The Big Fix

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Stephen Blundelland the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net

  Illustrated by Bernklau

  THE BIG FIX

  BY GEORGE O. SMITH

  _Anyone who holds that telepathy and psi powers would mean an end to crime quite obviously underestimates the ingenuity of the human race. Now consider a horserace that_ had _to be fixed ..._

  It was April, a couple of weeks before the Derby. We were playing poker,which is a game of skill that has nothing to do with the velocity ofhorse meat.

  Phil Howland kept slipping open but he managed to close up before Icould tell whether the combination of Three-Five-Two-Four meant a fullhouse of fives over fours or whether he was betting on an open-endedstraight that he hadn't bothered to arrange in order as he held them.The Greek was impenetrable; he also blocked me from reading the deck sothat I could estimate his hand from the cards that weren't dealt out.Chicago Charlie's mind was easy to read but no one could trust him. Hewas just as apt to think high to score someone out as he was to thinklow to suck the boys in. As for me, there I was, good old Wally Wilson,holding a pat straight flush from the eight to the queen of diamonds. Iwas thinking "full house" but I was betting like a weak three of a kind.

  It was a terrific game. Between trying to read into these other guy'sbrains and keeping them from opening mine, and blocking the Greek's slystunt of tipping over the poker chips as a distraction, I was alsoconcerned about the eight thousand bucks that was in the pot. Thetrouble was that all four of us fully intended to rake it in. Mystraight flush would be good for the works in any normal game with wildcards, but the way this bunch was betting I couldn't be sure. PhilHowland didn't have much of a shield but he could really read, and if heread me--either my mind or my hand--he'd automatically radiate and thatwould be that.

  I was about at the point of calling for the draw when the door openedwithout any knock. It was Tomboy Taylor. We'd been so engrossed with oneanother that none of us had caught her approach.

  The Greek looked up at her and swore something that he hadn't read inPlato. "Showdown," he said, tossing in his hand.

  I grunted and spread my five beauties.

  Phil growled and shoved the pot in my direction, keeping both eyes onTomboy Taylor.

  She was something to keep eyes on, both figuratively and literally. Theonly thing that kept her from being a thionite dream was the Pittsburghstogie that she insisted upon smoking, and the only thing that kept herfrom being some man's companion in spite of the stogie was the fact thathe'd have to keep his mouth shut or she'd steal his back teeth--if notfor fillings, then for practice.

  "You, Wally Wilson," she said around the cigar, "get these grifters outof here. I got words."

  The Greek growled. "Who says?"

  "Barcelona says."

  I do not have to explain who Barcelona is. All I have to say is thatPhil Howland, The Greek, and Chicago Charlie arose without a word andfiled out with their minds all held tight behind solid shields.

  * * * * *

  I said, "What does Barcelona want with me?"

  Tomboy Taylor removed the stogie and said evenly, "Barcelona wants tosee it Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace next month."

  When I got done gulping I said, "You mean Barcelona wants me to fix theKentucky Derby?"

  "Oh no," she replied in a very throaty contralto that went with herfigure and her thousand dollars worth of simple skirt and blouse. "Youneedn't 'Fix' anything. Just be sure that it's Flying Heels, Moonbeam,and Lady Grace in that order. One, two, three. Do I make Barcelona quiteclear?"

  I said, "Look, Tomboy, neither of them platers can even _run_ that far,let alone running ahead."

  "Barcelona says they can. And will." She leaned forward and stubbed outthe Pittsburgh stogie and in the gesture she became wholly beautiful aswell as beautifully wholesome. As she leaned toward me she unfogged thelighter surface of her mind and let me dig the faintly-leaking conceptthat she considered me physically attractive. This did not offend me. Tothe contrary it pleased my ego mightily until Tomboy Taylor deliberatelylet the barrier down to let me read the visual impression--whichincluded all of the implications contained in the old cliche: "... Anddon't he look nacheral?"

  "How," I asked on the recoil, "can I fix the Derby?"

  "Barcelona says you know more about the horse racing business than anyother big time operator in Chicago," she said smoothly. "Barcelona saysthat he doesn't know anything about horse racing at all, but he hasgreat faith in your ability. Barcelona says that if anybody can make itFlying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace, one, two, and three, WallyWilson is the man who can do it. In fact, Barcelona will be terriblydisappointed if you can't."

  I eyed her carefully. She was a composed and poised beauty who lookedentirely incapable of uttering such words. I tried to peer into hermind but it was like trying to read the fine print of a telephonedirectory through a knitted woolen shawl. She smiled at me, her shapelylips curving graciously.

  I said, "Barcelona seems to have a lot of confidence in my ability toarrange things."

  With those delicate lips still curved sweetly, she said, "Barcelona iswilling to bet money on your ability as a manager."

  At this point Tomboy Taylor fished another Pittsburgh stogie out of herhundred dollar handbag, bit off the end with a quick nibble of even,pearly-white teeth, and stuffed the cigar in between the arched lips.She scratched a big kitchen match on the seat of her skirt after raisingone shapely thigh to stretch the cloth. She puffed the stogie into lightand became transformed from a beauty into a hag. My mind swore; it waslike painting a mustache on the Mona Lisa.

  Out of the corner of her mouth she replied to my unspoken question: "Ithelps to keep grippers like you at mind's length."

  Then she left me alone with my littered card table and the eightthousand buck final pot--_and_ the unhappy recollection that Barcelonahad gotten upset at something Harold Grimmer had done, and he'd goneinto Grimmer's place and busted Grimmer flat by starting with one lousybuck and letting it ride through eighteen straight passes. This feat ofskill was performed under the mental noses of about eight operatorstrained to exert their extrasensory talents toward the defeat ofsharpshooters who tried to add paraphysics to the laws of chance.

  * * * * *

  Lieutenant Delancey of the Chicago police came in an hour later. Herefused my offer of a drink, and a smoke, and then because I didn't wavehim to a chair he crossed my living room briskly and eased himself intomy favorite chair. I think I could have won the waiting game but theprize wasn't good enough to interest me in playing. So I said, "O.K.,lieutenant, what am I supposed to be guilty of?"

  His smile was veiled. "You're not guilty of anything, so far as I know."

  "You're not here to pass the time of day."

  "No, I'm not. I want information."

  "What kind of information?"

  "One hears things," he said vaguely.

  "Lieutenant," I said, "you've been watching one of those halluscenewhodunit dramas where everybody stands around making witty sayingscomposed of disconnected phrases. You'll next be saying 'Evil Lurks InThe Minds Of Men,' in a sepulchral intonation. Let's skip it, huh? Whatkind of things does one hear and from whom?"

  "It starts with Gimpy Gordon."

  "Whose mind meanders."

  He shrugged. "Gimpy Gordon's meandering mind is well understood for whatit is," he said. "But when it ceases to meander long enough to follow asingle train of thought from beginning to logical end, then something isup."

  "Such as what, for instance."

  The lieutenant leaned back in my easy-chair and stared at the ceiling.
"Wally," he said, "I was relaxing in the car with Sergeant Hollidaydriving. We passed a certain area on Michigan near Randolph and I caughtthe strong mental impression of someone who--in this day and age, mindyou--had had the temerity to pickpocket a wallet containing twenty-sevendollars. The sum of twenty-seven dollars was connected with the factthat the rewards made the risk worth taking; there were distinctimpressions of playing that twenty-seven bucks across the board on threevery especial nags at the Derby. The impression of the twenty-sevenbucks changed into a mental vision of a hand holding a sack of peanuts.There was indecision. Should he take more risk and run up his availablecash to make a larger killing, or would one Joseph