The lobbying effort took place Friday afternoon, and the laboratory raid was scheduled for Friday midnight. The former went without incident. After a romantic candlelight dinner, Lisa and I prepared ourselves for the midnight raid. Dinner was so pleasant that we barely made it in time. In retrospect, I wish we hadn’t. You can imagine our surprise when, after penetrating the laboratory’s defenses, which were pathetically easy to surmount, we ran into the police! It was difficult to deny our intentions, especially when we entered carrying cages in which we intended to exhibit the animals we had planned on freeing at a press conference to be called the next morning. As a result, we almost spent the night as the guests of the city of Los Angeles, but we were released on our own recognizance in the wee hours of the morning. It does not look good for a practicing detective such as myself to have an incident like this on his record.
I woke up late, to find that Lisa had already departed. A note told me that she had proceeded to conference headquarters. I encountered her, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, in the lobby.
“Oh, Freddy, isn’t it just wonderful?” Even after a late night, those blue-green eyes were still clear. Mine were neither blue-green nor clear. I was just barely functioning.
I’m not so good-humored when I’m short of sleep, and since I only had five hours of sleep, I was somewhere between grumpy and totally bitter. “What’s so wonderful?” I snapped.
For reply, she handed me a copy of the morning paper. We had made page three of the metro section, complete with picture. Lisa, I was not surprised to discover, was remarkably photogenic. Mercifully, neither my photograph or name appeared in the article. I silently gave thanks for small favors.
“Look, Freddy, at all this wonderful publicity. Do you realize that as a result of last night’s incident and the publicity we received, that our membership has increased by thirty-eight?”
In the back of my brain, without my knowing it, a decision had been coalescing out of the inky blackness.
“Thirty-seven,” I said.
Lisa look puzzled. She counted some registration cards in her hand. “No,” she said, “there are thirty-eight registration cards here. And I’m sure we’ll get more.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said, “but as of this moment the number is thirty-seven.” I removed the membership card from my wallet and tendered it to her. “I resign.” Rarely have I been handed such an opportunity for such a boffo exit line.
I returned home and told Pete of the day’s events. He nodded sympathetically.
“It’s probably for the best, Freddy. Lisa certainly seems capable of persuading you to exercise poor judgment.”
I concurred. “I’m sure I’ve learned a valuable lesson. It’s just going to take me a little time to figure out precisely what that lesson is.”
Suddenly, I perceived a golden lining in the clouds that had hitherto blocked the sun. “By the way, Pete, have you any idea what has happened to your cholesterol count?”
“It’s down a bunch. Probably so is yours.”
“What would you say to a nice, juicy steak for dinner?”
“I think it would go great with some cheeseburgers as appetizers. I’ll go the store and get some.”
“While you’re at it, get some bacon for breakfast. And sausage. Better yet, why don’t you come back with about fifty pounds of assorted meat?”
Pete grabbed the keys to the car and left in a hurry, looking happier than I had seen him in days. He returned shortly, and while we were putting the results of his shopping expedition in the refrigerator, a question suddenly popped into my head. I thought about it for a moment and then gave it voice.
“Something strange just occurred to me, Pete.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I wouldn’t have thought that Lisa’s animal rights group contained any stool pigeons. As events proved, I was the only one not satisfied with the results of the evening. And I certainly didn’t squeal. But the fuzz were waiting for us when we arrived at the laboratory. They must have been tipped off.”
Pete beamed. “A flawless piece of deduction, Freddy. I told the cops about your planned raid on the lab.”
My jaw dropped. “You what? Did you know that I almost spent the night in the West L.A. precinct house?”
He nodded. “I felt that I had to take that risk. If they caught you after your raid had proved successful, the penalties would have been much more severe. In addition, it seemed clear to me that although the goals of the animal righters might well have been laudable, the means they were choosing to pursue them were open to question. Recently passed legislation makes interfering with legitimate experimentation a felony. Intended interference isn’t so bad. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have minded spending time behind bars.”
Although he was probably right, I felt that I had to make some sort of protest.
“Did you consider giving me a voice in all this, Pete? Has the absence of cheeseburgers from your diet affected your thinking processes?”
“Nothing affects my thinking processes,” Pete snorted. “First of all, I do not consider it my place to interfere in your decisions. [Since when?] Second, if I had discussed these plans with you, the outcome would have been counterproductive. You would have told Lisa, and no good could have come of that.”
I had calmed down a little, and I saw what he had in mind. “I guess you’re right. And I admit I was under her spell. And still am, for that matter, although a night of incarceration might have made me see things a little differently.” I reflected a little further. “By the way, Pete, if I ever get talked into a similar rash move such as not eating meat in the future, do me a favor and don’t participate in it with me. When it comes to devising risks for me to take, you simply don’t know the meaning of fear.”
On a scale of one to one hundred, Lisa’s visit rated about an eighty-seven. I told her this as she was about to get on the plane for New York, not mentioning the fact that her rating of the visit would probably plummet drastically if she ever learned of Pete’s interference. She laughed.
“That’s a lot better than some of the time we spent together when we were married.”
“We still are, unless you filed for divorce.”
“No, I haven’t done that. In fact, …,” she checked herself. It didn’t require an advanced degree in psychology to know what she was thinking. Then she gave me a great hug (Lisa gives great hugs), kissed me tenderly, told me to stay in touch, and got on the plane.
The macho detective at this stage stops at the airport bar for a quick one and leaves without a second thought. Not me. I kept waving until the plane was out of sight.
CHAPTER 8
NOTHING TO CROW ABOUT
“And don’t forget the birdseed!” Pete yelled at me as I left for the supermarket.
Since it was the third time he had reminded me, I certainly wasn’t going to forget the birdseed. Lyle Carson, an old friend of Pete from his undergraduate days, was scheduled to cross our doorsill in just a few hours. Some of Pete’s friends are rather strange, but none eat birdseed. The birdseed was for Sweetlips, Lyle’s pet crow.
Lyle turned out to be a gangly dude in his late twenties who pulled up a few hours later in a late model Porsche—earned, no doubt, from plying his trade. According to Pete, Lyle was a contemporary Cincinnati Kid, a professional poker player with a weakness for birds. Had Lyle not discovered poker, he would probably have become a veterinarian. Or an ornithologist.
Lyle was in town for two reasons. The first was to prepare for the World Series of Poker, held annually in Las Vegas. There are a number of events now in the World Series of Poker, and the biggest one requires an entry fee of $1 million. That was out of Lyle’s league, but well within his reach was one that had a $10,000 entry fee and the winner-take-all first prize was over a million.
Lyle was a southern boy who had played in most of the cities of the Deep South and probably a number of the riverboat casinos as well. At one stage, the South was the center of the poker world, but
with the advent of televised Texas Hold ’Em and the World Series of Poker, that center had shifted to Las Vegas. However, the casinos in L.A. played Hold ’Em and attracted a lot of the better players, and Lyle wanted to brush up before testing the waters in Las Vegas. I asked him why he didn’t go to Las Vegas directly, and he said that Las Vegas got him so wired that he’d never survive the WSOP. Also, there was a little matter on which he wanted our advice.
Since Lyle obviously knew when to hold ’em, and knew when to fold ’em, he wasn’t there to ask our advice on poker. The three of us were seated in the living room when Lyle pulled out several copies of a newsletter and handed them to us. I took a look at my copy. The newsletter was about eight pages or so and was titled “A Summary of Computerized Handicapping Systems.”
A quick scan convinced me that the newsletter writers had gotten hold of a potentially profitable idea. They evidently subscribed to a number of computerized handicapping services and tracked them, printing individual predictions of each service, as well as an assortment of statistical indicators. The various services were ranked in terms of percentage of winners, percentages of profit or loss, ability to select longshots, etc.
Pete looked at his copy and turned to Lyle. “So you’re still playing the horses. Doing any better?”
Lyle winced. “’Fraid not.” He paused, and then continued. “They say every professional gambler has a weakness. Some bet on sports, some do drugs, some have messed-up personal lives. With me, it’s the ponies.”
I looked at the late model Porsche parked in our driveway. “Seems to me you do all right.”
Lyle nodded. “But I’d do a lot better if I could beat the horses, or at least stay even. And I think I’ve got a chance.”
Pete frowned. “By subscribing to,” he scanned the list, “the Brooklyn Handicapping System?”1 I looked at my list and saw that the boys from Flatbush were currently ranked highest.
(For more information on terms in this chapter, see An Introduction to Sports Betting on pp. 231–33 and Notes to Chapter 8 on p. 235.)
Lyle shook his head. “Naw, the rankings change frequently. They’re just hot now because they picked a few longshots2 at Aqueduct. Let me show you three letters that were included with my last few issues.”
The first letter Lyle showed us was printed on good-quality stock, and the first portion of the letter said that Mr. Carson (the name appeared in the body of the letter, personalizing it through the magic of computerized mailing) had been selected to participate in a revolutionary advance in computerized handicapping. There followed a paragraph that included phrases such as “neural nets” and “massively parallel processing.” It meant nothing to me, and I skipped to the second paragraph.
I had no difficulty following the second paragraph. It predicted that a horse called Second Opinion would win the third race at Belmont on July 22.
Pete had evidently arrived at that point in the letter as well, for he stated, “You wouldn’t be asking me my advice if Second Opinion had lost, so obviously it won.”
“Breezing,” Lyle agreed. “By four lengths on a muddy track. But the horse was the class of the field, and went off as a 5 to 2 favorite in a six-horse race. So I didn’t really think much about it until the second letter arrived.”
We both took a look at the second letter. After a little bit of self-congratulation concerning the victory of Second Opinion, the letter suggested that the recipient bet on a horse appropriately named Risky Business, which was to run in the fifth race at Belmont on July 30. Combining Lyle’s visit with 20–20 hindsight, I of course realized that an investment in Risky Business had proved to be anything but.
Lyle had gone to the kitchen to get a beer. Even though he was in his late twenties, I could see that he probably got carded in bars. When he came back, he said that Risky Business had finished first in a field of eight by a couple of lengths on a fast track. He had played a hunch and bet a hundred bucks through a bookie. Risky Business paid a little more than 6 to 1 to win, so Lyle found himself better than $500 to the good.
“By now I was looking forward to the next letter. Admittedly, a favorite and a 6-to-1 shot doesn’t qualify you for Handicapper of the Year, but I get a lot of this type of junk in the mail, and most of them tout losers. Anyway, I had kind of expected a pitch by now, but the third letter was more of the same. I was a little surprised to see that it was selecting a small stakes race on a northern California track, but I went for it, especially as I was playing with house money. I bet five hundred to win on Golden Destiny. I didn’t really expect it to happen, but Golden Destiny ran away from a field of ten, and I am now better than $10,000 to the good. Golden Destiny was a little more than a 20-to-1 longshot!”
Pete whistled. “Lyle, you’re ten grand to the good. What do you need me for? Just continue playing on house money if they send you tips. And if they ask for money, don’t go into your own pocket.”
Lyle stretched his legs and scratched the jug ears. “Yeah, Pete, I’ve played enough poker with you that I knew that’s what you’d say. You never did like to reach into your jeans for more dough. And I would have done just that, except that there’s a wrinkle to it.”
With that he handed us a fourth letter and a prospectus for a software development corporation. The letter recapitulated the successes of the previous three bets and mentioned that the programmers and AI (artificial intelligence) specialists who had developed it were planning on improving the system. They were forming a corporation using venture capital. Investment units would be $100,000, so the number of owners would be small. Plans were to use a percentage of the initial capital for development and a percentage for wagering. With money gained from betting, the corporation would develop software for stock, commodity, and currency speculation. It was hoped that the corporation could go public in five years. The prospectus cited past rewards to investors in such diverse areas as computers and bioengineering.
Pete studied the prospectus and the letters for a few minutes, and then he turned to me. “You’re the expert in this area, Freddy. What do you think?”
I gave it some thought. “It might be on the up-and-up. Of course, what they say is mostly technobabble, but if they really had something, they wouldn’t give away their hole card.3 I’ve seen lots of similar prospectuses. Most end up going under, but then most ventures go under. However, if someone had handed me the prospectuses for Apple or Genentech, I’d have made the same comment. One thing for sure, they’re batting three for three.”
Lyle digested this and washed it down with a swig of beer. “And what do you think, Pete?”
Pete took a moment to reply. Finally he said, “There may be something in what Freddy says. But I think it’s just a slick version of the old Chinese Restaurant Principle scam. Pocket the $10,000 and call it a day.”
Lyle was obviously rooting for Pete to go the other way, for his disappointment showed clearly on his face. Maybe he only put on his poker face at poker. “What makes you say that, Pete?”
Pete tapped the letters. “I can’t be sure, but here’s what I think happened. The newsletter has over a half million in circulation. There were six horses in the first race, eight horses in the second, and ten in the third. That means there are 6 × 8 × 10, or 480, possible ways of selecting the winners of all three races.”
Lyle was not up with Pete. “Where do you get that number?”
Pete thought for a moment. “It’s like a daily double.4 If there are six horses in the first race and you pair each of those horses with all eight horses in the second race, you’ll get six times eight daily double tickets. That’s forty-eight tickets. Now you have to wheel5 each of those forty-eight daily double tickets with each of the ten horses in the third race. That’s 48 times 10, or 480.”
Pete had obviously chosen the right way of explaining it to Lyle, for Lyle said, “I think I see what you’re trying to say. They just sent out a whole lot of letters. If they sent out half a million letters originally, they would have more than 1,00
0 people who were given all three winning horses. And the fact that a longshot came through gives them a lot more credibility.”
Pete nodded. “I’ll give them credit for dressing it up with that venture capital stuff. Years ago, they just would have asked you to ante up for their picks in races.”
“I guess I’ll take the money and run. Or just use it to pay my entry fee into the World Series. Speaking of fees, what’s yours? You’ve just saved me a bundle.”
Pete shook his head vehemently. “If it’s a legitimate deal, I may have cost you a fortune. Besides, you’re an old buddy. No charge.” I wasn’t so wild about Pete giving away advice, our stock in trade, for free, but it was his advice and his friend.
“Can’t let you do that, Pete.” Good for Lyle! Maybe there was hope for a commission yet. Lyle frowned, and then his face lit up. “How about this? If I’m the big winner, you get 10% of $1,000,000. If I win a million, I’m not going to begrudge a mere hundred grand.” It may be mere to you, Lyle, but it’s not to me. Half of a hundred grand is fifty grand. I could go for that. I didn’t think that Pete would object to fifty grand, either.
And thus it came to pass that we were minority shareholders in Lyle Carson. I’d have to have a talk with him about keeping a poker face before he left.
Lyle’s practice sessions were generally two- or three-day binges in the L.A. casinos, during which time we were entrusted with the care of Sweetlips. Lyle had departed for a poker palace in Gardena one evening, and it was Pete’s turn to feed Sweetlips. Pete had opened the door to Sweetlips’s cage when the phone rang. Pete’s attention was diverted for a moment, and that’s all it took. Sweetlips was out of the cage and through an open window faster than the proverbial bat out of you-know-where.
Pete made a few choice comments, none printable. “Lyle will kill me! Sweetlips is his lucky crow!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Lucky crow?”
L.A. Math: Romance, Crime, and Mathematics in the City of Angels Page 9