Dave Zeltserman - Blood Crimes Book One

Of course, I’ve long figured out that joke. Julius patterned my personality and speech based on the works of some of the most important private eye novels of the twentieth century, including those of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Ross Macdonald and Rex Stout. The name he gave me, Archie, was based on Archie Goodwin, Nero Wolfe’s second banana who was always one step behind his boss. Yeah, I got the joke, but one of these days I was going to surprise Julius. It was just a matter of seeing enough cases to allow me to readjust my neuron network appropriately. One of these days he was going to have to start calling me Nero. But for the time being, I was Archie. The reason I had an image of myself being five-foot tall was also easy to explain. Julius wore me as a tie clip, which put me at roughly a five-foot distance from the ground when he stood. I never quite figured out where my self-image of thinning hair and heavyset build came from, but guessed they were physical characteristics I picked up from the Continental Op. Or maybe for some reason I identified with Costanza from Seinfeld-one of the few television programs Julius indulged in.

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 John 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 window to collect on his Trifecta bet. Forty thousand dollars before taxes, but even with 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 month’s 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 Runyan stories which 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 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 the fix up 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 Romaine 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.

“1997?”

“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 would mean he’d have to take a job to both pay for 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 ’97 Romaine Conti after all”, and with determination in his step 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 Romaine 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.

The Walk by Lee Goldberg (Chapter 1)

It wasn’t like he imagined it at all. Of course, everything Martin Slack imagined seemed to come from television or movies, or at least big chunks of it, so he figured his own imagination really wasn’t to blame for things not being the way they were supposed to be.

There weren’t any of those ominous, early warning signs that everyone ignored, like big flocks of birds flying away or dogs barking for no reason, or the little rumbles that were shrugged off as a big truck passing by on the street.

Marty wasn’t getting married, retiring from the force, embarking on a maiden voyage, or christening some bold, new construction project, each a definite precursor of disaster, at least according to Irwin Allen, the acknowledged expert on the subject.