[A whimsy that occurred to me, one day when I was musing over the possibility of seeing or predicting the future, at least at short range. Max Feinberg needs a breather. His laundromat business is lucrative but boring. His marriage is sound but irritating. His body is slowly turning to sludge. So he’s headed to Las Vegas for some restorative gambling and professional sex. The bonus he’ll receive will exceed his imagination. It will include a lesson about himself that he badly needs to learn.]
Max Feinberg, king of the Los Angeles laundromat business, always vacationed alone. Yes, he was married. His wife Ruth did not care to accompany him. They loved each other, but if the facts be submitted to a candid world, she looked forward to his quarterly solo jaunts to Las Vegas quite as much as he. It provided the two of them with de-escalation time. Both of them regarded whatever amount Max lost in such a week as the price of divorce averted for another three months.
He gambled at the Alhambra by preference. For one thing, he was known and welcomed there. For another, the food was good and the complimentary drinks weren’t watered. But the third thing was the decider: no matter whether he won or lost, or how much, no member of the Alhambra staff ever questioned his credit.
When you routinely push six digits worth of chips across the tables in the course of a week, the last thing you want is to have your credit questioned. Of course it helps to make good on your losses. It helps even more if you lose heavily only slightly more often than the Sun rises in the West.
On the October Sunday evening when our story opens, Max was of the opinion that the Sun might come up over the Pacific Ocean the very next morning.
He decided it would be a night for baccarat, and headed for the thousand-dollar table the moment he stepped into the casino. The dealer, a tall, slender Vietnamese woman resplendent in the Alhambra’s crimson and gold, smiled brilliantly and gestured him to a seat immediately across from her. Her smile widened even further as he arranged his quarter million in chips before him.
That was the high point of Max’s night. The dealer’s night went much better. The casino’s night went better still.
Before Max had his first inkling that it might not be his night, a croupier had raked his entire quarter million into the casino’s coffers. By the time he realized that cutting short his night was the only way he could cut his losses, he’d added a hundred thousand more.
He stalked out to his Lincoln in as near to a rage as he ever allowed himself. It had been his worst one-night loss ever. It wouldn’t come near to endangering him financially—few enterprises are as trouble-free and as steadily profitable as a southern California laundromat, and Max owned virtually every laundromat in Los Angeles County—but it would curtail his entertainment for the week to come. It might send him back to Beverly Hills, to Ruth, and to his terminally boring business without another stint at the tables. He berated himself savagely for having doubled down when he should have known that Lady Luck was not on his side. He pulled the flyer out from under his windshield wiper without looking at it and tossed it on the passenger seat before starting the engine and heading for the condominium that was his home away from home in Las Vegas.
But perhaps he was being too harsh with himself. For how could he have known? It would have required the ability to predict the future, an ability no man had ever possessed. An ability that would render every mode of gambling obsolete.
Surely it would be better to lose every now and then, rather than suffer such a catastrophe as that.
The greater part of Monday had passed before Max chanced to leave his condominium again. Recriminations over the prior evening’s bullheadedness had muted his appetites for food, sex, and other diversions. Thus it was not until the acids began to erode the lining of his fifty-four-year-old stomach that he begrudged to descend from the twenty-third floor of the apartment tower and board his car to search for dinner. Before he started the engine, he glanced at the flyer he’d found on his windshield eighteen hours earlier.
He’d found any number of flyers on his car in his years as a patron of the Vegas Strip. Most promoted the services of a brothel, an industry whose trade benefited as much as that of the casinos from overoptimistic gamblers. The pleasures of the flesh will often solace an aching wallet, and Max Feinberg was no stranger to their custom. But a bordello’s flyer is normally a flashy item, brightly colored and bedecked with snapshots of the young women whose charms could be found within. This one was anything but flashy. It bore only a simple message, centered on the page in twelve-point type:
I pick placers at Pimlico, Belmont, and Yonkers.
And I am never, ever wrong.
My website is https://placer-mine.com
Enter the code MF42J for one day’s free access.
Try it and see.
There was nothing more.
Max put it aside and headed for his favorite Chinese restaurant. Perhaps some moo shu pork would help to assuage his anger at himself. At any rate, it would quiet the rumblings in his belly.
Max parked in the garage beneath the condominium tower, released himself from his seat belt, started to exit his Lincoln, and stopped. He turned toward the flyer and glanced at it a second time.
And I am never, ever wrong.
One day’s free access.
What’s the risk? Either he’s full of it, which I’ll know from the results, or he’ll have something worth investigating further...which I’ll know from the results.
The psychology of the gambling enthusiast, as well studied as it is, is not yet well enough understood to explain for the rest of us why such a person cannot resist the lure of an untried game. Even a phony game can exert an irresistible pull on the gambler’s mind. Max Feinberg’s ethics were not ironclad. He was drawn to the possibilities of a good scam as a trout is drawn to a fly afloat on the surface of the river.
It almost didn’t matter whether the operator of the “Placer Mine” could do what he claimed. The novelty of the come-on and the possible applications to other sorts of scams were too inviting. Max would try it. And for free...well, what could he lose?
I lost plenty last night. I’ll take this clown’s freebie. At least it’ll keep me from losing lots more tonight. I’ll just take down his picks and check them against tomorrow’s results.
I don’t have to bet a dime.
But he would.
The psychology of the gambler is well enough understood for anyone to predict that.
Before he’d retired for the night, Max had gone to https://placer-mine.com, had entered the magic code when prompted, and had taken down the names and jockeys of twenty-four horses, eight at each of the three racetracks, the site had predicted would place in the races to be run the next day. He’d debated with himself the folly of laying large bets on the site’s predictions for nearly an hour before calling the Alhambra and putting a benjamin on each horse, to place.
A casino “sales executive” took Max’s call and his bets and gave him twenty-four confirmation numbers. There was a distinct note of wonder in the executive’s voice throughout the exchange. Max wasn’t a ponies man. He’d always preferred the fall of the cards, games where a knowledge of the odds and a certain wry pessimism would give a man an edge over hungrier, more optimistic players. Betting on the horses marked a significant departure from his usual practices.
Upon the instant the call ended, Max undressed himself, slid into bed, and turned off the lights. He emptied his mind of all thoughts but sleep. Surely there would be more than enough to think about tomorrow...especially if his bets should pay off.
Max rose to a beautiful October Tuesday morning, showered and dressed for a day of leisure, and ordered breakfast sent up to him from the restaurant on the tower’s ground floor. He took his pancakes and sausages to the table on his bedroom balcony and enjoyed them in concert with the sight of the city glimmering below. When ten o’clock Pacific time had arrived, Max fetched his laptop, set it before him, and awaited the first returns from Belmont Raceway, one eye on the list of second-place finishers predicted by Placer Mine.
The horse the site had picked to place in the first race came in second. The payoff was 3.43 to 1.
The site’s second-race pick also placed. The payoff was 2.73 to 1.
The site’s third-race pick also placed. The payoff was 3.05 to 1.
It went on that way through the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh races. By the time the eighth race was scheduled to start, Max could no longer sit. His heart beat faster than it had since his first kiss.
The eighth-race pick placed. The payoff was 2.98 to 1.
Eight races, eight forecasts, eight placers.
Max swiftly went to the sites for Pimlico and Yonkers. There too, all eight of the placers were the horses Placer Mine had selected to finish second.
Twenty-four races, twenty-four forecasts, twenty-four placers.
One hundred percent predictive accuracy.
Max had won slightly more than eighty-two hundred dollars.
How?
Nobody can fix twenty-four races at three widely separated tracks. Even if it were possible, he’d never let the information get out!
But there it was.
He immediately went to Placer Mine and re-entered the MF42J code. The site’s nondescript front page was immediately overlaid with a dialog box:
Max scurried for his wallet.
The fantastic run of Placer Mine continued uninterrupted.
Each evening Max went to the site, paid $1000 for the privilege, and collected the names of twenty-four horses. Immediately thereafter he called the Alhambra and placed twenty-four bets. With each day he increased the size of his wagers. On the subsequent day he would check the websites for the three racetracks, find that all his horses had placed as predicted, and would call the Alhambra to confirm his winnings. By Saturday afternoon, he had recouped the whole of his three hundred fifty thousand dollar loss of Sunday night, and was a hundred eighty-eight thousand dollars in the black.
It left him vaguely dissatisfied.
Gamblers dislike to lose, but they dislike a sure thing–a proven sure thing–almost as much. The gambler lives for the thrill that comes with risk. He savors his sense of himself as an adventurer, pitted against the capricious gods of Chance. He relishes the electric tension that comes from staking his fate on the fall of the cards, the roll of the dice, or the anticipation as the little steel marble chooses in which slot to land. He wants to win, but he yearns even more for the thrill of the stake–and the higher, the better.
Yet Max was about to return to Beverly Hills, to Ruth, to his laundromat chain, and to the innumerable nuisances to which a man of late middle age, his looks gone, his strength waning, and his erections dependent on a drug must submit, having played a sure thing and nothing but a sure thing from one end of his breather to the other.
He called the Alhambra once more to check his balance.
Copyright (C) 2017 Francis W. Porretto. All rights reserved worldwide.
***
Max Feinberg, king of the Los Angeles laundromat business, always vacationed alone. Yes, he was married. His wife Ruth did not care to accompany him. They loved each other, but if the facts be submitted to a candid world, she looked forward to his quarterly solo jaunts to Las Vegas quite as much as he. It provided the two of them with de-escalation time. Both of them regarded whatever amount Max lost in such a week as the price of divorce averted for another three months.
He gambled at the Alhambra by preference. For one thing, he was known and welcomed there. For another, the food was good and the complimentary drinks weren’t watered. But the third thing was the decider: no matter whether he won or lost, or how much, no member of the Alhambra staff ever questioned his credit.
When you routinely push six digits worth of chips across the tables in the course of a week, the last thing you want is to have your credit questioned. Of course it helps to make good on your losses. It helps even more if you lose heavily only slightly more often than the Sun rises in the West.
On the October Sunday evening when our story opens, Max was of the opinion that the Sun might come up over the Pacific Ocean the very next morning.
He decided it would be a night for baccarat, and headed for the thousand-dollar table the moment he stepped into the casino. The dealer, a tall, slender Vietnamese woman resplendent in the Alhambra’s crimson and gold, smiled brilliantly and gestured him to a seat immediately across from her. Her smile widened even further as he arranged his quarter million in chips before him.
That was the high point of Max’s night. The dealer’s night went much better. The casino’s night went better still.
Before Max had his first inkling that it might not be his night, a croupier had raked his entire quarter million into the casino’s coffers. By the time he realized that cutting short his night was the only way he could cut his losses, he’d added a hundred thousand more.
He stalked out to his Lincoln in as near to a rage as he ever allowed himself. It had been his worst one-night loss ever. It wouldn’t come near to endangering him financially—few enterprises are as trouble-free and as steadily profitable as a southern California laundromat, and Max owned virtually every laundromat in Los Angeles County—but it would curtail his entertainment for the week to come. It might send him back to Beverly Hills, to Ruth, and to his terminally boring business without another stint at the tables. He berated himself savagely for having doubled down when he should have known that Lady Luck was not on his side. He pulled the flyer out from under his windshield wiper without looking at it and tossed it on the passenger seat before starting the engine and heading for the condominium that was his home away from home in Las Vegas.
But perhaps he was being too harsh with himself. For how could he have known? It would have required the ability to predict the future, an ability no man had ever possessed. An ability that would render every mode of gambling obsolete.
Surely it would be better to lose every now and then, rather than suffer such a catastrophe as that.
#
The greater part of Monday had passed before Max chanced to leave his condominium again. Recriminations over the prior evening’s bullheadedness had muted his appetites for food, sex, and other diversions. Thus it was not until the acids began to erode the lining of his fifty-four-year-old stomach that he begrudged to descend from the twenty-third floor of the apartment tower and board his car to search for dinner. Before he started the engine, he glanced at the flyer he’d found on his windshield eighteen hours earlier.
He’d found any number of flyers on his car in his years as a patron of the Vegas Strip. Most promoted the services of a brothel, an industry whose trade benefited as much as that of the casinos from overoptimistic gamblers. The pleasures of the flesh will often solace an aching wallet, and Max Feinberg was no stranger to their custom. But a bordello’s flyer is normally a flashy item, brightly colored and bedecked with snapshots of the young women whose charms could be found within. This one was anything but flashy. It bore only a simple message, centered on the page in twelve-point type:
Placer Mine
I pick placers at Pimlico, Belmont, and Yonkers.
And I am never, ever wrong.
My website is https://placer-mine.com
Enter the code MF42J for one day’s free access.
Try it and see.
There was nothing more.
Max put it aside and headed for his favorite Chinese restaurant. Perhaps some moo shu pork would help to assuage his anger at himself. At any rate, it would quiet the rumblings in his belly.
#
Max parked in the garage beneath the condominium tower, released himself from his seat belt, started to exit his Lincoln, and stopped. He turned toward the flyer and glanced at it a second time.
And I am never, ever wrong.
One day’s free access.
What’s the risk? Either he’s full of it, which I’ll know from the results, or he’ll have something worth investigating further...which I’ll know from the results.
The psychology of the gambling enthusiast, as well studied as it is, is not yet well enough understood to explain for the rest of us why such a person cannot resist the lure of an untried game. Even a phony game can exert an irresistible pull on the gambler’s mind. Max Feinberg’s ethics were not ironclad. He was drawn to the possibilities of a good scam as a trout is drawn to a fly afloat on the surface of the river.
It almost didn’t matter whether the operator of the “Placer Mine” could do what he claimed. The novelty of the come-on and the possible applications to other sorts of scams were too inviting. Max would try it. And for free...well, what could he lose?
I lost plenty last night. I’ll take this clown’s freebie. At least it’ll keep me from losing lots more tonight. I’ll just take down his picks and check them against tomorrow’s results.
I don’t have to bet a dime.
But he would.
The psychology of the gambler is well enough understood for anyone to predict that.
#
Before he’d retired for the night, Max had gone to https://placer-mine.com, had entered the magic code when prompted, and had taken down the names and jockeys of twenty-four horses, eight at each of the three racetracks, the site had predicted would place in the races to be run the next day. He’d debated with himself the folly of laying large bets on the site’s predictions for nearly an hour before calling the Alhambra and putting a benjamin on each horse, to place.
A casino “sales executive” took Max’s call and his bets and gave him twenty-four confirmation numbers. There was a distinct note of wonder in the executive’s voice throughout the exchange. Max wasn’t a ponies man. He’d always preferred the fall of the cards, games where a knowledge of the odds and a certain wry pessimism would give a man an edge over hungrier, more optimistic players. Betting on the horses marked a significant departure from his usual practices.
Upon the instant the call ended, Max undressed himself, slid into bed, and turned off the lights. He emptied his mind of all thoughts but sleep. Surely there would be more than enough to think about tomorrow...especially if his bets should pay off.
#
Max rose to a beautiful October Tuesday morning, showered and dressed for a day of leisure, and ordered breakfast sent up to him from the restaurant on the tower’s ground floor. He took his pancakes and sausages to the table on his bedroom balcony and enjoyed them in concert with the sight of the city glimmering below. When ten o’clock Pacific time had arrived, Max fetched his laptop, set it before him, and awaited the first returns from Belmont Raceway, one eye on the list of second-place finishers predicted by Placer Mine.
The horse the site had picked to place in the first race came in second. The payoff was 3.43 to 1.
The site’s second-race pick also placed. The payoff was 2.73 to 1.
The site’s third-race pick also placed. The payoff was 3.05 to 1.
It went on that way through the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh races. By the time the eighth race was scheduled to start, Max could no longer sit. His heart beat faster than it had since his first kiss.
The eighth-race pick placed. The payoff was 2.98 to 1.
Eight races, eight forecasts, eight placers.
Max swiftly went to the sites for Pimlico and Yonkers. There too, all eight of the placers were the horses Placer Mine had selected to finish second.
Twenty-four races, twenty-four forecasts, twenty-four placers.
One hundred percent predictive accuracy.
Max had won slightly more than eighty-two hundred dollars.
How?
Nobody can fix twenty-four races at three widely separated tracks. Even if it were possible, he’d never let the information get out!
But there it was.
He immediately went to Placer Mine and re-entered the MF42J code. The site’s nondescript front page was immediately overlaid with a dialog box:
Your one-day trial has expired.
Further access will cost you $1000 per day,
Payable in advance.
I accept MasterCard, Visa, and Discover.
Further access will cost you $1000 per day,
Payable in advance.
I accept MasterCard, Visa, and Discover.
Max scurried for his wallet.
#
The fantastic run of Placer Mine continued uninterrupted.
Each evening Max went to the site, paid $1000 for the privilege, and collected the names of twenty-four horses. Immediately thereafter he called the Alhambra and placed twenty-four bets. With each day he increased the size of his wagers. On the subsequent day he would check the websites for the three racetracks, find that all his horses had placed as predicted, and would call the Alhambra to confirm his winnings. By Saturday afternoon, he had recouped the whole of his three hundred fifty thousand dollar loss of Sunday night, and was a hundred eighty-eight thousand dollars in the black.
It left him vaguely dissatisfied.
Gamblers dislike to lose, but they dislike a sure thing–a proven sure thing–almost as much. The gambler lives for the thrill that comes with risk. He savors his sense of himself as an adventurer, pitted against the capricious gods of Chance. He relishes the electric tension that comes from staking his fate on the fall of the cards, the roll of the dice, or the anticipation as the little steel marble chooses in which slot to land. He wants to win, but he yearns even more for the thrill of the stake–and the higher, the better.
Yet Max was about to return to Beverly Hills, to Ruth, to his laundromat chain, and to the innumerable nuisances to which a man of late middle age, his looks gone, his strength waning, and his erections dependent on a drug must submit, having played a sure thing and nothing but a sure thing from one end of his breather to the other.
He called the Alhambra once more to check his balance.
End of Part I
Copyright (C) 2017 Francis W. Porretto. All rights reserved worldwide.