch up.”
“Where’s my change?”
Ingot pulled out the loose change in his pocket and gave Bullion three pounds back. He tried to see what the result was on the scoreboard peering over the emotional crowd in front.
“Yes, yes, yes,” screamed Ingot.
“Don’t tell me you bloody won?” asked Bullion. “What did you bet?”
“Arugula Baby, Dusty Spirit and the 8/1 shot Daisy Cutter.”
“Bloody hell how much did you put on it?”
“A pony,” smiled Ingot.
“How much?”
“Twenty-five quid.”
“Twenty-five quid? You bet that much?” asked Bullion in disbelief.
“Yep.”
“I can’t believe it. How much do I pay you a week?”
Ingot smiled at him. “Not enough. I have to bet like that to make a decent living. I can’t survive on what you give me.”
Bullion was flabbergasted. “What were the odds?”
“11/2 on Arugula, 4/1 Dusty, and 8/1 Daisy.”
“I’m going for a pony myself after that,” said Bullion.
“I’ll be at the bar by the time you’ve collected you’re winnings.”
“Very good, Boss,” Ingot answered, stubbing out the dregs of his cigar before heading to the pay off counter. He handed in his ticket.
“Blimey that’s a nice earner,” said the little old lady behind it.
“Who gave you that tip?” she asked, smiling. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I have to get my supervisor over to okay this one. It’s going to be… hang on… four thousand four hundred pounds.”
Ingot smiled again.
“Hang on, I won’t be a mo,” she said, disappearing with the ticket.
Ingot looked around to see if he could see his Boss.
The lady came back with the supervisor.
“Hello,” he said to Ingot.
Ingot nodded back.
“Who’s your tout, then?” asked the supervisor.
Ingot smiled.
“This is the largest ticket for a while. How do you want it? Large?”
Ingot nodded. “Please.”
He looked around to the upper tier bar and spied Bullion chatting with a small young blonde at the bar. He grabbed the envelope with the money in it and made his way upstairs to his Boss.
Bullion was standing at the bar filling his face, telling the girl who he was.
“I’m David Bullion.”
Ingot stepped in and offered to buy the girl a drink.
“Champagne?”
“Yes, please.”
“A glass or a bottle?” asked Ingot.
She smiled nervously. “Are you serious?”
Bullion interrupted. “Of course he’s not. Nobody buys a stranger a bottle of champagne.”
“Boss, really, I don’t mind. I’ve just picked up my winnings.”
“And?” asked Bullion.
Ingot pulled out the envelope. “Four thousand four hundred.”
Bullion swayed and salivated uncontrollably.
“Are you sure?”
Ingot smiled and ordered a bottle of champagne. “Shall we get a table and check the next race?”
Bullion was astonished by the amount of money Ingot had won. Did he know how much that was? Well, one thing he knew it wouldn’t last. Not the way he spent cash. He smiled to himself: that’s why I own companies, and he’s my chauffeur.
“Go on, then, get the girl a magnum if you want to impress,” he goaded.
“Would you like a bottle or two?” Ingot asked the blonde.
The girl giggled. “Are my roots showing?”
Bullion laughed; he liked spinners. “You’ve got a good sense of humour haven’t you? Take the magnum, love. That’ll slow his generosity down.”
“If the lady would like a magnum, I have no problem. I just won four grand.”
Bullion called the waitress over. “We’d like a magnum for the table.”
“Very good, Mr. Bullion. Shall I put it on the card?”
“Definitely not, this one’s on Ingot. Pay up.”
“No problem,” answered Ingot, as he gave her his Amex.
“Core blimey. You two don’t half know how to treat a lady,” said the blonde, gulping her drink down.
“Where you from?” asked Bullion.
“Essex,” she answered.
“Where?”
“Barking.”
Bullion took a slug of his port. “So you’re mad then?”
“Nah, not at all. Probably more rough and ready than mad but I know how to have a good time.”
“I like a two-bottle girl,” answered Bullion.
“Err… the next race, Boss. Are you up for it?” asked Ingot, changing the subject. “It’s about to start. Are you going to have a bet?” he asked the girl.
“Nah. I’m staying here and getting drunk.”
Ingot smiled at the girl and nodded.
Bullion pushed the last of his pie into his mouth and downed his port. “I’m ready. Let’s do it!”
“Good,” said Ingot, getting up and kissing the girl’s hand.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
“Yes, you too. Thanks for the drinks,” she answered, holding up her drink. “Are you coming back?”
“Yes,” Bullion said.
Ingot checked his watch. “Boss we got seven minutes to lay up.”
“Right,” said Bullion. “Got to go. Be back later.” He smiled, forcing a kiss on her.
Ingot was studying the form again. He had a vast amount of leeway on his next bet and wanted more.
“Why the rush?” asked Bullion. “She was just loosening up.”
“Don’t you want to get your money back?” asked Ingot.
“ YES, I don’t like losing.”
“Have you looked at the second race yet?”
“Erm… no, not yet, but I have a feeling about this one. I’m going to bet it all on Let’s Congo. That’s why I’m here.”
Ingot smiled and nodded. “Very good, Boss.”
They made their way down to the paddock to watch the last of the snails slide onto the track.
“See anything you fancy apart from the obvious?” asked Ingot.
“What’s it say in the program?”
Ingot looked at the program.
“Here’s the rundown. Nothing But Slime 15/1; Four Little Antennas 12/1; Squash 11/1; All Ate Up Colt Forty-Five, Saturday Night Special, and Homicide all 6/1; Garlic Breath and The Black Widow 3/1; Let’s Congo 4/9F.”
&
nbsp; “Some odds, eh?” said Bullion.
Ingot deciphered the words. “Yes, we know Let’s Congo is going to win, bar a catastrophe, but who will come in second?”
Bullion stared at him angrily. “Why are you asking me? You’re the one who won the last bet.”
Ingot held the program up to the light. “I think Black Widow is the one.”
“What is this? Divine intervention?” asked Bullion.
“No Boss. The floodlight’s are shining in my eyes.”
Bullion looked down at his program again and then at the empty paddock.
“Right. Homicide it is. An exacta on Let’s Congo and Homicide.” He did a one two punch to confirm his choice.
Ingot waited for the money.
“Well, go on. Place the bet,” said Bullion.
“I would, Boss, but you haven’t told me how much you want to bet?”
Bullion froze for a moment and thought long and hard. “Right I’m going for it big time. A fifty pence exacta.”
“Very good,” said Ingot.
“Well what are you waiting for?”
“The money,” answered Ingot.
“The money? It’s a quid. Surely you can spot your Boss that?”
“Nope. No can do,” said Ingot, holding out his hand.
Bullion struggled in his pocket again for two loose coins.
One thing Ingot understood well was not to rock his Boss’s boat when it came to money, and his drawn out tactics of giving him the money were now eating into the clock and preventing him from being able to place a bet on the next race.
“I’ll spot you Boss.”
“Right. In that case, I need to have another look at the program.”
Ingot changed the subject. “So we activated the year’s option on the Tunisian, got a free Carsey from Everton, and Enter McDragon is staying. Is that correct?”
Bullion did a double take. “My word, Ingot, you don’t miss much. Do you?”
“I’ve learned from the best,” he answered, checking his watch.
Bullion liked Ingot even when he won big and he didn’t. Ingot gave him an honest rub when no one else would—something he appreciated in a world full of yes-men.
“What are you picking?” he asked Ingot.
“Black Widow, Boss. It’s a waste of time just having Let’s Congo on a straight unless I bet the lot I’ve just won.”
Bullion thought on his words. “Is that a statement you’re making? And you want reassurance or are you taking me for a complete plank?”
“No, Boss, not at all. I don’t think he’ll lose, but, then again, I don’t want to be giving all the money back to the house just yet, if you know what I mean.”
“Right,” said Bullion. “If that’s the case, let’s have a bobble on this one.”
“What exactly do you have in mind?” asked Ingot, confused.
“Well, we know Let’s Congo is a banker, so let’s do a full cover.”
Ingot wasn’t sure what a full cover was or how to play one.
“How much do you want to bet?” he asked Bullion.
“I don’t know. Maybe I should throw the lot on the lock?”
“Well, it’s make-up-your-mind time.”
Bullion held the program up in front of his face as though he had missed something. “Right. That’s it, all or nothing. A pound straight on Let’s Congo.”
“Very good, Boss. A wise choice,” answered Ingot, racing off to the betting counter.
“Oye and don’t forget my slip this time,” shouted Bullion after him.
Ingot disregarded the comment and carried on to the counter and relayed Bullion’s request.
The little old lady tittered. “That’s a big bet.”
“Oh that’s not mine. I’ll do the same four grand on Let’s Congo to win.”
“Four thousand pounds to win on the number two snail correct?”
“Yep.”
“Number two snail, the favorite, Let’s Congo. Do you want to pay tax up front?”
“Yep.”
“I think I better get my supervisor again. I won’t be a moment.”
Bullion reflected on the last month at the club. The riot at the end of the season was now in the hands of the Old Bill and all who could be identified would be charged and receive lifetime bans from The Quattro Fianco. The club physiotherapist had moved on, something Bullion was not happy about as he enjoyed a good rub down on match days. The Celeb and Enter McDragon were staying at the club whether they liked it or not; the Dressmaker goalie had agreed to sign a new two-year contract as long as he remained first choice, no questions asked; and the Angina Man’s first lieutenant Sameta Yu had insisted his boss was still interested in buying the rest of the shares owned by the current board. “Chance would be a fine thing. Bloody hairdressers.”
Ingot came back.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked.
“Never you mind. Did you lay my bet?”
“Yes, Boss, although the old lady behind the counter wanted to know who was betting their house?”
“You didn’t tell her did you? You know they’re on to my betting big.”
Ingot agreed with his boss. “Yes, they are after you alright.”
The announcer came over the tannoy. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are almost ready for the second race of the evening, The Monster Munch Classic for fillies. If you haven’t placed your bets yet, do so now as we are waiting for Nothing But Slime, the last snail to enter her gate.” There was a pause as the announcer waited for the snail to be coaxed in.
“AND, THEY’RE OFF… It’s Let’s Congo into an early lead followed by Black Widow, Colt Forty-Five, and Homicide with half a length gap to the rest of the pack.”
Bullion grabbed Ingot and dragged him to the track as the giant snails made their way down the far side of the track.
“Let’s Congo is now four lengths clear, with Black Widow followed now by Homicide moving up past Colt Forty-Five.”
Bullion put his arm over Ingot’s shoulder. “Come on. You can do it.”
“Let’s Congo has stretched her lead to seven lengths as they make the turn, Homicide is now in second, followed by Black Widow, Colt Forty-Five and Garlic Breath with a two-length gap to All Ate Up, Squash, and Saturday Night Special. Nothing But Slime and Four Little Antennae bringing up the rear.”
“Come on Homicide” screamed Bullion.
Ingot listened to his Boss’s hopes and realized he would have to explain his bet if Let’s Congo and Homicide came in one and two.
Bullion relished in Let’s Congo’s gait; she was lengthening her lead with each glide. “Bloody marvelous. Look at that snail go. This could be one for the ages. Damn, she can run.”
“And it’s Let’s Congo by twelve lengths as she eases into the home stretch, Homicide and Garlic Breath are fighting it out, with Squash and The Black Widow on the inside followed by All Ate Up and Saturday Night Special, it’s Let’s Congo and Homicide followed by a photo finish for third between Garlic Breath and The Black Widow on the near side.”
Bullion roared his approval. “Yes!”
Ingot pumped his fist in the air. He had won big again. He smiled at Bullion and hugged him. He had forgotten about Bullion’s bet and about having to work out how he was going to explain he only had Let’s Congo for a straight win.
“I love the track. There’s no feeling in the world like winning and winning big. I told you Ingot, always go with the exactas if you want to walk away a big winner.”
Ingot changed the subject again. “So, what’s the club got lined up for next month?”
Bullion’s contemplation switched back to his pet peeve, Bitominge City. “You do like to rain on my parade, don’t you?”
Ingot was unsure by the comment. “How so?”
“How so? By not endorsing my big win!”
“Oh, right.” Bullion was almost Darwinian in his focus on his winnings, even if he had forgotten what he had bet.
Ingot decided to eat the bet. “I
t’s all good, Boss It’s all good.”
Bullion burped and smiled. “Yes it is, yes it is, when you are doing what you like and enjoying it. The only thing better than betting on a winner is riding one.”
Ingot felt like he’d been entrapped.
“How much did I win?” Bullion asked.
He could flap around and try and explain Bullion’s bet to him or keep quiet and take the financial hit. He decided to suck it up. “How much did you win? What were the odds?”
“Very favorable,” answered Bullion.
“I’ll get the winnings Boss,” said Ingot.
He headed over to the pay-off kiosk while Bullion deliberated on the club’s next month.
The Everton Shithouse still had to pass a medical before the signing was complete. There was a growing unrest about where the new signings were, with fans that had to be calmed down. He had to break the news to the players that, due to costs, the reserve team was being withdrawn from the reserve league, and he was going to have to sell the Young Black Snake to the Trotters. But Bitominge had made a profit of 32.6 million pounds for the previous twelve months, so the fans would understand.
The next race was a class 4—the Milky Spores Stakes, over seven furlongs or just short of a mile. Welsh Opera, Dynamo Dave, and Soft Shell Grub were obvious choices—for their names, if nothing else—and Turtle Head, More Haste Less Speed, Back Bone Bob, Epicure Eric, Thirty-Eight Slug, Slip Sliding Away, One For The Pot, No Fleas On Me, and Hors D’houvres made up the rest of the field.
Bullion looked for any clues on the page in the program with the number two prominent. He checked his watch and wondered where his winnings were.
Ingot tapped him on the shoulder. “Surprise,” he said with a beaming smile.
“Five pounds and twenty-five pence return on a fifty pence bet. Not too shabby, Boss,” said Ingot.
Bullion cupped his hands and held them out to receive his winnings. “That is with the bees wax paid upfront, correct?”
“Every last penny paid to HMRC.”
“Good job, Ingot. I’m glad you took the effort to get out of bed and have some fun tonight,” he said, wrapping his arms around Ingot and giving him a bear hug.
For normal men to attempt this action was very unusual, but when a four-foot-seven man and another man well over six feet did it, it was a caress of madness. Ingot’s arms were by his sides, but his shoulders and biceps were squeezed up into his front, cupping his pectorals around Bullion’s head.
Bullion always thought there was more to Ingot than met the eye, but he couldn’t quite work out what it was. He rubbed his nose and cheeks into Ingot’s temporary cleavage.
“I do like to win big. Bravo Ingot. Now, what about this next race? Any ideas?”
Ingot hadn’t looked at the next race. He was still delighting in his six grand straight win on the favorite Let’s Congo. He checked the board for the prices.
Football Fiction Page 4
