“When can we get it done?”
“ASAP if you want this week? He needs a two-year contract.”
“Hmm, I don’t know. What is it about the number two today? That number keeps coming up.”
“Shall I get the ball rolling?” asked McClay.
“Umm.” Bullion pulled out his lucky Welsh coin and tossed it in the air. “Good job McClay. Done deal. I’ll look forward to that contract. Keep me posted on any other gems that surface.”
“Right-o Bully. I’ll be in touch, where will you be later?”
“Where’d you think?”
“At the track?”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
“Right. Silly question, really. I’ll call soon as I get the okay from him.”
Bullion filled Frenchy’s water bowl and stroked his bulging belly. “Daddy will see you later, he’s going down the track to indulge in his thoroughbred tendencies.”
CHAPTER THREE
DOWN THE SNAIL TRACK
Bullion grabbed his coat and skipped out of the office, hurrying down the hall to his car like it was his last day in school. He clipped his seat belt and drove off into the drizzle.
“I hope it stays like this for tonight. Arugula Downs, here I come.!”
He was pleased with his final negotiations for the day. He was still in control, and that’s what he liked. Yes, he’d been cajoled into agreeing to things he didn’t want, but he had made amends on the back end of the day.
“Job done.” He smiled to himself in the mirror.
“Now if I can have a winning night with my thoroughbred mollusks. Heh heh,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
He hated Gold for mocking his pleasure. Yes, they were snails, but so what? These were giant snails—bloody three feet tall that could outrun the fastest man on The Ar with a jockey on their back. Not your everyday escargots au beurre d’ail.
“Gastropod mollusks! I ask you please. That bloke wouldn’t know culture if it curdled in front of him at a dairy farm. It’s not called the Sport of Kings for nothing.”
Out of the forty thousand different species of snails on The Ar only one was thirty-six inches tall and could glide like Franz Klamma on the piste. That was the giant tiger snail. The rest were less than five inches tall and as slow as molasses. If you owned a Triple Crown winner and sired him, you could kick back and never do another thing in your life—the riches would be that great.
Although Bullion could never do that, the thought of being in the position of doing nothing with excess wealth, hypnotized him daily.
There was never enough money in the world as far as he was concerned. He rummaged in his trousers and pulled out his lucky pound coin and stroked its tails side.
Giant tiger snails were bred and hand-reared, their shells were polished and waxed daily, their mucous glands needed to be sprayed down every hour with high protein water, and then there was the training. Two grooms were required for each giant tiger snail, and all this was before you fed the things. These snails weren’t your usual herbivores, or even omnivores. They were carnivores and ate beetle larva that was only found in one place on the planet.
Luckily for Bullion, the giant Capricorn beetle was found only in Llanelli, Wales, which was great as he had his stables there and bred them for the industry on his Dyfed Oak Farms Estate.
“Gastropod idiot more like.” If one thing upset David Bullion in life, it was a cretin, and an opinionated one at that didn’t know what he was talking about. Being usurped in the meeting earlier by Gold had angered him. He didn’t do it to others, so why would they do it to him? Gold and that bloody Ounzt had twisted his power today and left him ruffled. He better have a good night racing, or someone would pay dearly.
A snail-racing event was the tumult of life, the animal sublimity and the human profanity Gold didn’t know what he was missing.
“I should leave a couple of thoroughbreds on his windscreen overnight and see how he deals with that. The poor man,” chuckled Bullion. “He wouldn’t know what a snail trail was if he fell down face first in a lettuce patch.”
Bullion loved Triple Crown winners and could name the lot. It hadn’t been done for more than thirty years. The last giant tiger snail to do it was Reaffirmed. He decided to pass some time driving and name the winners in reverse order.
“Reaffirmed, Seattle Glue, Secretian, Speeding Ticket, Assault and Battery, Count Feet, While-away, Wear Admiral, Imahare, Gallant Reynard, and Seb Larson.”
He tried to read the form in the racing paper. “How about naming the jockeys, David?” he asked himself.
He thought aloud. “Steve Caution, Jean Courgettes, Ron Turkey, Eddie Arcargot, Charlie Curtainswinger… alright, I give up.”
The track was in perfect condition. Thick, lush Kentucky blue grass glistened in the floodlights as he turned onto the country lane leading to the racecourse. The dew was at its peak for the first race of the evening and he was going to be there for it. Tonight was a track record breaker if ever he saw one. “Stay with the favorites, David. Remember there are winners and losers. Don’t be a loser,” he told himself.
He pulled over to a little pub he knew and went in to change into his full morning suit and top hat. He always kept a spare in his truck just in case. He loved The Royal Cravat course. It was the Queen’s favorite racecourse and steeped in history. Founded in 1711 by Queen Une, the first race ever was Her Majesty’s Denture Plate with a purse of a hundred guineas. The course was for the elite of society, and Bullion was happy that for the most part it had stayed true to tradition. A strict dress code was always in place to keep the riff raff out, which Bullion liked, and he wished he could implement his own dress code at football grounds.
He quickly dressed and ordered a port and a pie (he couldn’t gamble on an empty stomach). He finally settled back and studied the form next to the open-hearth fire.
The 6:00 p.m.: The Allotment Nursery Handicap;
6000.00 added, for two year olds only, 5F, class 5, 4056.78 penalty, ten runners. Going good to firm. He liked Free for a Day at 4/1, Dusty Spirit 6/1, and Arugula Baby at 7/1. Slime Ball was the only scratch. Bullion played exactas and trifectas.
The 6:30 p.m.: The Monster Munch Classic was a straight win on Let’s Congo. He didn’t care about the odds or the bet he was here to see this baby finally run in person.
The 7:00 p.m.: Milky Spore Stakes: was a class 4 over 7F. Welsh Opera took his interest, as did Dynamo Dave and Soft Shell Shrek.
“Oh decisions, decisions when in doubt Charlie out, stay with the favorites.” He swirled his port and held it up to the light and smelt the aroma, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing.
“I do love a good port,” he said, tucking into his Balti pie and savoring the night. His mind drifted to the club and whether he’d ever get to sell up and what would it feel like to be finally free.
In the early days Stan’s was built in an artesian spring crater and was on a flood plain. The ground had to be drained and blocked off with rubble, and eventually a pitch with terraces emerged after the club offered the site as a tip for the locals to dump their rubbish. When Bullion took over, the stadium still resembled a tip. Nothing worked. The one side of the stadium flooded with urine at halftime during matches due to broken toilets. Only half the lighting worked and rusted corrugated fences ran all the way around the ground like some disused iron curtain factory. Bullion was pleased that he had financed the massive ground renovation and improvements. He knew it wasn’t finished, but he had certainly brought it into the twentieth century. He had a checklist of items to complete before he left, including under soil heating, a new laid pitch and a large screen TV.
Bullion paid up his tab and joined the throngs walking to the racecourse. The weather had lightened up, and the moon was trying to break through. He enjoyed the masses at a racing event. He believed they were the true gentry of civilization. How could they not be? Snail racing was the sport of royalty and the blue bloods. If he could harness
a winning stable, he would be accepted into the private circle of noble families in the country and, more importantly, the royal enclosure. He smiled at the fellow punters and tipped his hat to a lady at the thought of rubbing shoulders with the monarchy.
“Fancy any mollusks in particular?” he asked the young maiden.
She gave him a weird look and hurriedly moved away out of conversation range. Bullion’s phone rang.
“Hello?”
It was Ingot. “You called?”
“Oh it’s you. I needed you earlier but…”
“You don’t now.”
“Very funny. I’m down the track.”
“Betting again, David? You know it’s not good for your ticker. You’ll end up hyper-ventilating and needing a gurney if you back a nag again.”
“Favorites only tonight, Ingot. Already made my mind up. You know I don’t like wagering a wad on a wheel, no parley on ponies today or each way monkeys.”
Ingot smiled into the phone.
“Where are you?” asked Bullion.
“I’m in my Tepper Jackson pajamas at home. I’ve just gotten up.”
“Good lord, man! Just got up? Do you know what time it is? It’s early evening. I don’t get you, Ingot. Talk about sleeping till the cows come home.”
“Late night, Boss.”
“I’m sure it was,” answered Bullion, shaking his head.
“Oh well, never mind. I was going to invite you down to the track for a few hours of extreme indulgence.”
“I’d love to Boss.”
“You would?”
“Yes, Boss, but you know my next question.”
“Yes. What’s it worth?”
“Exactly.”
“You never change, do you, Ingot? Even when, out of the goodness of my heart, I offer something, you still need to know what’s in it for you.”
“Boss, there’s always something. Don’t tell me.”
“Well, now you mention it, you could be my beard for the evening. The bookies are on to me after last week’s heist. Did I do a right number on them!”
Ingot yawned and retrieved a box of cereal from the cupboard.
“I’m up to an hour away, depending on traffic.”
“Well, hurry up! I’m looking to bet heavy and win big.”
“Okay. I’ll be there ASAP,” answered Ingot.
“Good. And no dawdling in the left lane, the motorway is for speeding, not sightseeing.”
“Right, Boss. Where will I find you at the track?”
“If it’s before the first race, I’ll be studying the form down by the paddock, but if it’s after, I’ll be in the members’ clubhouse getting lubricated.”
“Are you on the Pimm’s already, Boss?”
“Not on your Nelly. It’s way too cold for that. It’s a pie and port night unless I have a touch.”
“Right, Boss.”
Bullion flashed his member’s card to one of the gatekeepers.
“Good evening, Mr. Bullion. Lovely night for the race.”
“Yes, it is. Which one?”
“The Human Race,” said the man in the white coat.
“Very good. The old ones are always the best,” answered Bullion as he passed through.
“I like a worker with a sense of humour. Funny though, I can’t see you being the one wearing a white coat cracking jokes in the future.” He leered back.
The Grandstand Clubhouse was beginning to fill up with regulars and hangers on, and some first timers, Bullion noticed.
He could tell the difference between the different people—not by their faces, but by their mannerisms. The newbies were excited but confused by the entire proceedings, almost like a lost child at a fun fair. They were the bettors who were there for a good time with a set amount of money to spend and enjoy, win or lose. The others were the gamblers: it didn’t matter how they were dressed, inside they were all the same. They were the real gamblers, the ones addicted to the adrenalin rush that comes with chasing the win. They all had the same nervous focus, no matter what they were doing—having a drink, eating a burger, idly chatting with a friend, or waiting about. They all had a central objective and a task at hand: the next bet.
“Bring it on,” said Bullion.
He squeezed his small portly figure up to the bar and tapped his pound coin on the counter for service. The customers nearest to him moved down to allow him more room, but the bartenders ignored his crude action. He announced his presence again and emphasized it with a cough. The extra noise finally got some attention.
“Oye! Knock it off, Shortie. We’ll be with you in a minute,” shouted the one bartender.
The group around him laughed until he stared at them meanly. He might have been small in stature, but he wasn’t in spirit, and his energy was more than evident when challenged.
“What can I get you, sir?” asked the bartender.
“A double thirty-year-old Dressmaker’s port. And don’t call me Shortie again, or I’ll have your job. Do you understand?” he threatened.
Another bartender came over and dissolved the situation by taking over.
“Hi Mr. Bullion. The usual?”
“Yes, Rene.”
Bullion looked around and stared at his detractors again. He pulled out his match day program from his pocket and scrutinized the first race. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He reared around quickly and raised his fist, ready to strike. It was Ingot.
“What’s got you all riled up?” he asked.
“Ah! Ingot, it’s you. My goodness, you made good time.”
“Yes, Boss. The roads were dead. What’s happening? Am I still in time for the first race?”
“Yes. Do you want a quick drink before the off?” asked Bullion keenly.
“Does a snail leave a trail?”
“Yes, quite, Ingot.”
“I’ll take a Pimm’s cup, extra cucumber.”
Bullion nodded as though he expected nothing else. Ingot was a healthy young man in his early thirties, Oxford educated with a masters in business and marketing. He was always well turned out and dressed to the nines. He had an eye for a bargain in the business world, and he had made Bullion millions with his astute advice over the years. He was also very attractive—almost too good-looking to be a man.
His long, full-bodied blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and shades covered his hypnotic blue eyes. His chiseled face and button nose would not have looked out of place on the catwalk. He assured confidence.
“Shall we?” he asked Bullion, after receiving his drink.
“Yes. I’m ready to hit the big one tonight. I fancy Arugula Baby at 11/2 and Free for a Day at 4/1, although The Shuffler is now a Burlington Bertie. What do you think, Ingot?”
“I think the rational thing to do is nip down to the paddock and watch them pre-race if we still have time.”
“Right,” answered Bullion, darting off.
Ingot followed at a distance, enjoying his drink and taking in the fever of the anticipated first race. By the time he had made it through the crowd, Bullion was coming back in.
“Where were you?”
“I was caught up in the crowd,” answered Ingot.
“Well, it’s no good heading that way. They are already on the track. Come on Ingot, I’ll guide you for the off.”
“Right,” smiled Ingot.
“It’s definitely Arugula Baby and The Shuffler exacta boxed,” he said, grabbing Ingot by the arm and leading him to the nearest betting kiosks.
“How much are you wagering today, David?” Ingot asked.
Bullion stood still for a moment as he thought about the question. “I’m going for it big time.”
“How much?”
“A pound exacta. Boxed.”
Ingot nodded. “Very good, Boss.” He waited for Bullion to give him the two pounds for the bet.
Bullion delved deep down into his pocket and struggled with the contents inside. “Do you mind covering this one for me while I sort my finances out?”
“No Boss. That’s not happening, you and I both know you never pay up when it works like that.”
Bullion was crippled by the comment. The wad of money in his pocket burned his hand. “Alright here.”
He pulled out a crisp lady and passed it to Ingot.
“And I want my change.”
Ingot ignored him and went and placed the bet and played a pony tricast for himself.
Bullion rushed up front to the track and waited impatiently for the bugle. The snails had a natural majestic glide and were truly exhilarating to the masses that came to watch them. The thoroughbreds could reach speeds of twenty-five to thirty miles per hour on a wet track and seemed to enjoy the environment. Most giant snail shells had a speckled logarithmic spiral and were right-handed but occasionally you got the odd lefty. Let’s Congo was one very such snail. They had a herd mentality and liked to slime as a pack. They were also habitual, so training and a good jockey were as important as the snail. When they were finished with racing, some of the older snails were farmed out for helix therapy, which uses the molluscan movement as a way to help improve neurological function and sensory processing. It was recognized as a proven treatment strategy for improving a patients’ cognitive coordination in balance and fine motor skills. After the dog, cat and tiger, the snail was the fourth favorite animal on the planet.
Bullion watched his two bets warm up on the track in front of the grandstand. Arugula Baby looked strong and confident, but The Shuffler did just that—he shuffled, but a fast one. Bullion felt good about his picks and put his arm around Ingot and hugged him.
“I’m feeling lucky tonight. Nothing but exactas, Ingot.”
Ingot involuntary tensed up with the unexpected closeness.
“You’re not going to believe what went on today at the club, Ingot. It was a bad day for Bullion Industries and its financial outlook for the upcoming season. I’m telling you, Gold has lost the plot, and his pants are turning brown with the drop from last year. I think he doesn’t think we’ll make it straight back up again. I told you, beneath those violent charades, he was a bottler. He wants to give the shop away. I’ll tell you another thing: without me, he couldn’t run a whelk stand, that tosspot. Mind you, I did have a touch after I left. Willie called and offered me a very well-known goal scoring machine from just down the road.”
Football Fiction Page 3