Shayne lit another cigarette. His nostrils flared, and smoke dribbled out. Suddenly he looked happy. “So the fix is on? I get it, Joe. Maybe I can change that. I’m still willing to bet two grand I can.”
“Money on the nose ain’t no better than counterfeit if your nag don’t break away from the post,” Joe Parkis warned him sententiously.
Shayne nodded cheerfully. “I see what you’re driving at. But I’m on the inside, too, Joe. Don’t believe everything you hear. Thanks for tipping me, but my bet stands.”
“Don’t be a schlemiel,” Joe groaned. “You been around enough to know that when the owner lays heavy sugar on another horse he’s pretty sure his ain’t going to run.”
“So,” said Shayne thoughtfully, “it’s that way?”
Parkis wriggled in his chair and mopped his face. “All right, so you’ve got the picture. Now will you lay off?”
“How much has Marsh bet against himself?”
“Plenty. That’s what knocked the odds down yesterday. Damn it, Mike, I ain’t got no right to spill this.”
“It won’t go any farther.” Shayne leaned forward, his eyes boring into Joe’s. “That funny stuff last night — about no bets being off if Marsh withdrew — that was his idea, too? Eh?”
“That’s right. His jack has to be covered that way. And that gives him a cinch, Mike. I don’t like that kind of business, but hell, the suckers’ll get took anyway. Only I hate to see you ride with the suckers.”