The Big Fix
wonder about certain connective events. For instance, let's hypothecate.
Let's say that a certain prominent bookmaker had been suspected of
planning to put a fix on a certain important horse race, but of course
nothing could be proved. Now from another source we suddenly discover
strong evidence to suggest that this bookmaker is not accepting wagers
on the horses he is backing, but conversely is busy laying wagers on the
same nags through the help of a rather inept go-between."
I grunted aloud which caused Nora Taylor to look up in surprise. I was
tempted to say it aloud but I did not. I thought:
"In simple terms, Joseph, you are miffed because I will not cover your
bets."
"I thought nothing of the sort."
"Let's hedge? I love you too, Joseph."
"Well, are you or aren't you?"
"Are I what? Going to top the frosting by financing your little scheme
to put the pinch on me?"
"Now, Wally--"
"Can it, Joseph. We're both big boys now and we both know what the score
is. You know and I know that the first time I or one of my boys takes a
bet on any one of the three turtles you like, the guy who laid the bet
is going to slip the word to one of your outside men. And you're going
to leap to the strange conclusion that if Wally Wilson is accepting bets
against his own fix, he must know something exceedingly interesting."
"Now, who's been saying anything about a fix, Wally?"
"The people," I thought bluntly, "who have most recently been associated
with your clever kind of operator."
"That isn't very nice, Wally."
If it had been a telephone conversation, I'd have slammed the telephone
on him. The mealymouthed louse and his hypocritical gab was making me
mad--and I knew that he was making me mad simply to make me lose control
of my blanket. I couldn't stop it, so I let my anger out by thinking:
"You think you are clever because you're slipping through sly little
loopholes, Joseph. I'm going to show you how neat it is to get
everything I want including your grudging admission of defeat by the
process of making use of the laws and rules that work in my favor."
"You're a wise guy," he hurled back at me.
"I'm real clever, Barcelona. And I'm big enough to face you, even
though Phil Howland, The Greek, and Chicago Charlie make like cold clams
at the mention of your name."
"Why, you punk--"
"Go away, Barcelona. Go away before I make up my mind to make you eat
it."
I turned to Nora Taylor and regarded her charms and attractions both
physical and mental with open and glowing admiration. It had the
precalculated result and it wouldn't have been a whit different if I'd
filed a declaration of intent and forced her to read it first.
It even satisfied my ambient curiosity about what a telepathed grinding
of the teeth in frustrated anger would transmit as. And when it managed
to occur to an unemployed thought-center of my brain that the lines of
battle were soft and sweetly curved indeed, Joseph Barcelona couldn't
stand it any more. He just gave a mental sigh and signaled for the
noisemakers to shut him off from contact.
* * * * *
Derby Day, the First Saturday in May, dawned warm and clear with a fast,
dry track forecast for post time. The doorbell woke me up and I dredged
my apartment to identify Nora fiddling in my two-bit kitchen with ham
and eggs. Outside it was Lieutenant Delancey practising kinematics by
pressing the button with a levitated pencil instead of shoving on the
thing directly. (I'd changed the combination on the mindwarden at Nora's
suggestion.)
As I struggled out of bed, Nora flashed, "You get it, Wally," at me. She
was busy manipulating the ham slicer and the coffee percolator and
floating more eggs from the refrigerator. The invitation and the
acceptance for and of breakfast was still floating in the mental
atmosphere heavy enough to smell the coffee.
I replied to both of them, "If he can't get in, let him go hungry."
Lieutenant Delancey manipulated the door after I'd reset the mindwarden
for him. He came in with a loud verbal greeting that Nora answered by a
call from the kitchen. I couldn't hear them because I was in the shower
by that time. However, I did ask, "What gives, lieutenant?"
"It's Derby Day."
"Yeah. So what?"
"Going to watch it from here?" he thought incredulously.
"Why not? Be a big jam down there."
"I've a box," he said.
"No ... how--?"
"Both the Derby Association and the Chicago Police Force have assigned
me to protect you from the evil doings of sinners," he said with a
chuckle. "And I suggested that the best way of keeping an official eye
on you was to visit you at the scene of the alleged intended crime and
to serve that end they provided me with a box where we can all be
together."
I tossed, "And if we do not elect to go to Kentucky?"
He chuckled again. "Then I shall have to arrest you."
"For what?"
"There is an old law in the City Statute that declares something called
'Massive Cohabitation' to be illegal. You have been naughty, Wally."
Nora exploded. "We have not!" she cried.
Lieutenant Delancey laughed like a stage villain. "The law I mention,"
he said after a bit of belly-laughing, "was passed long, long ago before
telepathy and perception were available to provide the truth. At that
time the law took the stand that any unmarried couple living together
would take advantage of their unchaperoned freedom, and if this state of
cohabitation went on for a considerable length of time--called 'Massive'
but don't ask me to justify the term--the probability of their taking
pleasure in one another's company approached a one hundred per cent
positive probability.
"Now this law was never amended by the Review Act. Hence the fact that
you have been chastely occupying separate chambers has nothing to do
with the letter of the law that says simply that it is not lawful for an
unmarried couple to live under the same unchaperoned roof."
I came out of the shower toweling myself and manipulating a selection of
clean clothing out of the closet in my bedroom.
"The law," I observed, "is administered by the _Intent_ of the Law, and
not by the Letter, isn't it?"
"Oh, sure," he said. "But I'm not qualified to interpret the law. I'll
arrest you and bring you to trial and then it's up to some judge to rule
upon your purity and innocence of criminal intent, and freedom from
moral taint or turpitude. Maybe take weeks, you know."
"And what's the alternative?" I grunted.
"Flight," he said in a sinister tone as I came out of my bedroom putting
the last finishes on my necktie. "Flight away from the jurisdiction of
the law that proposes to warp the meaning of the law to accomplish its
own ends."
"And you?"
"My duty," he grinned, "is to pursue you."
"In which case," observed Nora Taylor, "we might as well fly together
and save both time and money."
"That is why I have my personal sky-buggy all ready to go instead of
requisitioning an official vehicle," he said. He scooped a fork full of
eggs and said, "You're a fool, Wally. The lady can cook."
I chuckled. "And what would happen if I hauled off and married her?"
"You mean right here and now?"
"Yes."
"Sorry. I'd have to restrain you. You see, you couldn't get a legal
license nor go through any of the other legal activities, ergo there
would be a prima facie illegality about some part of the ceremony.
Without being definite as to which phase, I would find it my duty to
restrain you from indulging in any act the consummation of which would
be illegal."
Nora said in pseudo-petulant tone, "I've been damned with very faint
praise."
"How so?"
"Wally Wilson has just said that he'd rather marry me than go to the
Kentucky Derby with you."
Lieutenant Delancey said, "I urge you both to come along. You see, my
box is also being occupied by an old friend of yours. I managed to talk
him into joining us, and with reluctance he consented."
"I'm a mind reader," I said. "Our friend's name is Joseph Barcelona?"
"As they say on the space radio, 'Aye-firm, over and out!'"
* * * * *
Barcelona was there with two of his boys. Watching them were four
ununiformed officers. Nora and I and the lieutenant were joined later by
Gimpy Gordon, who might have been radiating childlike wonder and a
circus-air of excitement at actually being _at_ the Derby. He might have
been. No one could cut through the constant, maddening mental
blah-blah-blah that was being churned out by Barcelona's noisemakers.
He greeted me curtly, eyed Nora hungrily. He said: "You look pretty
confident, Wilson."
"I can't lose," I said.
"No? Frankly I don't see how you can win."
I smiled. "Without mentioning any names, Joseph, I feel confident that
the final outcome of this racing contest will be just as you want it to
be. I shall ask that no credit be given me, although I shall be greatly
admired by our mutual friend Miss Nora Taylor who will think that I am
truly wonderful for making you happy. And it is more than likely that
she may marry me once I have shown you, and she, _and_ Lieutenant
Delancey, that I am a law-abiding citizen as well as a man who values
friendship enough to do as his old pal Joe Barcelona desires."
"It's going to be one of the neatest tricks of the week," he said.
"It will be done by the proper application of laws," I said modestly.
Behind us, Gimpy Gordon light-fingered a half dollar out of Delancey's
pocket and was attracting the attention of a hot dog peddler by waving
his program. Some folks nearby were eying Barcelona's noisemakers
angrily but making very little visible protest once they identified him.
Nora was reading her program and underlining some horses. The whole
place began to grow into a strange excited silence as the track board
began to go up. It was to be a nine-horse race, and at the top of the
list were three--count them--three odds-on favorites:
1. Murdoch's Hoard 1:2
2. Mewhu's Jet 3:5
3. Johnny Brack 5:7
4. Piper's Son 8:5
5. Daymare 3:1
6. Helen O'Loy 8:1
And then, of course, there were our three mud turtles which must have
been entered by someone who thought that the Kentucky Derby was a
claiming race and who hoped that the LePage's Glue people would make a
bid for the three mounds of thoroughbred horseflesh that dropped dead in
the backstretch:
7. Flying Heels 100:1
8. Moonbeam 250:1
9. Lady Grace 500:1
The rack hadn't hit the top of the slide before there was a sort of
mass-movement towards the mutuel windows. The ones who didn't go in
person tried to hurl betting-thoughts in the hope of getting there early
and failing this they arose and followed the crowd. Slowly the odds
began to change; the figures on our three platers began to rise. There
was very little activity on the other six horses. Slow-thinking Gimpy
Gordon started to get up but I put out a hand to stop him.
"But the odds are dropping," he complained.
"Gimpy," I said, "they pay on the final listing anyway. But would you
like a tip?"
"Sure," he said nervously.
"My tip is to keep your cash in your pocket. Put it on the nose of some
horse and it's likely to get blown away by a high wind."
The odds were changing rapidly. What with psionic information receivers,
trend predictors and estimated anticipators, the mutuel computers kept
up with the physical transfer of funds, figured out the latest odds, and
flipped the figures as fast as the machinery could work the dials. In no
more than a few minutes the odds on the three platers looked more like
the odds on horses that stood a chance of winning.
* * * * *
Barcelona looked at me. "What did you do, wise guy?"