Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 21, No. 115, June 1953

Heads I Win, Tails You Lose by John D. MacDonald

If a good tailor could have got hold of Hugo Stanwicz, he would have covered the great slabs of fat with a neat, loose-fitting gray suit in a quiet pattern. Then, when Hugo rolled through the lobby of the Edwinet Hotel on his way to make a soft buck, only the uninformed would stare. They might say to the man at the cigar counter: “Are they making a movie in here?”

And the man would answer: “Friend, that is Hugo Stanwicz and he will be glad to make you a small wager on anything you care to name — after he’s checked the odds and bought insurance.”

But Hugo didn’t wear a quiet gray suit. He wore spectacular creations, padded in the shoulders, nipped in at the waist, flaring over the massive haunches. A surprisingly thin and exceedingly long nose, appearing to swing when he walked, bisected his vast and muddy face, giving Hugo the look of a happy and stunted elephant which had been taught during its formative years to walk on its back legs. His little gray eyes, imbedded in pads of doughy flesh, looked out at the world with vacant amiability. He carried, hidden away in his clothes, a silver coin the size of a small saucer. On one side was written, in tiny, rose-cut diamonds, the word, Heads. Under it was engraved I win. On the other side was an appropriate Tails and the mystic You lose.

It was the center and focus of Hugo’s code. And it had made innumerable trips to Benjamin’s Emporium — loans freely granted. The silver saucer was always good for $8.50 with Benjamin.

Hugo had learned, at an early age, that he was of a type unsuited to manual labor. Being an heir to nothing more than a lease on a railroad flat and a shovel caked with cement, living off his income appeared unfeasible. His way became clear at the time of the long-count Dempsey-Tunney fracas. A month before the bout, Hugo found a citizen who was willing to wager $5 even money on the outcome. In a fit of recklessness, Hugo bet on Dempsey. It troubled him, as it was most probable that he would not have the five to pay off should he lose — and the other party was a man with big hard fists. In the middle of a sleepless night Hugo grunted his way out of bed and made many figures on a piece of paper. At last he was able to sleep, and the next day he found an ardent Dempsey supporter and wagered $2 at three to one on Tunney.

After the fight Hugo collected his $6 from the Dempsey supporter and paid five of it to the Tunney supporter. He spent long hours with his fat white hand deep in his pocket, fingering the dollar profit. If the fight had gone the other way, he would have made $3 profit.

A great light dawned for Hugo: it was possible for a man to bet without any possibility of loss!

He never returned to the Brooklyn grocery store. He had the secret of permanent income without labor. True, it came much harder for Hugo to live with the profits of insured betting than it did for those persons, nimbler mentally and physically, who had been making a nice living for years at the same occupation. The tip of Hugo’s tongue was permanently stained from sucking on the stub of a pencil, puffy brow knotted, while he strained at the simple mathematics of the racket.

But years lent a certain dexterity, and in time Hugo should have become an expert. He would have, but for one thing. Deep in his massive frame was hidden a small spark of gambling fever — an insidious little spark. Hugo, with cool and careful restraint, would accumulate a reasonable chunk of money, and then, feeling that he had inside information, would wager it without insurance on the outcome of anything from a dog race to the Kentucky Derby.

He lost oftener than he won. And then his heart hung in his breast like a soggy turnip fried in deep fat. He visited Benjamin... the saucer changed hands... and Hugo began again with very small stakes — insured.

He recognized this failing within himself and indulged in fits of morose self-reproach. But he kept on doing it again and again.

Now, as he walked through the lobby of the Edwinet Hotel, there was a tilt to his pearl-gray hat that would have been jaunty on another head. He had pyramided his insured winnings to an imposing level — and he was full of resolve never to make another uninsured bet.

Hugo turned sideways to squeeze through the narrow doors of the elevator, and the twisted melody of a popular song rumbled in his throat as he rode upwards to the third floor where Barney O’Gay made book in a converted suite.

He walked in, nodded to his myriad acquaintances — he had no friends. No man who plays the angles for a soft buck ever has friends. The world is full of faces and in the faces are sharp eyes — and behind the eyes are many plots, each of them calculated to impoverish all other men. Hugo didn’t find this strange. He didn’t know that any other attitude existed.

He walked heavily to the board and looked it over. Fights at the Garden. Basternick against Codey at even money. Hmmm. Codey’s a colored boy. Odds ought to be different in Harlem. He made a mental note. And Chavat versus Antonelli. Six to five in favor of Chavat. There ought to be good Antonelli money in Brooklyn.

He located Barney and counted out $800 in the O’Gay paw. “Hole onta this, Barney. I’ll phone in a hour.”

Barney said: “Eight hunnert. Check. What’s today’s spread?”

Hugo smiled sadly and said: “Now, Barney, you know I can’t tell ya until I get my dough down.”

Hugo left and Barney sauntered over to his assistant, a small, frightened-looking man with the sad eyes of a kicked spaniel. Barney said: “That fat clown, that Hugo, he gives me 800 today. It’s guys like him give honest bookies a black eye.”

“What you going to do, Barney?”

He shrugged. “What can you do? When guys as dumb as him can bet it so they can’t lose...” He left the sentence unfinished, and walked away.

Hugo had to hurry. This was the part of the business he didn’t like. In fact, he had to run three steps to make the closing door of an uptown express. He sat on the wicker upholstery, patting his face dry with a big pale-green handkerchief. He walked from his stop to a cigar store in Harlem, nodding to the habitues as he went. There was no board in the back room, but one quick question gave the answer that Codey was being quoted as a seven to five favorite.

Hugo did some scribbling on the back of an envelope. It was a nice spread. He said: “May want some of that. Wait’ll I phone.” He squeezed into a booth and called Barney. “Codey and Basternick quoted even? They are? Put six hunnert of what I give you on Codey. I’ll pick up the slip. Yeah. Thanks.” He hung up, eased out of the booth, and bet 500 to 700 on Basternick.

He walked out, feeling very satisfied. If Codey should win, he’d lose 500 in Harlem and win 600 at Barney’s. If Basternick should win, he’d win 700 in Harlem and lose 600 at Barney’s. One hundred bucks in his pocket for sure.

He took a long subway ride out to Brooklyn and went to three places he knew before he found Chavat versus Antonelli at even money. He figured again, phoned Barney and told him to bet the 200 left on Antonelli at the short end of the six to five price. Then he bet 220 on Chavat at even money. If Chavat should win, he’d win 220 in Brooklyn and lose 200 at Barney’s. If Antonelli should win, he’d lose 220 in Brooklyn and win 240 at Barney’s. A sure twenty bucks either way.

His activities had taken a large slice out of the morning, but it meant a net of $120 so far for the day. He picked up his slips from Barney, ate a heavy lunch at a joint just off Times Square, and found a movie where a double bill, two horse operas, were showing. He sat in deep contentment, his stomach rumbling over the big meal, solmenly eating popcorn, and watching with wide, bland eyes as the hero fired 69 shots from a six-shooter without reloading. Westerns were Hugo’s weakness.

While he sat, monolithic and content munching his popcorn, a trio of extroverted citizens sat in their shirtsleeves in a plush apartment in the Sixties, drinking scotch, smoking dollar cigars, and planning a big push. There was Joe Banto, numbers king of a large eastern city, a flamboyant little swarthy man who talked with very little lip movement; Judson Gale, whose gambling ships anchored offshore had made many headlines, a plump little man with rosy cheeks, white hair, and scarred knuckles; Hillary Moyer, wan and ineffectual heir to a fortune once thought inexhaustible, but crippled by the large nibbles of six divorced wives.

Joe Banto said: “Now I’ll run over it again lightly. The championship fight between Mole Anderson and Junior Gee is scheduled for three weeks from today. Time’s getting short and we got to move fast. Moyer, you’re putting up 500,000, same as Gale and me. That makes the syndicate capital a million and a half. Now, through the local contacts, I got a list of the soft dollar boys that’ll farm out the bets for us. Mole Anderson is a five to one favorite. Our problem, boys, is to get 500,000 bet on Junior Gee so fast that we catch it all at the present rate. We got to have timing. Now, let’s—”

Hillary Moyer said: “Why do we have to deal with these middlemen? Why can’t the bet be placed all at once?”

“Shut up, dope,” Banto said. “No one place could handle it, and by the time they farmed it out, the price would be wrong. I got ten dependable guys to place 50Gs apiece, and place it so fast in so many different places that we’ll catch the low price. We can’t do it ourselves. We’d be tipping the deal off. Besides, we don’t want to attract the attention of the tax boys.”

Judson Gale asked: “Where will that drive the price to?”

“My guess is five to three. Maybe five to four, but I don’t think so. Then comes the gimmick. I bought me a guy with a sports column, and the week before the fight he’s going to stick in some talk about Mole Anderson being way off his timing, getting a bad cut in training, and having a torn tendon in his wrist. That’ll drive it to an even-money bet. Then is when we jump in with the million. We can’t figure on placing it all at even money, but with the same technique we can maybe place half of it at even and the rest at five to four. Then, if Junior wins, we net a million and a half, deducting the million we bet on Mole from the two and a half million we clean if Junior wins. If Mole wins, we net about 400 grand. We can’t lose either way. It’s done all the time, but never this big before. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can get Mole to dive for fifty thousand. It’ll help, but we still win even if he crosses us.”

“I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I don’t follow all this,” Hillary Moyer said.

“Shut up!” said Banto.

The three men unlocked the cases they had brought with them and the cash was counted. Judson Gale said: “It’s only fair to tell you, Joe, I’ll have a tail on you all the time. I trust you, you know, but it’s just good business.”

“Sure. Hell, it won’t bother me,” Banto said lightly.

Hillary Moyer looked wistful as his cash disappeared into Banto’s suitcase. He hoped that the unpleasant little man knew what he was talking about.

Thus it was that three hours later Joe Banto sat in the office of a powerful New York citizen, interviewing the leg men who were to place the bets.

Hugo Stanwicz, having been intercepted in the lobby of the cheap hotel where he lived just as he was having pleasant thoughts of dinner, had been hustled into a waiting cab, pouting all the way down to the office of the powerful citizen.

He lost his pout when he saw who it was who had sent for him. The powerful citizen said: “Joe, this is Hugo Stanwicz. He makes his living in the odds business and gets around very quickly indeed for all his size.”

Hugo nodded rapidly: “Yah.”

Banto said: “O. K., Hugo. Here is 150,000 bucks. It is a lot of money and to help you watch it, I got a friend here named Doag. Doag, you go around with Hugo and you watch he doesn’t get any reckless ideas. Hugo, you take the section East Fourteenth to East Fortieth, and starting tomorrow at 10 in the morning, you grab off 50,000 worth on Junior Gee to beat Mole Anderson. Don’t take no less than five to one. Then you wait about a week and I’ll get word to you through Doag here and tell you when to go to the same places and place 100,000 in small pieces on Mole Anderson. Get even money for all you can and no worse than five to four.”

Hugo said: “From five to one down to even money!”

“That’s right. And no funny business. You cross us up and I got another friend in town. A Chicago boy from the old days. You play it crosswise, and my friend, he puts a slug, which he rubs in garlic first, right in that fat middle of yours.”

Hugo quivered as he had a very vivid mental picture of said slug breaking and entering. He opened his mouth to protest his innocence of any such move, but all he could utter was a faint chirping noise.

Banto smiled grimly and said: “Goodbye, Hugo, and don’t lose the dough in the subway.”

Hugo left, followed closely by the muscular citizen named Doag. Doag was a red-faced man in his early forties, with a look on his face as though he smelled dead mice in the woodwork. They went back to Hugo’s room. Doag hauled the couch over in front of the door and went to sleep. He slept with his arms folded, his right hand resting on a Colt-shaped bulge near his left armpit.

Hugo slept poorly. In one dream he was running backwards down the street pursued by a large, leering bullet which followed him around corners and licked its chops in an alarming manner. He awoke and his disposition wasn’t improved by the sight of the muscular shadow using the bathtub. A short, fat revolver gleamed blackly on the tile floor. Hugo stepped gingerly around it and brushed his teeth.

They ate a silent breakfast together. Hugo was acutely conscious of the sickening bulge of currency in his inside pocket. It weighed on his soul. He ate a meager breakfast of orange juice, fried eggs, sausage, waffles, toast, jam, and coffee.

At 10 sharp he stepped into Tiny Marlow’s place on Fourteenth, sweat beading his gray expanse of brow. The board was up and the odds were Mole Anderson over Junior Gee — five to one. Tiny was behind the wicket, sucking up coffee with large uncouth, noises. Hugo sidled up and waited until a horse man had wandered away. He said to Tiny: “How much Gee money can you soak up?”

Tiny looked at him with mild distaste as he set the cup down. “What you think this is, Hugo? Woolworth’s, maybe? I can soak up any kind of dough you ever had in your pants. You name it.”

“No, Tiny. You tell me, huh?”

“Hugo, name your bet.”

“How about fifteen grand, Tiny?”

Tiny picked up the cup of coffee and got it almost to his lips. He paused and set it down. “Did you say fifteen grand?”

“Yah.”

“Gimme a couple minutes on the phone, Hugo, and I’ll handle all of it.”

“No soap. I don’t want you farming it. How much could you handle?”

“Let’s say eight.”

Hugo faced a wall and fumbled with the packet of money. He came back and slipped 8,000-dollar bills across the high counter. Tiny inspected each one carefully before he made out the slip. He said: “Kinda outa your class, ain’t you, Hugo?”

Hugo gave him a large, damp, uncertain smile before he turned away and hurried out. The shadow detached itself from a wall and fell in step beside him.

Bellafleur took six; Rockanzo took eleven; Hallo way took three; Empero took nine; Jackson took another eight; Muriel took the last five. And it was noon. Hugo assembled the slips with trembling fingers and pinned them together. Fifty thousand at five to one! A quarter of a million bucks if Junior Gee happened to win!

But it wasn’t likely that the Fancy Dan, Mr. Gee, with lots of dance steps and a twenty-two caliber punch, could last the limit against the heavy artillery of Mole Anderson.

The shadow accompanied Hugo to a double feature — two westerns — but his presence and the bulge of the remaining hundred thousand turned the popcorn to ashes in Hugo’s mouth and made it hard for him to follow the action on the screen.

In Hugo’s simple philosophy it was only necessary for him to find the courage to finish the unsavory mission and be rid of his shadow. He felt no resentment about having been chosen. The world was full of people a little bit rougher than Hugo. In his own way, he sought self-effacement. He bore his affliction with the same stoicism with which he would have faced a common cold. He prayed that it would end soon.

But the ways of the acute little men who make their living on the fringes of society are devious indeed. The Very Powerful Citizen, having provided Joe Banto with a moderate amount of assistance, added some refinements of his own — added them with cunning and a deep appreciation of the value of a dollar. Even as Doag followed Hugo, another citizen followed both of them. He blended into the gray and neon of Manhattan the way a lizard finds invisibility on a rough wall. And he looked a bit like a lizard.

After two days of careful observation he made his report to the VPC. “All they got on the fat guy is this Doag, who is not very bright. Every day he follows the fat guy to a few horse rooms and then they both go to the movies. Cowboy movies. Fat boy spends a lot of time eating and a lot of time sleeping.”

The VPC was following the odds closely and had noted that Mole Anderson had become but a five to four favorite. He knew that in a day or two Joe Banto would pass the word to Hugo to get the other hundred thousand down. And nine other men in the big town would also be slamming a hundred thousand apiece on Mole Anderson. But the VPC wasn’t greedy. He had designs on only two of the ten — Hugo and another sharpie who seemed to be equally defenseless.

So the lizard listened attentively while the VPC gave detailed instructions...

Hugo sat in the balcony of the fourth-rate movie house, his great jaws champing in a circular motion, grinding up the greasy bits of popcorn. He was beginning to enjoy the movies once more, having made an adjustment to the ever-present Mr. Doag and the uncomfortable bulge of currency in his inside coat pocket.

In the motion picture the blockhouse was on fire, and the desperadoes were worming their way up through the brush for a final charge at the brave defenders. The blonde was reloading six-guns for the hero. The desperadoes charged, and the picture house rattled with the crashing shots. Hugo didn’t notice that someone behind them made a quick motion and Mr. Doag slumped down in his seat. The small crunching noise was unnoticed. Fragments of the mastoid bone slid into Mr. Doag’s brain and perpetually stilled his rather vegetable-like reactions to his environment.

Nor did Hugo see, hear, or feel the blow which dropped him gently into unconsciousness. He didn’t feel the hand that slid down inside his coat and removed the bulge that had bothered him for days. The lizard paused and looked back before walking casually down the stairway.

When Hugo awakened in the hospital he politely answered all the questions of the police. Yes, he knew Mr. Doag. Slightly. He had gone to the movies with Mr. Doag. Yes, he had been robbed. A little money had been taken. And a few betting slips. No, he didn’t know who had done it. Very sorry.

Hugo struggled back into his clothes, gently fingered the lump behind his ear, and walked out of the hospital. A slender and ominous person urged him to get into a taxi which took him to a dingy and soundproof basement apartment near Sheridan Square. There he was quickly and expertly tied into a sturdy chair by two young men with the determined sadness of funeral directors. Hugo’s mouth was as dry as West Texas and his fat palms had the texture of wet sponges. He felt unhappy.

He was left alone for an hour. At last a delegation arrived. It consisted of Joe Banto, Judson Gale, the Very Powerful Citizen, the lizard, and a new person called Charlie. Hugo formed an immediate dislike for Charlie, who had a wet, loose mouth, little hot eyes, and long thick fingers. He looked at Hugo with the same professional attention that a butcher gives to a side of beef.

Joe Banto stood in front of Hugo, his hands on his hips. “It won’t work, fat boy.”

Hugo said: “Hah?”

“Don’t play stupid, you lump of suet. It was real neat. Doag gets his head smashed and you get a little tap on the head that maybe puts you to sleep and maybe doesn’t. Who’s holding the dough for you?”

Neither Hugo nor Joe Banto had any way of knowing that the lizard had not meant to kill. He had merely been hurrying to time the first blow with a blast of gunfire from the screen. With a sap, any undue haste geometrically increases the force of the blow.

So Hugo said: “Hah?”

Banto shrugged in disgust and the assembled group glared at Hugo. Banto turned and said: “Charlie, we’ll all be back in the kitchen. You play with him for a little while and let us know when he decides to get talkative.”

The kitchen door slammed shut. Charlie knelt and gently took the shoe and sock from Hugo’s massive pink foot. Hugo’s ankle was lashed to the leg of the chair. Charlie began to work with small tools and infinite delicacy on the fat foot.

Hugo bellowed once. From then on he screamed frankly. Charlie stopped and waited until the screaming ceased. Hugo’s face was the color of unbaked pastry. Sweat rolled down it, soaking into his collar.

Charlie said: “How about it?”

Hugo gasped: “Don’t... know... nothing.”

Charlie befit over his work again. All the world, for Hugo, dissolved into a bright hot spark of pain that grew and grew and suddenly ceased. He came to when Charlie threw water in his face.

Charlie said: “You O.K.?” When Hugo nodded, Charlie sighed and said, “Well, let’s go back to it,” and bent over the foot again. The foot was beginning to lose resemblance to the other foot.

There was unbelievable pain and then the darkness. And again. Nature came slowly to Hugo’s aid, deadening the ability of the nerves to transmit pain, turning the entire situation into a fantastic nightmare which lost all relationship to reality.

Hugo was vaguely conscious of Joe Banto standing in front of him once more. He heard Charlie saying, from a great distance: “Either the guy knows nothing, or he’s got guts.”

They all left him alone, and in the silent hours reality came back to him. And with it came a sort of dignity. The first dignity that Hugo Stanwicz had known in his vague life. He had been hurt, and with the hurt there had grown a slow anger. It was as massive and ponderous as Hugo himself. It filled his mind, and he forgot the throbbing pain of the nerves in his foot.

They all came back during the night. Banto looked tired. He said: “This is the payoff, Stanwicz. Tell me now or tomorrow they find you on your back in a Jersey swamp.”

With his new dignity Hugo said: “I don’t know nothing, and if I did, I’d never tell you guys.”

The Very Powerful Citizen said to the lizard: “Untie him.” The Very Powerful Citizen was happy. He was unsuspected, and he had personally added a very fine stack of bills to one of his safety deposit boxes. A very profitable situation.

Hugo sat heavily in the chair, his numb hands freed. He heard Banto say: “You two boys take him in the sedan. And get him away from the car. I don’t want no blood on the upholstery.”

Hugo thought: It can’t end this way. Always, in the movies, something happens. A hundred times I see it. Somebody comes in and sticks up the villains. Or the hero grabs a gun and blasts his way out. It can’t end this way! But while he thought, he could somehow see himself staring up at the dawn with sightless eyes, feel the rip of bullets through his big body.

Joe Banto disappeared into the bedroom and came out with a cheap .32 revolver. He handed it to Charlie, saying: “This’ll do it. Toss it off the bridge on the way back.” Charlie swung the cylinder open and inspected the brass ends of the cartridges. He snapped it back into place.

A gun is a strange gadget. Women have fired six shots at their husbands from a range of ten feet and missed with every shot. They tried to aim. Police courses in many cities emphasize the fact that in close work a gun should be aimed as naturally as one points a finger, with no conscious effort at aiming.

Hugo had never fired a gun.

Hugo had seen hundreds of westerns, had seen hundreds of heroes grab a weapon and go bam, bam, bam — a villain dropping onto his face with each shot. Hugo thus believed a gun to be infallible.

Charlie made a mistake. He held the gun out toward Hugo and said: “Here, Fat Boy. Meet Mr. Bang.”

Suddenly all the circumstances fitted. Hugo flashed his big paw out and grabbed the little gun. Joe Banto, Charlie, the lizard, Judson Gale, and the Very Powerful Citizen were in the room. Hugo turned the gun in his hand and the cheap little gun went whack, whack, whack, whack, whack.

If Hugo had ever fired a gun before, he would very probably have inflicted one bad chest wound, one arm wound, and three clean misses.

But to Hugo a gun was infallible, and he fired with all the negligent confidence of a later-day Tom Mix.

The Very Powerful Citizen caught the little slug flush in the mouth, and fell face down. Charlie backed to the wall and slid down, pawing at the hole in his chest; he slumped over and lay still. Judson Gale sighed and turned completely around before he fell; the round hole in his forehead bled hardly at all. The lizard tried to scream, but the rush of air that should have activated his vocal cords sped through the hole in his throat in a mist of blood; he went down heavily. Joe Banto smiled at Hugo, a smile that drew his lips back tightly against his teeth; his hand went slowly up toward a shoulder holster as the blood spread on his shirt and then he fell.

Hugo Stanwicz sat in the small silent room, breathing heavily. He thrust himself up to his feet, and forced his gashed foot into his sock and shoe. He then found the phone, dialed the number, and said: “This is Hugo Stanwicz. I’ve just killed^-five guys. You better come over.” He gave the address and hung up.

With his new dignity, with his fat shoulders squared, he went back and sat down on the chair to await the arrival of the police. His anger was fading away and he looked at the bodies with mingled pride and horror, not realizing the strange effectiveness of his shooting, not knowing that dozens of men from Headquarters would stand by his chair and calculate angles and percentages, scratch their heads wearily, and try hard to believe that this man, who had never fired a gun, could do such a thing.

Hugo knew, in his vast simplicity, that it would be madness to try to run away from such a mass shooting. He had faith in the ways of westerns, where the court cleared the hero in a brief ceremony.

As he waited for the police, the bodies gradually ceased to be of very much importance to him. When he heard the sirens in the distance, he realized that he had been thinking about the current athletic contests in the big city, wondering where he could find a spread in odds big enough to make up for the few days’ loss of income.