Free The Sprouts of Wrath by Robert Rankin

the fallen revolver. “This bugger would have done for you.”
    Pooley climbed shakily to his feet. “What’s all this about?” he mumbled, feeling himself all over for bullet holes. “I didn’t do anything to anybody.”
    “I don’t think Bob would agree with you.”
    “You what?” Pooley was swamped by sudden realization. “So that’s why you let
me
place the bet! You knew he’d try something like this.”
    “Come, come, Jim, you cannot blame me for your lack of foresight. You are the victim of your own avarice. I saved your life, did I not?”
    “You put it in jeopardy first.”
    “I would not have let any harm come to you.”
    “I’ve got a weak heart.” Pooley indicated the wrong side of his chest. “Such a shock could have done for me.”
    “You’ll survive.”
    “Give me that gun. I will deal with Bob directly.”
    “As you please.” Omally handed the weapon to his companion. “But it will do you no good.”
    Pooley spun the gun upon his finger, anger and a lust for vengeance leant him an unexpected dexterity. He sought out a short cigar from his top pocket and wondered how he might appropriate a poncho and a cowboy hat at short notice. “And why will it do me no good?” he asked.
    “Because,” said John, “the gun is a replica, it’s not real.”
    “What?”
    “It was meant to frighten you, to make you give up the betting slip. Bob hasn’t got the bottle to hire a hit-man, this is Brentford, not Chicago in the roaring twenties.”
    “I’m not so sure. Bob, as we all know, is a very sore loser.”
    “Where am I?” groaned a shabby fallen figure.
    “He’s not quite dead,” said Jim. “At least I might give him a slight kicking to aid him upon his way.”
    “If you feel it necessary,” said John, “although I do not believe it to be in your nature.”
    Pooley tossed the gun into a nearby waterbutt. As an afterthought he pulled off the shabby man’s chukka boots and did likewise with them. “It’s not,” said Jim.
    “Lets get down to the Swan,” said John Omally, “I’ll buy you a pint.”
    “Now that,” said Jim, “is an excellent idea.”

14
    The Flying Swan was unusually crowded for the time of day. John and Jim elbowed their way towards the bar and cried out for attention. Neville detached himself from a noisy throng at the counter and came over to do the honours.
    “It’s busy,” John observed.
    Neville tapped at his slender nose. “Whitehall,” he whispered hoarsely, “there’s all sorts in from Westminster, and on a Saturday too. It seems you can’t just say you’re hosting the Olympic games without getting some kind of official say-so. All seems a little fussy to me. Something to do with red tape.”
    “So you mean that there might be some doubt,” Pooley clutched at his breast pocket, wherein rested his key to the potential millions.
    “Your guess is as good as mine,” said Neville, presenting the pints. “Still, it’s all good for business isn’t it?”
    “Oh yes,” said Jim, “yes indeed,” He had paid for the drinks before he recalled that they were Omally’s treat.
    “Cheers,” said John.
    “I don’t like the sound of this coloured tape,” said Jim. “This could cost us.”
    “I suggest we listen in,” Omally nodded towards a nearby conclave and Pooley followed him in the direction of the nod.
    The Whitehall types were clustered about one “Badger” Beaumont, the
Mercury
’s inebriate theatre critic. In the absence of Scoop Molloy, who was recovering from the effects of a night without shame, he was acting as official Olympic correspondent.
    John and Jim pondered long upon the Whitehallinesians.
    They were of a species new to the borough. Omally’s eye for a well-tailored suit recognized that rare variety that is measured for in inches without laughter and paid for in guineas without complaint. Their faces had that scrubbed and plucked quality only found elsewhere upon Madame Tussaud’s dummies and oven-ready chickens.