The thud of a letter hitting the mat jolted me out of my reverie. Leaving my pint of milk and morning Rodeo, I went to investigate. It was a plain brown envelope containing a ticket to the race track and a cryptic note:

            Tucked inside was a £10 note. I fanned myself with it as I grabbed my hat.  The track wasn’t far and I arrived with time to spare. Hounds, and then some. I hadn’t seen so many long legs since the Tiller Girls disbanded. I looked around for Faisal but I couldn’t see any Arabian Knights. I tried the nearest Afghan hound. “Faisal?” I enquired. “Prince Faisal”, he corrected, leaning on his bone-handled cane. My eyebrows raised so far I could read the label in my hat without taking it off. I handed him my card.

            Faisal tucked it in his pocket “There’s no real mystery, but I don’t want to get involved, if you know what I mean?” I looked him over. Flashy pinstripe, silk handkerchief, spats. I knew what he meant all right. All he was missing was a violin case with a machine gun in it. I looked down on the track where a big mutt was hustling for money and taking bets. “Fat Al?” I asked. Faisal nodded. ‘Take a look - you’ll soon catch on. He’s making a packet but this time the money stays put.” There was a hint of menace in his tone. I was still puzzling it out when a familiar scent tickled my nostrils: Vidal Sassoon Salon Mist, CFC-free, pump-action, ozone-friendly. Lola Lamont. I whirled around in surprise. She was wearing a strappy gold number edged with filigree lace. The number 13 was emblazoned on her side.

            “Unlucky for some, Bob”, she said, following my gaze. “You’re not superstitious, are you?” I hadn’t seen Lola since the Bonzo Bow-Wow case, and if I was honest, this encounter had me rattled. I knew Afghans were fickle and Lola’s loyalty was like her hairspray, brush-out and tangle-free. I ignored her jibe and stayed cool “Actually, Lola, I’m feeling pretty lucky today.” A leggy Saluki walked by and looked me over, so I looked right back. Lola was not amused. I decided to stop talking in circles and take a closer look at the ones being beaten into the track. I tipped my hat to the Saluki and then, mockingly, to Lola. “Excuse me, ladies.”

            I sauntered down to Fat Al’s pitch. Sure enough, he was pocketing enough money to start a Casino. I had to hand it to him - I’d like to have handed it to him with a shotgun, but instead I hung back and watched as the leggy Saluki headed into the traps. So slim, you could have knocked her down with a feather: she was fine-boned, aristocratic. If I said this girl would never need liposuction, it would be an understatement. She was so racy, she could outrun a gazelle being chased by a herd of buffalo.

            Business was booming around Al’s stand: his money was so hot he was starting to melt. Beads of sweat poured down his face like canoes shooting rapids. I scowled as he caught me looking at him. He was scared all right, but not scared enough to stop gambling with Faisal’s money. Al must have felt lucky too - before I could stop him, he passed it to a sleazy type who mingled with the next batch of runners. I scanned the Afghans on the track. They were under starter’s orders and dressed to kill in racing pink. Then I saw my target. There he was, side pockets so stuffed with notes they floated out as he raced off the blocks. I looked to the other side of the track: a leather clad party on a motorcycle waited for the switch.

            I was on that track and running up a storm before anyone realised what had happened. I’m no boy racer but I was fast and I was hungry. My hat flew away on the first bend and when the buttons popped off my raincoat it didn’t hinder me -- no-one flashes faster than Bob Martin. Hunching low I stretched out and began to gain on him. It wasn’t so hard, Afghans are all up and down like painted horses on a carousel. If it hadn’t been for the milk and Rodeos, I might have got him before I did. I sat down hard on him and caught my breath. “Drop something, Bob?” Lola Lamont leaned over me wearing my hat at a rakish angle. I should have been angry but I never could resist a dame with long blonde hair and a black face. Faisal appeared and stood in front of her. If he’d marked the post I was leaning on, his message couldn’t have been clearer. I handed the money over. It was going from one rogue to another, but I was too tired to care. I just couldn’t get Lola out of my mind - she was trouble with a capital T. There was only one thing for it. I decided to fight fire with fire, and they don’t burn much faster than a Saluki.

            “So long Lola”. Runaround Sue was young and eager, and I was today’s hero. Clapping my hat over my ears, I gave her a wink and she came running. I began to hum, “Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl ..”. Faisal’s long aquiline nose floated into my mind and I thought of Barry Manilow. What did I care? I was £10 richer, 2lbs lighter and squiring a dame with looks to spare and all her brains in her face. I might only be 17” at the shoulder but I’ll never need a nose job.

A Curly Tale from
Bob Martin's Casebook © 1992