The dogs were being led around the track and into their starting boxes. Julius sauntered over to get a better view of the track, seemingly unconcerned about his zero-percent chance of winning his bet.
“You’re throwing away five hundred dollars,” I said again. “If your bank account was flush, this wouldn’t be a problem, but you realize today you don’t have enough to cover next month’s expenses.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied the dogs. “I’m well aware of my financial situation,” he said.
“You haven’t had any wine since last night, so I know you’re not intoxicated,” I said. “The only thing I can figure out is some form of dementia. I’ll hack into Johns Hopkins’ research database and see if there’s any information that can help me better diagnose this—”
“Please, Archie,” he said, a slight annoyance edging into his voice. “The race is about to begin.”
The race began. The gates to the starting boxes opened and the dogs poured out of them. As they chased after the artificial rabbit, I watched in stunned silence. The three dogs Julius picked led the race from start to finish, placing in the precise order in which Julius had bet.
For a long moment — maybe for as long as thirty milliseconds — my neuron network froze. I realized afterwards that I had suffered from stunned amazement — a new emotional experience for me.
“T-That’s not possible,” I stammered, which was another first for me. “The odds were mathematically zero that you would win.”
“You realize you just stammered?”
“Yes, I know. How did you pick these dogs?”
He chuckled, very pleased with himself. “Archie, hunches sometimes defy explanation.”
“I don’t buy it,” I said.
His right eyebrow cocked. “No?”
He had moved to the cashier’s window to collect on his trifecta bet. Forty thousand dollars before taxes, but even what was left over after the state and federal authorities took their bites would leave his bank account flush enough to cover his next two months’ expenses, which meant he was going to be blowing off his three o’clock appointment. I came up with an idea to keep that from happening, then focused on how he was able to win that bet.
“The odds shouldn’t have been eighty to one, as was posted,” I said. “They should’ve been far higher.”
He exchanged his winning ticket for a check made out for the after-tax amount and placed it carefully into his wallet. He turned towards the track exit and walked at a leisurely pace.
“Very good, Archie. I think you’ve figured it out. Why were the odds only eighty to one?”
I had already calculated the amount bet on the winning trifecta ticket given the odds and the total amount bet on the race, but I wanted to know how many people made those bets so I hacked into the track’s computer system. “Four other bets were made for a total of six thousand dollars on the same trifecta combination.”
“And why was that?”
I knew the answer from one of the Damon Runyon stories that was used to build my experience base. “The odds of anyone else picking that trifecta bet given those dogs’ past history is one out of six point eight million. That four other people would be willing to bet that much money given an expected winnings of near zero dollars could only be explained by the race being fixed.”
“Bingo.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “If you knew which dogs were going to win, why didn’t you bet more money?”
“Two reasons. First, fixing a dog race is not an exact science. Things can go wrong. Second, if I’d bet more, I would’ve upset the odds enough to where I could’ve tipped off the track authorities, and even worse, upset the good folks who set up the fix and were nice enough to invite me to participate.”
I digested that. With a twinkle showing in Julius’s right eye, he informed me that he was going to be spending the rest of the afternoon at the Belvedere Club sampling some of their fine cognacs, and that I should call his three o’clock appointment and cancel. A blond woman in her early thirties smiled at Julius, and he noticed and veered off in her direction, a grin growing over his own lips. Her physical characteristics closely matched those of the actress Heather Locklear, which would’ve told me she was very attractive even without Julius’s reaction to her. This was not good. If Julius blew off his three-o’clock, it could be a month or longer before I’d be able to talk him into taking another job, which would be a month or longer before I’d have a chance to adjust my deductive reasoning model — and what was becoming more important to me, a chance to trump Julius at solving a case.
“You might like to know I’ve located a case of Romanée Conti Burgundy at the Wine Cellar in Newburyport. I need to place the order today to reserve it,” I said.
That stopped Julius in his tracks.
“Nineteen ninety-seven?”
“Yes, sir. What should I do?”
He was stuck. He’d been looking for a case of that particular vintage for months, but the cost meant he’d have to take a job to pay for both the wine and the upcoming monthly expenses, which meant he wouldn’t have time to get to know the Heather Locklear look-alike.
Julius made up his mind. With a sigh he told me that the Belvedere Club would have to wait, that we had a three o’clock appointment to keep. He showed the blond woman a sad, wistful smile, his look all but saying, “I’m sorry, but we’re talking about a ‘ninety-seven Romanée Conti after all,” and with determination in his step he headed towards the exit again. Once outside, he hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address to his Beacon Hill townhouse. I had known about the Romanée Conti for several days, but had held on to the information so I could use it at the appropriate time, one of the lessons I had learned from the Rex Stout books. Internally, I was smiling. At least that was the image I had of myself. A five-foot tall, balding, chunky man, who couldn’t keep from smiling if his life depended on it.
Julius’s three o’clock appointment, Norma Brewer, arrived on time and was accompanied by her sister, Helen Arden. According to Norma Brewer’s records, which I had obtained from the Department of Motor Vehicles database, she was fifty-three, but sitting across from Julius, she looked older than that, bone-thin and very tired. Her sister Helen was much plumper in the face and very thick around the middle. She showed a perpetually startled look, almost as if she were expecting someone to sneak up on her and yell boo. According to her DMV records, she was forty-eight, but like her sister, looked older, with an unhealthy pallor to her skin and her hair completely gray.
Before they arrived I filled Julius in on the little I knew — including information I’d gathered about Norma Brewer from various other databases, including her bank records, which were healthy, and the fact that this concerned a family matter which Norma Brewer didn’t feel comfortable discussing with me over the phone. Julius didn’t like it at all, and I could tell he was ruminating on whether there was a way to cancel the appointment and still afford the case of Romanée-Conti Burgundy. If there was, he was unable to come up with it. He sat deep in his thoughts until the doorbell rang, then, forcing an air of politeness, he welcomed the two Brewer sisters into his townhouse and escorted them to his office.
Now they sat across from him. Almost immediately Norma Brewer noticed the receiver in his ear and showed a condescending smile, thinking it was a hearing aid. That was not an uncommon reaction, but still, it caused the skin to tighten around Julius’s mouth. I reminded him then how long it had taken to locate the Romanée Conti, knowing that he was within seconds of telling Norma Brewer that something had come up and that he would have to cancel their appointment. Her sister, Helen, seemed oblivious, never noticing the device in Julius’s ear or his flash of petulance.