Gavin Lyall - Judas Country

Some say this is so you won't notice what's happening on the back straight, others that it's a bluff to make you think something's happening there instead of it all being arranged beforehand byle Combine with its go-go and stop-stop pills. Oddly, the locals don't seem to get angry about this: le Combine is just another factor to consider along with the jockey, recent form, hard or soft going, distance, whether Orion is in Venus and whatever else racegoers worry about.

Me, I have no opinions bar one: that the first time I bet on a Beirut horse it'll be because I saw a tout in a vision and he had nail-holes in his wrists and ankles.

We just missed the first race, so by the time they let us across the track people were drifting back from the rails tearing up tickets and calling for another jar. The stand looked about half full, thecafé area more so, with Jehangir at a front table, his tin leg stuck stiffly out and his smile gleaming in the sunlight. He waved us in and I introduced Ken and we sat down.

'Three more beers,' Jehangir called, and a crumpled old waiter took off at a hand-gallop. For once, our style of dress -if that's what it was – didn't seem too far out of place. Royal Ascot this wasn't, though there were still a number of city suits around. But Jehangir himself was hi candy-pink trousers and striped shirt, and a lot of the crowd had had similar ideas.

'You see that man in the glasses?' Jehangir pointed inconspicuously. 'Seventeen years ago, he assassinated the President of Syria.' He seemed pleased by the thought, like a man recommending a horse. The man looked fiftyish, but still lean and hard; a policeman wearing a carbine that had gone green, I meangreen, around the breech wandered up, saluted the assassin smartly. Jehangir nodded approvingly.

Our drinks arrived. Jehangir said: 'Now we can drink beer and talk champagne. But first, you must let me mark your cards for you.'

We hadn't even bought race-cards, since they come only in Arabic – which tells you about how many tourists come here -but Jehangir bent studiously over his own. 'I know nothing about the second, but in the third and fifth, ah…'

I said: 'On her death-bed, my mother made me promise never to take sweets from strangers or advice from friends.'

Jehangir grinned. 'You will die rich.'

'I'm sure half of that's true.'

Ken asked: 'Are you feeling lucky or knowledgeable?'

Jehangir shrugged deprecatingly. 'A little of both. But surely you don't believe all these stories aboutle Combine that one hears from losers?'

'I knew a man here who bought an ex-racehorse, just for some exercise, and he swore it wouldn't get up in the morning without him shouting "The joint's raided! " '

Jehangir grinned automatically. 'Who wants to hear stories about honest dealing and hard work?'

'Not me,' Ken assured him, and both of them smiled.

I said: 'Were you doing any work for Castle Hotels when they were still in business?'

He bent his head gracefully. 'They asked me to be host on the opening night – and bring a few friends from Rome. Some say I run the best non-political party in Beirut.'

I nodded. So the 'champagne' would originally have been delivered, maybe not direct to him, but certainly close to him.1 glanced at Ken and knew he was following the same thought-prints.

Jehangir looked at his fingernails. 'Am I to take it, from your arrival in Beirut, that Mr… er, Kapotas is no longer an interested party?'

Ken said: 'He's a busy man, a lot of things on his mind. We don't want to see him overworked. You know how it is?'

'Oh, I know,' Jehangir said softly. Then, to me: 'So, if all the documentation is still complete, one might just go ahead as if nothing as heart-breaking as Castle's failure had happened?'

'Onemight,' I said.

'Apart,' he added, 'from the matter of the delivery charge?'

So then a tall young black man in blue jeans came up to the table and gave Jehangir a wad of money the size of a club sandwich. Ken stared. 'Jesus. Was that the first race?'

Jehangir flapped the wad casually. 'It looks more than it is. But you haven't met Janni, have you?'

The Negro shook hands and gave me a quick, slightly uneasy smile showing a lot of very white but uneven teeth. He was very dark, with a bluish sheen on his skin but a sharper nose than you'd expect; East Africa, somewhere, which went with a Muslim name. That apart, he had shoulders like a bulldozer blade and a chest like a concrete mixer, but carried his weight lightly.

'Gentlemen,' Jehangir said gravely, 'you have just shaken hands with the next heavyweight champion of the world.'

Now I could see the thin pale scars above and below the eyes. Janni smiled again, but not until we looked at him.

Ken sounded impressed. 'Are you a fights manager as well?' It fitted, of course: horses, Via Veneto parties, boxers – they went together. And boxes of guns, too?

Jehangir lit a cigarette and waved it. 'Only for the best. Janni boxed on the Ethiopian team at the Olympics, but went down with flu in the second week. I was the only one who'd spotted him by then. If he'd gone through and won, of course, the Americans would've got him. And givenhim ten fights in six months and ruined him.'

I asked: 'What's the score so far?'

'Fourteen fights in two years, and we've won the last nine in a row, mostly inside the distance.' I love that 'we' you get from managers, just as if they'd been in there, too, throwing left hooks with their cigars. 'Next month to Rome, and once we've won that, the Sporting Club in London.'

'Tomorrow, the world,' Ken murmured, looking at Janni.

Jehangir nodded. 'But Janni hardly speaks any English yet. And why rush it? So far he can't understand what stupid questions sports writers ask nor what rubbish they write.' Nor read account books where somehow the boxer ends up with minus ten per cent of the take.

The crowd stirred and several people stood up from tables around us: a line of stubby, sawn-off horses was walking out between us and the stands, jockeys in the driving seats, one in green silks who could have switched weights with his horse and the records book would never have noticed a thing.

Jehangir hauled himself upright, said: 'Excuse me, gentlemen, just one moment,' and walked stiffly off to get a closer look. Janni went with him, carefully blocking people from bumping the master's left leg.

Ken said: 'Give me five pounds to put on that fat jock. There's no way he can be honest.'

'My mother's dying words were: "If you lend money for gambling it's a hundred to six you'll never get it back".'

'Gabby old bat on her death-bed, wasn't she?' Then, with no change of voice, he went on: 'I'd said nobody hit anybody on the chin except on TV. I forgot about trained boxers.'

I rubbed my chin and nodded. 'And Jehangir knew I'd got all the documents. Well, if the kid ever makes world champion I'll remember to feel honoured.'

'Not in a million years. Not if his eyes get cut like that at this level of competition. Two real fights and he'll be learning English by Braille. What are we asking as a delivery price?'

'Let's see what he suggests about shaking the aeroplane loose.' I lit a pipe and leaned back comfortably. The sun was pleasantly warm but no more, and the air smelled only faintly of horses. A young waiter hurried around putting fresh charcoals on the pans of the hubble-bubble pipes that stood beside half the tables; you just plugged in your own mouthpiece and took a drag. Simple; I keep on meaning to try it sometime.

By and by the horses cantered off to the start, Janni hurried away to the Tote and Jehangir came and sat down again.

Ken said: 'I thought you didn't know anything about this race?'

Jehangir grinned and shrugged. 'I can't resist any race. Now -we were talking about a delivery price, I think.'