Free High Stakes by John McEvoy

months.”
    â€œWhat is his message? Or messages?”
    Hanratty said, “It’s always some claim about how one of my shops has deprived him of some bonanza he had coming. His repeated charge is that when he wins a bet, the odds I’ve provided are, as he writes, ‘disgracefully feckin’ low, you cheatin’ bastard.’ It’s a sentence he tends to repeat. He’s an expert at irritation.”
    Doyle was puzzled. “I don’t get it. Don’t your bettors set the odds with their wagers?”
    â€œNo, no, not at all, Jack. In our betting shops over here, we determine the odds. We can raise or lower them to reflect supply and demand. I think your Las Vegas casinos do the same thing with bets on football and basketball games, maybe boxing, too, I don’t know. The Vegas fellas, they employ—and so do we over here—a fluid process. Now, horse racing in the States is different. Your punters are betting against each other . That’s your pari-mutuel system. There’s not as much of that here as you have. And none in my shops.”
    Doyle said, “I never knew that. Just as, I guess, many American racing bettors don’t realize they are actually in direct competition with each other. I’ve often heard some satisfied guy say after a winning bet, ‘Well, I’m betting with “house money” from here on today.’ He obviously was not aware that there is no such thing as ‘house money’ at racetracks. Casinos, sure. But our U.S. tracks don’t give a damn what a bettor does as long as he bets . They’re taking out their percentage of every bet made, and so are the states in their taxes. Doesn’t matter to the people who own Heartland Downs or Belmont Park or Santa Anita who wins or loses. What matters to them is the volume of bets placed, what they call the churn.”
    Doyle paused as Katie deposited another pair of Smithwick’s pints on their table. “Loonch will be right up,” she said. “The sole is grand today, Niall, I’ve tried it.”
    Hanratty thanked Katie and turned to Jack. “Your pari-mutuel system, Jack, I don’t see the joy in that,” he said. “I prefer our way. It’s a contest. It takes brain work on our part, and on that of our customers. We can shift the odds lower if we have a great exposure. Bettors can shop the odds looking for what they think is their best advantage. Kind of an interesting, like, game, you know. A competition. Not just sitting back and slicing off a piece of every Euro passing through.”
    Considering Hanratty’s expanding empire of obviously profitable betting shops, Doyle could certainly understand his host’s thinking. “Niall, what about competitors? Would any of them try to harm you?”
    Hanratty smiled. “I seriously doubt it. True, we had some lively little turf wars, pardon the expression, some years back, when my business was just getting off the ground. But for the most part, things worked out peacefully. Especially after Barry Hoy and a couple of his similarly large cousins had serious talks with a few potential rivals that threatened to show up on the disruptive side. Barry and his lads brought them to their senses, if you know what I mean. It’s rumored one of the real obstreperous fellas, up in Limerick, earned a trip to a hospital emergency room. I know nothing of the details of that, of course. Peace has been reigning for a long time now, I am happy to say.”
    An hour later, they parted with a handshake outside the restaurant. Doyle walked to Nora’s car for his drive back to Dublin. He’d have one more night at her place before his next day’s return flight to Chicago. After his talk with Niall, he decided would phone the worried Sheila and reassure her that her worries were needless, that her husband was, as usual, in control of things.
    He had another satisfying listen to the Van