The Spoilers / Juggernaut

They continued to play and Raqi continued to win. As far as Warren could judge he was a good natural poker-player and he did not think Follet was discreetly assisting him, although he did not have the special knowledge to know if this was correct. He did know that he himself was losing steadily, although he played as best he could. Tozier recouped his earlier losses and stood about even, but Follet was on the losing side.

The haze of cigarette smoke in the room grew thicker and Warren began to get a slight headache. This was not his idea of a pleasant Saturday afternoon’s entertainment. He glanced at his watch and saw that it read half-past-two. Ben Bryan, in the next room, ought to be busy taping the television programme.

At quarter to three Tozier threw in his hand with an expression of disgust. ‘Hey!’ he said in alarm. ‘You’d better make that call.’

Follet looked at his watch. ‘Christ, I nearly forgot. It’s quarter to three already.’ He stood up and walked over to the telephone.

‘I thought it would be later than that,’ said Raqi in mild surprise.

Warren uncovered his watch with the dial turned towards Raqi. ‘No – that’s all it is. It might be a bit late for us, though.’

Follet had his hand on the telephone when Tozier said curtly, ‘Not that one, Johnny. Make the call from the lobby.’ He jerked his head at Raqi meaningly.

‘Javid’s all right,’ said Follet easily.

‘I said make it from the lobby.’

‘Don’t be so hard-nosed, Andy. Here you have a guy who was honest enough to give you back your wallet when he didn’t know who the hell you were. Why cut him out?’

Warren said quietly, ‘You always were a hard case, Andy.’

Raqi was looking from face to face, not understanding what was going on. Tozier shrugged with ill-grace. ‘No skin off my nose – but I thought you wanted to keep it quiet.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Warren indifferently. ‘Javid’s all right – we know that. Make the call, Johnny; it’s getting late. If we argue over it any more we’ll miss post time.’

‘Okay,’ said Follet and began to dial. His body screened the telephone from view. There was a pause. ‘Is that you, Jamshid? … Yeah, I know; things are bad all round … this time I’m going to win, I promise you … I’m still in time for the three o’clock race – make it twenty thousand rials on Al Fahkri.’ He turned and grinned at Raqi. ‘Yeah, on the nose … and, say, put on another two thousand for a friend of mine.’

He put down the telephone. ‘The bet’s on, boys; the odds are eight to one. And there’s two thousand on for you, Javid.’

‘But, Johnny, I don’t bet the horses,’ protested Raqi. ‘Two thousand rials is a lot of money.’

‘Have it on the house,’ said Follet generously. ‘Andy’s putting up the stake as a penance. Aren’t you, Andy?’

‘Go to hell,’ said Tozier morosely.

‘Quit worrying, Javid,’ said Follet. ‘I’ll stake you.’ He turned to Warren. ‘The kid can stay and watch. None of us can speak the lingo, so he can tell us which horse wins – as if we didn’t know.’

‘Why don’t you keep your big mouth shut?’ said Tozier in exasperation.

‘It’s all right, Andy,’ said Warren. ‘Johnny’s right; you’re a mean, ungrateful bastard. How much did you have in your wallet when you dropped it?’

‘About a hundred thousand rials,’ said Tozier reluctantly.

Follet was outraged. ‘And you’re being hard-nosed about giving the kid a reward,’ he cried. ‘Hell, you don’t even have to pay it yourself. Jamshid will do the paying.’ He turned to Raqi. ‘You know Jamshid, kid?’

Raqi gave a small smile. He was embarrassed because he was unaccountably the centre of an argument. ‘Who doesn’t in Tehran? Anyone who bets the horses goes to Jamshid.’

‘Yeah, he’s got quite a reputation,’ agreed Follet. ‘He pays out fast when you win, but God help you if you don’t pay him equally fast when you lose. A real tough baby.’

‘What about watching us win our money?’ suggested Warren. He nodded towards the television set. ‘The race should be corning on soon.’

‘Yeah,’ said Follet and stepped over to the set. Warren crossed his fingers, hoping that Ben had done his job. He had already got the name of the winner of the three o’clock race and transmitted it to Follet during the fake telephone call to Jamshid, but if he had fumbled the recording then the whole scheme was a dead loss.

A voice swelled in volume, speaking Persian, and then the screen filled with a view of a racecourse crowd. Follet looked at the screen appraisingly, and said, ‘About five minutes to go.’ Warren let out his pent-up breath silently.

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Tozier.

‘Just talking about the horses,’ said Raqi. He listened for a while. ‘That’s Al Fahkri – your horse – number five.’

‘Our horse, Javid,’ said Follet jovially. ‘You’re in on this.’ He got up and went to the impromptu bar at the sideboard. ‘I’ll pour the drinks for the celebration now. This race will be fast.’

‘You seem certain you’ll win,’ said Raqi.

Follet turned and winked largely. ‘Certain isn’t the word for it. This one’s blue chip – a gilt-edged security.’ He took his time pouring the drinks.

Tozier said, ‘They’re coming up to the post, Johnny.’

‘Okay, okay; it doesn’t really matter, does it?’

The commentator’s voice rose as the race started, and Warren thought that it did not matter whether you understood the language or not, you could never mistake a horse race for anything else. Raqi was tense as Al Fahkri forged ahead of the pack on the heels of the leading horse. ‘He stands a chance.’

‘More than that,’ said Follet unemotionally. ‘He’s going to win.’

Al Fahkri swept ahead to win by two lengths.

Warren got up and switched off the set. ‘That’s it,’ he said calmly.

‘Here, kid; have a drink on Jamshid,’ said Follet, thrusting a glass into Raqi’s hand. ‘The honest bookie who never welshes. You’re a bit richer than you were this morning.’

Raqi looked at the three of them in turn. Warren had produced a notebook and was methodically jotting down figures; Tozier was gathering up the cards scattered on the table; Follet was beaming in high good humour. He said, hesitantly. ‘The race was … arranged?’

‘Fixed is the word, kid. We’ve bought a couple of good jockeys. I told you it was a gilt-edged investment.’

Guilt-edged would be more like it, thought Warren.

Follet took a wallet from his jacket which was draped over the back of a chair and counted out notes. ‘You don’t have to wait to collect from Jamshid,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that when I collect ours.’ He tossed a roll of currency on the table before Raqi. ‘It was eight to one – there’s your sixteen thousand.’ He grinned. ‘You don’t get your stake back because it wasn’t yours. Okay, kid?’

Raqi took the money in his hands and gazed at it in wonder. ‘Go ahead,’ said Follet. ‘Take it – it’s yours.’

‘Thanks,’ said Raqi, and put the money away quickly.

Tozier said briefly, ‘Let’s play poker.’

‘That’s an idea,’ said Follet. ‘Maybe we can win that sixteen thousand from Javid.’ He sat down as Warren put away the notebook. ‘What’s the score so far, Nick?’

‘Just under two million,’ said Warren. ‘I think we ought to give it a rest for a while.’

‘When we’re hitting the big time? You must be crazy.’