The Sprouts of Wrath by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online

memory.”
    “Oh yes?” How the miasmal cocktail of wet fish and pomander could stir up anything other than acute nausea escaped Omally.
    “Her name was Jasmine,” Old Pete recalled wistfully, “she ran a Bangkok brothel.”
    “You disgusting old bastard,” said John Omally, concealing his mirth.
    “Of course I could be wrong.” The ancient had another sniff or two and thought to detect the familiar whiff of a large dark rum hovering in the overcharged air. “It might just be ten pound of freshly poached river salmon,” he announced loudly.
    Omally spluttered into what was left of his pint. “A large dark rum over here, please, Neville,” he said, wiping foam from his nose.
    “Why, thank you, John,” said Old Pete, chuckling wickedly, “most unexpected.” Neville, returning from the freezer, wiping his hands upon his bar apron, drew the old rogue his prize from the bullseye optic.
    “Your very good health, John.”
    “And yours, Pete.” Omally raised his glass and peered sadly through its now empty bottom.
    “Same again, is it?” Neville enquired. “Care to settle up now, would you?”
    As if upon cue Jim Pooley entered the Flying Swan. “Watchamate all,” said he.
    Pete touched his flat cap, Neville inclined his shining pate, Young Chips woofed non-committally and Omally said, “Good day.”
    “Who’s in the chair?” Jim enquired.
    “Guess?” Omally proffered his empty glass.
    “Ah.” Jim patted his pockets. “I regret that a business transaction has sorely taxed my purse upon this morning,” said he, turning to Omally with what he considered to be a “significant look”.
    “We’ll split it then.” Omally pushed his glass across the shining bar top. “Two pints of Large, please, Neville.”
    “And a dark rum,” said Old Pete with a blackmailer’s optimism.
    “And a small dark rum,” said Omally, “which will be your last.”
    Old Pete grinned toothlessly. He knew better than to kill the fish that laid the golden egg. There was always another Friday. “Much obliged,” said he.
    The honours were done and Omally called to account. John led his partner away to the privacy of a side table where he split the change and tossed Jim another pound note.
    Pooley sorrowfully examined the residue of the day’s wages. “I do not appear to be quids in here,” he observed.
    “It is impossible to project a specific return upon working capital,” said John informatively. “For the wheels of commerce to spin freely, their axles must receive constant financial lubrication.”
    “You mean paying off that old villain?” Pooley nodded towards Pete, who raised his glass in reply and said “Cheers!” Young Chips, whose hearing was more than acute, made a mental note to visit Jim’s ankle when the occasion arose.
    “A mere bagatelle,” said Omally. “Now what about that other bit of business?”
    Pooley supped his ale. “Your prediction odds-wise was somewhat over-optimistic,” said he, “but then it is always impossible to project a specific return upon …”
    “Touchée,” said Omally, peeling another pound note into Jim’s direction. “I believe I might have short-changed you in error.”
    “By another ten shillings, I believe,” replied Pooley.
    “Ah, yes.” A ten-shilling note changed hands.
    “Thank you, John, but truly, do you honestly believe that this is going to come off?”
    Omally nodded. “It is a sure thing, I am telling you.” He drew his companion closer. “And Bob went for it?”
    “He made a small provision or two, but, yes, well, he went for it.”
    “Wonderful,” said Omally. “Then shortly we will both be very, very rich. Neville!” he called out, “what is the exact time, do you know?”
    The part-time barman eye-balled the battered Guinness clock. “Do you mean pub time or GMT?”
    “GMT.”
    “Eleven twenty-two.”
    “Thank you, Neville.” Omally turned to Jim and patted him upon the shoulder. “You honestly have nothing to fear,” said