Illustrated by Bernklau
THE
BIG FIX
BY GEORGE O. SMITH
t was April, a coupleof weeks before theDerby. We were playingpoker, which is agame of skill that hasnothing to do with the velocity ofhorse meat.
Phil Howland kept slipping openbut he managed to close up before Icould tell whether the combination ofThree-Five-Two-Four meant a fullhouse of fives over fours or whetherhe was betting on an open-endedstraight that he hadn't bothered toarrange in order as he held them.The Greek was impenetrable; he alsoblocked me from reading the deckso that I could estimate his hand fromthe cards that weren't dealt out. ChicagoCharlie's mind was easy to readbut no one could trust him. He wasjust as apt to think high to score someoneout as he was to think low tosuck the boys in. As for me, thereI was, good old Wally Wilson, holdinga pat straight flush from the eightto the queen of diamonds. I wasthinking "full house" but I was bettinglike a weak three of a kind.
It was a terrific game. Between tryingto read into these other guy'sbrains and keeping them from openingmine, and blocking the Greek'ssly stunt of tipping over the pokerchips as a distraction, I was also concernedabout the eight thousand bucksthat was in the pot. The trouble wasthat all four of us fully intended torake it in. My straight flush would begood for the works in any normalgame with wild cards, but the waythis bunch was betting I couldn't besure. Phil Howland didn't have muchof a shield but he could really read,and if he read me—either my mindor my hand—he'd automaticallyradiate and that would be that.
I was about at the point of callingfor the draw when the door openedwithout any knock. It was TomboyTaylor. We'd been so engrossed withone another that none of us hadcaught her approach.
The Greek looked up at her andswore something that he hadn't readin Plato. "Showdown," he said, tossingin his hand.
I grunted and spread my fivebeauties.
Phil growled and shoved the potin my direction, keeping both eyeson Tomboy Taylor.
She was something to keep eyes on,both figuratively and literally. Theonly thing that kept her from being athionite dream was the Pittsburghstogie that she insisted upon smoking,and the only thing that kept her frombeing some man's companion in spiteof the stogie was the fact that he'dhave to keep his mouth shut or she'dsteal his back teeth—if not forfillings, then for practice.
"You, Wally Wilson," she saidaround the cigar, "get these griftersout of here. I got words."
The Greek growled. "Who says?"
"Barcelona says."
I do not have to explain who Barcelonais. All I have to say is thatPhil Howland, The Greek, and ChicagoCharlie arose without a wordand filed out with their minds allheld tight behind solid shields.
I said, "What does Barcelona wantwith me?"
Tomboy Taylor removed the stogieand said evenly, "Barcelona wants tosee it Flying Heels, Moonbeam, andLady Grace next month."
When I got done gulping I said,"You mean Barcelona wa