Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  “Toby?”

  Just get up and leave? Walk out of this sick relationship and call it quits? Or would that be juvenile, like a petulant adolescent? Yeah, probably, but he’d sure feel a lot better exerting that kind of control. Instead, he answers with, “What?” and hears the word come out sharper than intended.

  She leans forward, arms to her side, like a child answering a classroom teacher. “You asked me a question and I’m going to give you the answer. It’s very simple: sex sells.”

  Her words take a second to register because he’s been momentarily too self-absorbed to remember the question.

  “Sex sells? That’s why you’ve chosen to—” He can’t believe it. “Yes, but—” He stops. The simplicity of her answer strikes him as so cold-blooded, so calculated, that he’s stunned.

  Then again, why be shocked?

  Well, because the subject of sex—at least for him—is an activity cloistered in taboos. He knows that everybody engages in it. But his problem is that he’s always assumed the act should involve some degree of emotional attachment. Or at least that’s what he’s been taught to believe. By whom, he isn’t sure, because his folks certainly didn’t discuss sex with him like he thinks other parents normally do with their children. And now that he thinks about it this bias against discussing sex is rather silly, especially considering that losing his virginity was the sole purpose for coming to Vegas. Countless women and men, like Breeze, have traded in sex—as if it were any other commodity—since the first ape bartered firewood for vegetables. Is he just being too puritanical? Apparently so.

  “But what?” Breeze asks, turning defensive. “Because I sell sex I won’t be able to find an aeronautical engineer to give me a cheesy half caret from an equally cheesy shopping-mall jeweler so I can slave away my youth ferrying kids around in a SUV and cleaning toilet bowls?” She laughs. “Hey, screw that noise. I want money. My own money. And I want to do with it exactly as I please.” She penetrates his eyes with a defiant stare, daring him to challenge her.

  When he doesn’t comment, she continues. “At my age, with my looks and skills, I can get top dollar for a night. You, case in point. You’re willing to pay hard cash to be with me, take me out to high-end places like this,” with a sweep of her hand, “and show me off to other men. To top it off, you know that at the end of the night you’ll be able to take me back to your hotel room and I’ll put out. There’s no mystery in that. I get paid to be treated like royalty. So you tell me: why wouldn’t I want this life?”

  Her logic makes sense. In a way. If you totally ignore the fact that prostitution—okay, in general, maybe not her specifically—is strongly linked to other criminal activities, to say nothing of the risk of developing a serious case of non-treatable STD or HIV. He sees no tactful way to mix this particular point into the discussion, so settles for, “Aren’t you taking risks?”

  She laughs. “In this town? No more than any girl anywhere who goes out with a new guy. In this job I cherry-pick and screen the men I go with by requiring they can afford me. Besides, the men I see usually don’t want to leave any trail. They particularly don’t want their wives or girlfriends to know what they’re doing when they come to town. The way I do business isn’t even close to standing out on a street corner waiting to blow some horny dirtball in the front seat of a Prius rental. I don’t do drugs, so I don’t have to work when I don’t feel like it or take any John that comes along. And when I hit forty and my tits start heading south, I’ll have enough in the bank to retire. Maybe I’ll stick around this town or maybe I won’t. Who knows? Haven’t planned that far ahead yet.” A few strands of hair fall across her face which she promptly sweeps back with a finger.

  “And in case you’re wondering, no, I wasn’t sexually abused as a child like a lot of do-gooder sociologists claim is the biggest reason,” with mimed finger quotes, “a girl like me opts for the life. With me it was just the opposite. As a teenager I became curious as hell about sex, but all the clumsy dorks my age didn’t want to do anything but find a hole to stick their dick into. So, becoming an escort gave me a way to explore my sexuality without any peer pressure or problems. And guess what? I get paid very well for satisfying my own curiosity and urges. And I’m not confined to the same guy every Saturday night whether I want it or not, but in case you’re wondering, I get horny, too. So what’s not to like about the way I earn a living?”

  He didn’t have an answer for that one.

  She wet her lips with the dregs of her margarita. “So, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Big Time Gambler, you do races?”

  Let it go, don’t even bother answering. But the glow from the gin, along with all the other factors, is putting a crowbar to his lips. Most of all, he wants to escape from his Seattle nerdy-geek persona, if only for the few days here in Vegas. All these forces conspire against him, compelling him to do exactly what he knows he shouldn’t.

  “Yeah, I do races,” again throwing it out as casually as possible but figuring a nonchalant shrug might be overdoing things a tad.

  Her face brightens. “Cool.” She considers this a moment. “But you can’t do that one hundred percent of the time, so what’s your day job?”

  How irritating. She just didn’t get it. “That’s it. That’s all I do.”

  “So, guess that means you are a trust fund brat,” she says smugly, as if playing a trump card.

  He can’t stand being trivialized this way. “No. I keep telling you, but you refuse to believe me.” He figures what the hell, no one knows who he really is, so go ahead, get it off your chest, don’t take this crap from her, make yourself feel better. “I make predictions. That’s what I do.”

  “Predictions? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He immediately realizes his mistake. Can he cover it? Probably less than fifty-fifty at this point, so decides to just go with it.

  The waiter appears with another round of drinks. Arnold’s first impulse is to have him take them back because far as he recollects he didn’t order them, then wonders if Breeze signaled him, so maybe she wants one. What the hell, relax and enjoy it. After all, you’re Toby Taylor, player. After a sip of the new martini he starts to explain: “Ever hear of Nate Silver?”

  She sets her new margarita down. “The statistician?”

  Wow. Impressive. Most people had heard of him—if they could even remember his name—for the first time during the 2012 election when he nailed all the electoral votes, but few people know of his background in statistics. Other people learned of his work when his book, The Signal and the Noise became a New York Times best seller. “I’m impressed you know about him.”

  She smirks. “Why? Because a girl like me shouldn’t read the news?”

  Speaking of stereotypes…

  Ignoring the jab, he says, “Well, I’m working on a system that’s better than his.” A wave of pride sweeps through him, prompting him to add, “I’ve done it, too.”

  “Really?” she says with what appears as genuine interest.

  A debate of conscience starts in the back of his mind, the conservative side admonishing him for blabbing his secret while the new Vegas-emboldened side is countering with, why not? You’re Toby Taylor, what will it hurt to finally tell someone? He nods. “Really.”

  “Better in what way?”

  Aw, Christ, better give her something, otherwise odds are she’ll keep harping and chipping away at it all night. What are the chances she’ll even remember the conversation by morning? Very slim at best, so what harm will it do? He rotates the stem of the martini glass and synthesizes an easy explanation to a complex statistical phenomenon. The problem with not having explained this to anyone but Howie—who pretty much knows the theory anyway—is not having a practiced a bullet-point easy-to-understand explanation. He swallows and decides to give it his best shot. “I analyze politics and economic situations. This allows me to model the outcome of pending or proposed legislation, for example.”

  She cocks her head as if her hearing is better in the r
ight ear. “Give me an example.”

  He’s amazed she followed it. Or is she just good at asking questions that sound like she’s tracking conversations? “Remember the Newtown shooting? At Sandy Hook school?”

  “Who could forget?”

  “Right afterwards there was a big push to enact changes in the gun laws even if only to require background checks on prospective gun buyers. Right?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “The common wisdom—at least in the media—was that coming right on the heels of such a senseless massacre, there wouldn’t be a better time for passing legislation through the House and Senate. Well, I modeled all the data I could find, put it into my system, and predicted the bill wouldn’t pass the House. I nailed every vote.” He sat back in the chair, his mind reliving the exciting validation that came from comparing the actual votes to his predictions, watching the incrementing score of right answers contrast to zero wrongs. He still amazes himself with that one, one of his first breakthrough predictions. He shakes his head in awe, now reveling in the glow of the memory.

  “Fascinating. What else?” she asks, eyes sparkling in such a way he wonders if it’s the tequila, or is she impressed?

  Doesn’t matter. He realizes he’s disclosed way too much. “Let’s change the subject.”

  She reaches across the table to touch his hand. “Really? But this is so interesting.”

  “I’d rather talk about you.”

  “Not fair, Toby. I’m not very interesting, and you are.”

  You didn’t think so a few minutes ago. He glances away, as if more interested in the little drama playing out at the tables around them. Some diners have left, others are arriving, others seem to be enjoying conversations over completed dinners while enjoying a glass of wine.

  Breeze says, “Okay, we can talk about something else, but only if I get to ask you one more question. The example you just gave, that had to do with politics in the United States. What about politics in, say, Europe?”

  So she really did understand. Wow. How exciting. Her interest in his work becomes energizing and hard to ignore.

  “Absolutely. It’s a system with universal applicability rather than a singularly directed predictor. All you need to do to answer any question—and this is the really key thing—is figure out what variables to input in order to generate a meaningful output. Same thing Silver does. Initially, he started using his models to select baseball players for teams. He became wildly successful. Once he improved that system, he converted it to predict election results. Because his system is proprietary, no one else knows exactly how it’s built, but the underlying concept is obvious. I’ve done the same thing. At the moment I keep two systems running: one deals with politics, the other sports. I support myself by betting sports and do the other because I love the challenge of improving it.”

  She beams at him now, making him feel for the first time that she’s truly interested in his person instead of simply fulfilling the contract of being a full-service escort. And it makes him feel great. More than great. Wonderful isn’t even close. He basks in the glow.

  Until she says, “Why don’t we bet a couple races tomorrow? It could be kicks.”

  And just as quickly, his high segues into free-floating anxiety. Weightlessness in the depths of his gut burrows straight up through his chest, making it impossible to satisfy an oxygen hunger. Howie is standing behind her again, looking really pissed this time, mouthing the words Do Not Do It. But the cat’s out of the bag, and if he backs down…

  He hates the feeling of being The Wimp. The Pussy. Especially coming directly on the heels of being The Elevated Guru. Now what?

  The Las Vegas persona urges him to go ahead, make a few bets, be a “Player.”

  Howie is countering, “Bullshit. You’re not doing yourself any favors by playing the big-shot gambler. Say no. Better yet, throw some sand over your tracks and say you lied and were only trying to impress her.

  The mental voice of Las Vegas Gold counters with, “No! You need this for your self respect. Finally someone other than Howie can marvel at your accomplishment. Besides, what harm will it do to bet three or four races? What would she think about you if you nailed them?

  “Okay, why not,” he says, downing another slug of martini.

  13.

  Arnold follows Breeze up plush red carpet, through the tall glass doors into metallic-tasting, artificially cooled air, onto polished marble, then over more well-tended carpet crammed with row after row of slot-machines, some populated with players stuffing in coins, others silent and waiting for the next sucker. The active slots fill the air with a cacophony of two-bar mindless tunes and the occasional tinkle of coins. For fleeting seconds, he may catch a snatch of individual melodies, some catchy ones burrowing into his brain like a worm. He hates those sounds. Hates the casino ambience. Hates the fact that willing people elect to devote hours knowing full well they will lose hard-earned money yet continue to play. For some of these people it’s money they can ill afford to lose. In Arnold’s mind, not even Bill Gates can afford to lose so idiotically. How can some people be so stupid as to actually buy into chasing the dream of easy money? There’s no such thing as easy money. If they believe that, they’re more foolish than an ostrich. Okay, sure, he bets and freely admits it. But the difference is he knows damn well he’ll win a hell of a lot more than he’ll lose. He knows this as fact, not hunch. He never actually wagered his first dime of real money until he’d objectively proven he could produce a win rate higher than 55 percent. Once he’d accomplished that he could throw the switch to the money machine, because if he bet the same amount each time, as long as he won more than 50 percent of the bets he was guaranteed come out ahead. By definition, it’s not gambling if you know you’re going to win. It’s only gambling when the outcome is assuredly left to chance, which is always in favor of the house.

  Occasionally he will gamble in the true conventional sense. If the Powerball jackpot exceeds one hundred million dollars, he’ll buy one six-dollar ticket. But he does so with the eyes-wide-open knowledge that the odds of winning are fantastically miniscule and he is purchasing the ticket purely for its high-octane entertainment value. Way he figures, a week of fantasy is far more fun (and less expensive) than a ticket to a movie.

  This morning, soon as he awoke, he used his laptop and the hotel room’s complementary wi-fi to log onto the Internet. Then, to prevent leaving any digital trace between the laptop and his home network, he used the laptop’s TOR browser to log onto his system. And in spite of such elaborate security measures, he still invoked a 256-bit encryption protocol. What people might consider overkill was, in his opinion, nothing more than a good dose of common sense. Why lead with your chin?

  Took about an hour of work to select the win, place, and show horses for three Hollywood Park races. Three races should do it. And if not? Too bad. Now, having second thoughts as they entered the casino, he wonders if it would be smarter to just lose the bets. He toys with that idea a moment before discarding it. For some strange reason, he wants Breeze to admire him for something other than the money he spends on her. Although he’d never discussed it with Howard, he wonders if Rachael knows how smart he is. He’s pretty sure he’s been a topic of conversation between the brother and sister. How could the subject not come up, what with Howard being such close friend? Rachael… at the rate things are going he’ll get the confidence to approach her when he returns to Seattle. For this, he is grateful.

  She leads him over to an area of the casino with five betting windows and overhead boards displaying the odds for all the horses in each of today’s races. His choices are listed on one flat screen. Betting at a casino—or anyplace public, for that matter—is a first for him. Until now, all his gambling has been online. Now, being exposed like this stirs an uneasy nervousness in the depths of his chest. Time to get on with it. With Breeze watching, he approaches a window, places his bets, slides the ticket into his Dockers pocket, and ambles back to her.

/>   “All set?”

  Arnold nods, pulls the ticket out for her to see. “What would you like to do now?”

  This area of the casino contains ten small tables and chairs with additional leather club-chairs scattered around five large television sets displaying live feeds from several active race tracks and sports events. One set shows a soccer game in progress. Two tables have been shoved together to form one large table with five men around cheering the action, glasses of what look to be Bloody Marys within easy reach. From the sound of them, this isn’t their first drink of the morning.

  Breeze motions to an empty table. “Why not sit and catch the races?” She checks her watch. “First one starts in thirty minutes.

  Hmm… a Bloody Mary might taste good. Why not? Nothing better to do at the moment, and the outside air is growing hot. Even if it’s “dry heat.” To him, hot is hot. That’s why it’s called hot.

  Within seconds of settling in a waitress materializes, asking if they wish to order food or drink. Arnold’s a little hesitant to down alcohol this early in the day, but that’s Arnold Gold’s issue, the nerd. Toby Taylor, player, on the other hand, should have no hesitation. Without even glancing at Breeze, he orders two Bloody Marys, each with a splash of Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce and asks for the flat-screen closest to the table to be switched to the live feed for the Hollywood Park track. From the corner of his eye he notices a nod of approval from Breeze.

  They sit side by side at the table, facing the screen. With the waitress now gone, Breeze sets her purse on the floor between them, turns to him, asks, “You Jewish?”