Illustrated by Bernklau
THE
BIG FIX
BY GEORGE O. SMITH
_Anyone who holds that telepathy and psi
powers would mean an end to crime quite
obviously underestimates the ingenuity of
the human race. Now consider a horserace
that_ had _to be fixed ..._
It was April, a couple of weeks before the Derby. We were playing poker,
which is a game of skill that has nothing to do with the velocity of
horse meat.
Phil Howland kept slipping open but he managed to close up before I
could tell whether the combination of Three-Five-Two-Four meant a full
house of fives over fours or whether he was betting on an open-ended
straight that he hadn't bothered to arrange in order as he held them.
The Greek was impenetrable; he also blocked me from reading the deck so
that I could estimate his hand from the cards that weren't dealt out.
Chicago Charlie's mind was easy to read but no one could trust him. He
was just as apt to think high to score someone out as he was to think
low to suck the boys in. As for me, there I was, good old Wally Wilson,
holding a pat straight flush from the eight to the queen of diamonds. I
was thinking "full house" but I was betting like a weak three of a kind.
It was a terrific game. Between trying to read into these other guy's
brains and keeping them from opening mine, and blocking the Greek's sly
stunt of tipping over the poker chips as a distraction, I was also
concerned about the eight thousand bucks that was in the pot. The
trouble was that all four of us fully intended to rake it in. My
straight flush would be good for the works in any normal game with wild
cards, but the way this bunch was betting I couldn't be sure. Phil
Howland didn't have much of a shield but he could really read, and if he
read me--either my mind or my hand--he'd automatically radiate and that
would be that.
I was about at the point of calling for the draw when the door opened
without any knock. It was Tomboy Taylor. We'd been so engrossed with one
another that none of us had caught her approach.
The Greek looked up at her and swore something that he hadn't read in
Plato. "Showdown," he said, tossing in his hand.
I grunted and spread my five beauties.
Phil growled and shoved the pot in my direction, keeping both eyes on
Tomboy Taylor.
She was something to keep eyes on, both figuratively and literally. The
only thing that kept her from being a thionite dream was the Pittsburgh
stogie that she insisted upon smoking, and the only thing that kept her
from being some man's companion in spite of the stogie was the fact that
he'd have to keep his mouth shut or she'd steal his back teeth--if not
for fillings, then for practice.
"You, Wally Wilson," she said around the cigar, "get these grifters out
of here. I got words."
The Greek growled. "Who says?"
"Barcelona says."
I do not have to explain who Barcelona is. All I have to say is that
Phil Howland, The Greek, and Chicago Charlie arose without a word and
filed out with their minds all held tight behind solid shields.
* * * * *
I said, "What does Barcelona want with me?"
Tomboy Taylor removed the stogie and said evenly, "Barcelona wants to
see it Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace next month."
When I got done gulping I said, "You mean Barcelona wants me to fix the
Kentucky Derby?"
"Oh no," she replied in a very throaty contralto that went with her
figure and her thousand dollars worth of simple skirt and blouse. "You
needn't 'Fix' anything. Just be sure that it's Flying Heels, Moonbeam,
and Lady Grace in that order. One, two, three. Do I make Barcelona quite
clear?"
I said, "Look, Tomboy, neither of them platers can even _run_ that far,
let alone running ahead."
"Barcelona says they can. And will." She leaned forward and stubbed out
the Pittsburgh stogie and in the gesture she became wholly beautiful as
well as beautifully wholesome. As she leaned toward me she unfogged the
lighter surface of her mind and let me dig the faintly-leaking concept
that she considered me physically attractive. This did not offend me. To
the contrary it pleased my ego mightily until Tomboy Taylor deliberately
let the barrier down to let me read the visual impression--which
included all of the implications contained in the old cliche: "... And
don't he look nacheral?"
"How," I asked on the recoil, "can I fix the Derby?"
"Barcelona says you know more about the horse racing business than any
other big time operator in Chicago," she said smoothly. "Barcelona says
that he doesn't know anything about horse racing at all, but he has
great faith in your ability. Barcelona says that if anybody can make it
Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace, one, two, and three, Wally
Wilson is the man who can do it. In fact, Barcelona will be terribly
disappointed if you can't."
I eyed her carefully. She was a composed and poised beauty who looked
entirely incapable of uttering such words. I tried to peer into her
mind but it was like trying to read the fine print of a telephone
directory through a knitted woolen shawl. She smiled at me, her shapely
lips curving graciously.
I said, "Barcelona seems to have a lot of confidence in my ability to
arrange things."
With those delicate lips still curved sweetly, she said, "Barcelona is
willing to bet money on your ability as a manager."
At this point Tomboy Taylor fished another Pittsburgh stogie out of her
hundred dollar handbag, bit off the end with a quick nibble of even,
pearly-white teeth, and stuffed the cigar in between the arched lips.
She scratched a big kitchen match on the seat of her skirt after raising
one shapely thigh to stretch the cloth. She puffed the stogie into light
and became transformed from a beauty into a hag. My mind swore; it was
like painting a mustache on the Mona Lisa.
Out of the corner of her mouth she replied to my unspoken question: "It
helps to keep grippers like you at mind's length."
Then she left me alone with my littered card table and the eight
thousand buck final pot--_and_ the unhappy recollection that Barcelona
had gotten upset at something Harold Grimmer had done, and he'd gone
into Grimmer's place and busted Grimmer flat by starting with one lousy
buck and letting it ride through eighteen straight passes. This feat of
skill was performed under the mental noses of about eight operators
trained to exert their extrasensory talents toward the defeat of
sharpshooters who tried to add paraphysics to the laws of chance.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Delancey of the Chicago police came in an hour later. He
refused my offer of a drink, and a smoke, and then because I didn't wave
him to a chair he crossed my living room briskly and eased himself into
my favorite chair. I think I could have won the waiting game but the
prize wasn't good enough to interest me in playing. So I said, "O.K.,
lieutenant, what am I supposed to be guilty of?"
His smile was veiled. "You're not guilty of anything, so far as I know."
"You're not here to pass the time of day."
"No, I'm not. I want information."
"What kind of information?"
"One hears things," he said vaguely.
"Lieutenant," I said, "you've been watching one of those halluscene
whodunit dramas where everybody stands around making witty sayings
composed of disconnected phrases. You'll next be saying 'Evil Lurks In
The Minds Of Men,' in a sepulchral intonation. Let's skip it, huh? What
kind of things does one hear and from whom?"
"It starts with Gimpy Gordon."
"Whose mind meanders."
He shrugged. "Gimpy Gordon's meandering mind is well understood for what
it is," he said. "But when it ceases to meander long enough to follow a
single train of thought from beginning to logical end, then something is
up."
"Such as what, for instance."
The lieutenant leaned back in my easy-chair and stared at the ceiling.
"Wally," he said, "I was relaxing in the car with Sergeant Holliday
driving. We passed a certain area on Michigan near Randolph and I caught
the strong mental impression of someone who--in this day and age, mind
you--had had the temerity to pickpocket a wallet containing twenty-seven
dollars. The sum of twenty-seven dollars was connected with the fact
that the rewards made the risk worth taking; there were distinct
impressions of playing that twenty-seven bucks across the board on three
very especial nags at the Derby. The impression of the twenty-seven
bucks changed into a mental vision of a hand holding a sack of peanuts.
There was indecision. Should he take more risk and run up his available
cash to make a larger killing, or would one Joseph Barcelona take a
stand-offish attitude if some outsider were to lower the track odds by
betting a bundle on Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace."
I said, "Lieutenant, you've a pickpocket to jug. Horse betting is
legal."
"Since wagering on the speed of a horse has been redefined as 'The
purchase of one corporate share to be valid for one transaction only and
redeemable at a par value to be established by the outcome of this
aforesaid single transaction,' horse betting is legal. This makes you an
'Investment Counselor, short-term transactions only,' and removes from
you the odious nomenclature of 'Bookie.' However, permit me to point out
that the buying and selling of shares of horseflesh does not grant a
license to manipulate the outcome."
"You sound as though you're accusing me of contemplating a fix."
"Oh no. Not that."
"Then what?"
"Wally, Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace were refused by the
National Association Of Dog Food Canners because of their substandard
health. If I'm not mistaken, the Derby Association should have to run
the race early that Saturday afternoon."
"Early?"
"Uh-huh. Early. Y'see, Wally, the blue laws of the blue grass state make
it illegal to run horseraces on Sunday, hence the start of the Derby
must be early enough to let our three platers complete the race before
midnight."
"Lieutenant, there still stands a mathematical probability that--"
"That the rest of the field will catch the Martian Glanders as they lead
our three dogs past the clubhouse turn?"
"Lieutenant, you are wronging me."
"I haven't said a thing."
"Then why have you come here to bedevil me, lieutenant? If Barcelona has
ideas of arranging a fix--"
"If Barcelona has such notions, Wally Wilson would know about it."
"Everybody," I said, "entertains notions of cleaning up a bundle by
having the hundred-to-one shot come in by a length. Even Barcelona must
have wild dreams now and then--"
"Come off it," he snapped. "Something's up and I want to know what's
cooking."
* * * * *
"Lieutenant, you're now asking me to describe to you how someone might
rig the Kentucky Derby in a world full of expert telepaths and
perceptives and manipulators, a large number of which will be rather
well-paid to lend their extrasensory power to the process of keeping the
Derby pure."
He eyed me sourly. "Remember, 'Fireman' O'Leary?"
"That's an unfair allegation," I replied. "The rumor that he started the
Chicago Fire is absolutely unfounded."
"As I recall, 'Fireman' O'Leary came by his nickname about one hundred
years after the holocaust that started on DeKoven Street in 1871. It
seems that 'Fireman' O'Leary was most useful in helping the fillies home
at Washington Park by assaulting them in the region of the bangtail with
small bollops of pure incandescence. He was a pyrotic."
"That is a false accusation--"
"It was never proved," admitted the lieutenant, "because any one who