Jim Pooley scratched the back of his head as he read the results in the Racing Times. A few early pints in the Flying Swan had distracted him from keeping tabs on his regular attempt to find that elusive winning combination, the five horse Yankee but there was no mistaking it, it was there in black and white. He checked it against his betting slip.
1:30 Kempton: Slocombes Revenge
2:15 Market Rasen : Normans Paper
2:45 Kempton: Flying Neville
3:00 Sandown: O'Malleys Round
3:30 Sandown: Lucky Jim
When he'd sat down in his favourite seat outside Brentford Library, lucky pencil perched behind his left ear, the right being home to a half burnt out cigarette, the names had jumped out at him. Jim didn't take to kindly to coincidences, they usually meant trouble, especially around Brentford, but these seemed to call out to him. Carefully he'd circled them, and then followed the well trod path to hand over a oncer to Bob the Bookie. One pound, that's all he ever put on, but on a five horse Yankee that's all he needed. If the bet came good, he'd be set for life. No more scrounging off of John O'Malley for the price of pint in the Flying Swan, no more keeping hold of tab ends, no more hiding behind the sofa when the landlord came knocking for his rent.
Jim carefully placed the betting slip in his pocket, and looked furtively around him to see if anyone was watching. Brentfordtonians could smell a ha'penny at 20 yards, a betting slip with five winners would draw them like Great Whites to an injured seal, and the effect would be roughly the same.
With more of a spring in his step than would normally be seen, Jim made his way to lay claim to his winnings. It didn't go unnoticed. Norman the newsagent spotted him as he brushed the front step of his shop, and wondered at what could have put said spring in Jim's step. Only two options came to mind. Either Jim had scored with Ms Jones the librarian, or he had finally come good on the Five Horse Yankee. Given that it was a seventy million to one chance of picking the five nags, and that was about the same chance Jim had with Ms Jones, Norman was undecided.
"Any chance of you paying that paper bill of yours Jim?" Norman asked as the newly made millionaire passed him by.
Jim, stopped midstride and patted his pockets. "Surely I'd love to Norman" began Jim "but you find me a bit strapped"
Norman nodded to himself 'No money' he thought 'The lucky bastard pulled last night'. But then something happened that made Normans jaw almost drop to the ground.
Jim Pooley handed him a fiver. "That should cover half of it" he said "I'll pay the remainder later", then sauntered off down the street.
A whole fiver! Pooley never handed over a full fiver. After much haggling, and verbal arm wrestling, Jim would come out with some cock and bull story, which defied logic to such an extent that it was impossible to argue with, and then palm him off with a pound …. if he was lucky.
Mouth agape Norman held the five pound note up to the light "Bugger me!" he exclaimed "He's won on the bloody horses!"
There is a saying that 'Good news travels fast'. In Brentford news of money moves faster than light, and mugs the 'Good news' on the way. So it was that, when he reached Bob the Bookies place, Jim found it shut up and a notice saying it was closed until further notice. Jim pounded on the door, "YOU BASTARD BOB!" he bellowed.
Although Bob had cheerfully pocketed Jims one pound very day for the last 5 years, he had done so safe in the knowledge that Jim would never win. On most bets he put in a clause that he would only pay out up to two hundred and fifty grand, but Jims five horse Yankee was impossible. He'd happily waived that clause just make sure the gullible fool didn't go off to another bookies.
When he'd seen the first results come in that day, he hadn't worried. Three often came up, but when the fourth had come in a winner Bob had begun to worry. Then Lucky Jim had romped home.Well to say romped would be pushing it, the other six had failed to finish. One had refused at the gate, another had gone five yards, turned around and headed in the other direction, and probably hadn't stopped until it reached the Solent. A third horse had collapsed of a heart attack half way, while the other two collided at the last fence, and unhorsed the riders. As Lucky Jim, a horse too slow to make it to the knackers yard, plodded around the course Bob had felt the blood drain from his body and, more importantly, the money drain from his bank account.
And so it was that Bob did the only thing any honourable bookie could when faced with a multi-million pound pay-out. He did a bunk.
Jim's fists and feet flailed but to no avail, and he could feel his dreams of sunning himself on his own tropical island, while being served luke warm pints of Large by a bikini clad Ms Jones, slowly fade into the distance. Then he noticed a glint on the floor,a single pound coin at his feet.
"Just my luck" he thought "Lose a million and I find a quid"
As he bent down to pick it up there was a load crack, and then the window to the bookies shattered into a thousand shimmering pieces.
"Bloody kids," thought Jim as he covered his head from the rain of silica, "It's not closed five minutes and they're already trying to wreck it"
Jim solemnly trudged into the Flying Swan and laid the lone coin on the bar top. "Pint of Large please Neville"
Neville, the part time barman, looked at Jim's glum face and decided now was not the right time for the 'Why the long face' gag.
"And you can leave out the 'Why the long face gag'" said Pooley
"Never even crossed my mind Jim" lied Neville as he placed a full pint glass on the bar.
Jim spied his pal John O'Malley at a table and, picking up his pint of Large, wandered over to join him. Before John could even think of faces, long or short, Jim slid over his betting slip and a copy of the racing times. John glanced at the slip, and then across at the circled runners in the paper.
"Is this what I think it is Jim?"
Jim nodded
"B-b-b-but this is a five horse Yankee? You've actually got a five horse Yankee!" John's voice raised an octave with every word, but then he dragged it down to a mere whisper when common sense shouted at him where he was. A dozen pairs of eyes were glancing over pint pots.
"He's gone" said Jim in a voice that sounded like death warmed up
"Who?"
"Bob the bastard bookie, that's who."
"He's gone?"
"YES BLOODY GONE!" exclaimed Pooley as he tried to keep his sanity under control. "Done a bunk, scarpered, legged it, a moonlight flit, in short BUGGERED OFF WITH MY WINNINGS!"
"Are you sure?" asked John, then hurriedly added when he saw that vein on Jim's forehead throb "I mean he isn't going to disappear completely. He's got too much invested round here. There's plenty who owe him money. Admittedly no where near what he owes you now, but he wouldn't leave just like that."
"Come on Jim drink up." ordered John "That slimy bastard ain't getting away with our money that easily"
John marched to the door, and Jim swiftly downed the last of his pint, and scooped the betting slip into his pocket. He was half out the door before the gears at the back of his mind finally let the proverbial penny freefall.
"Ere, what do you mean 'Our money'"
But Jim didn't get a reply. As he stepped out of the pub door there was a loud crack. O'Malley's reactions where better than Jim's, so was his knowledge of what gunfire sounded like, and he was already crouched down behind a parked car.
"Bloody kids again" exclaimed Jim.
"What do you mean kids?" shouted the Irishman has he dragged his friend down to the floor and into cover behind the car
"Earlier. The little bastards smashed Bob's windows."
"How many kids do you know have an old Lee Enfield?"
"You mean like the rifle?" said Jim with a slightly hysterical edge to his voice now that a second penny had dropped.
"Yes like the bloody rifle" replied the more composed O'Malley "The exact same gun that Bob kept hold of when he was dishonourably discharged from the army, and the exact same gun he has in the backroom at the bookies."
"Oh" gulped Jim.
John poked his head over the bonnet of the car, and saw Bobs Roller moving down the street towards them.
"Feeling fit old friend?" asked John "As right now I feel like going for bit of a jog"
This time Jim got the meaning straight away, and didn't to wait for any pennies to shake themselves loose. The two of them broke cover in unison, and headed for the alley round the back of the Flying Swan. As they stumbled round the corner they heard the loud smash of a Rolls Royce hitting a stationary car, and with out breaking stride they hurled themselves over the wall at the back of Archie Karachi's Curry House.
Panting they leaned against the wall, and listened as they heard the screech of tyres, followed by the sound of a Rolls Royce engine disappear into the distance.
"Shit!" gasped Jim between breath's "Bobs", breath "trying", breath " kill", breath "me?"
"It seems so" answered O'Malley, who was also slightly fitter than Jim.
"What the hell am I going to do?" whimpered the man with the golden ticket.
"Well I wouldn't rightly be the one to answer that. But I know a man who always seems to have the right answer"
"And a bottle of whiskey to hand?" finished Jim.
"The Professor" said the duo in unison
"Arrgh!" cried Jim as he jumped over the garden wall and landed in the middle of a row of bean canes. "Christ on a bike John, why the hell did we have to come round the back? The Professors drive is straight through the Butts estate."
"Come on Jim, you know I always like to take the Butts from behind"
Silence.
"Ah well Jim, if you'd been American you would have found it funny"
"For crying out loud you Irish pillock, I'm in mortal danger and your making cracks about arses."
John looked round and the look on Jim's face said the pun wasn't intended, so he let it drop.
"Its simple Jim." explained O'Malley "Bob can read you like a book. First off you went to collect your winnings, so he tried there. Then he knew you'd go to drown your sorrows, so waited outside the Swan. After that the only logical place is the Professors."
"Bugger" exclaimed Jim
"Exactly. That's why we're up the Butts." John didn't wait for the swipe that came his way, and vaulted over the fence in to the Professors back garden.
"Ah, if it isn't Brentfords very own gruesome twosome. You know where the decanter is Jim." Professor Slocombes invitation was somewhat wasted as Jim had a full glass in his hand before he had finished the sentence, and an empty one by the time he had.
"Am I to deduce by your quicker than usual destruction of 25 year malt that you've gotten yourselves in over your heads again?"
"Well not so much us" answered John "but Jim here is in a spot of bother with Bob the Bookie"
"Oh, so it's just me now is it? You were quick enough to include yourself when we were in the Swan"
"Yes, well I think its best I waive my share. After all you do owe me a fiver from last week. So I think we could call it evens" shrugged John
"I take it you would be referring to this then?" The Professor flung the racing pages from the daily the paper to Jim. Pooley looked down at the paper and saw his winning horses all circled.
"How the hell did you do that?" he asked incredulously
"Elementary my dear Pooley. Gamblers are all superstitious by nature, and I knew that such a selection of names would not pass you by" As he talked the Professor pulled the bell cord "I also knew that if they won, then you would have your long dreamed of five horse Yankee, and that your one time 'friend' Bob would do what he could to stop you claiming it"
O'Malley supped at a glass of Scotlands finest contribution to civilisation "Well I should have guessed you'd be on the ball Professor"
"Indeed John, but I fear it is not Bob that is our real problem" Professor Slocombe looked pointedly at O'Malley as he stressed the 'our'. "I believe that someone has arranged for those horses to not only race on the same day, but also to win, therefore forcing Bob into his present course of action."
"You mean it's a fit up to kill Jim?" asked a disbelieving O'Malley
"Well racing is corrupt enough for such a thing to be done, it would just take a bit of cash. But not much more than hiring a good hitman, and with the added bonus that any investigating Police inspector would never be able to draw a link between the genius behind it, and the man who pulled the trigger."
"But who would want to kill me?" sobbed Jim
"Well that's the question. You've done plenty in my service over the years Jim, but anyone likely to be wanting revenge would know you would just be the pawn, and ultimately they would be after me."
The Professor stopped as his trusty servant, Gammon, entered the room and placed a tray on the table.
"But that is by the by." The Professor picked up the papers off the tray and handed them to Jim "Our first priority is your safety Jim. You'll find in there some US dollars, your passport and a one way air ticket to America"
"America?!" gasped the devoted Brentfortonain. Jim had never left the triangle formed by the Great West Road, the Thames and the Grand Union Canal, let alone the country.
"Its imperative that we get you hidden from danger, until we at least know from what quarter it is coming."
"The keeping of the now-legendary low profile, as it where" added John
"Quite. Gammon here will drive you to Heathrow, your flight leaves in an hour"
Jim looked down at the money "But there's only a couple of hundred dollars in here, that won't last long. What am I supposed to do when it runs out"
"Well you could always get a job" laughed O'Malley.
"A job?" Robbed of his millionaire life, shot at, almost run down and his life in immediate danger. Jim had coped with a lot that day, but now the proverbial camel took one look at the straw and booked himself an appointment with the chiropractor. Jim fainted.
And so it came to pass that Jim awoke to find himself on a flight across the Atlantic, and on to the west coast of America. As far from the civilisation of Brentford as it was possible to be.
Jim emerged from the terminal doors of Los Santos International Airport. He looked around at the busy concourse. The crowd seem to be mainly made up of clowns. Not your nice comical circus clowns, but fat evil looking clowns, with beer stained stripey shirts that struggled to cover the hairy beer belly that bulged out over the bright red shorts. Jim shuddered at the sight of them and, not being used to the ways of Americans deduced it was either a Clown convention or possibly a tradition, or an old charter, or something.
Jim sat down on a bench, and picked up the discarded newspaper that sat there. He flicked through the pages, skipping ads for cars, flats and hitmen and looked for the jobs section.
A job. Jim still couldn't quite get his head around the concept. Aside from the time he'd cut the Professors lawn he'd never done a days work in his life. The idea of actually having gainful employment was anathema to Jim. But then his eye caught an advert.
'Earn Big Bucks. Good Pay, Easy Hours. Be a Bookseller'
"A bookseller?" thought Jim "That must be what these Yanks call a bookie. Now that's something I can understand."
Now a man with a plan, Jim stood up and strode to the roadside.
"Maybe things won't be so bad after all"
That was his first mistake in Los Santos. His second?
"I'll just wait for a bus. One is bound to be along soon"