“Let’s hurry,” I urged, breaking into a trot. “I don’t know what we can do about the Mob moving in on the bookies, but I’m sure Aahz will think of something.”
Chapter Eighteen:
“Life can be profitable, if you know the odds.”
– RIPLEY
THE sports arena we were in was noticeably smaller than the stadium on Jahk where we had played in the Big Game, but no less noisy. Perhaps the fact that it was indoors instead of being open-air did something to the acoustics, but even at half-full the crowd in the arena made such a din I could barely hear myself think.
Then again, there was the smell. The same walls and ceiling that botched up the acoustics did nothing at all for ventilation. Even a few thousand beings from assorted dimensions in these close quarters produced a blend of body odors that had my stomach doing slow rolls … or maybe it was just my nerves.
“Could you explain to me again about odds?”
“Not now,” the Geek snarled, nervously playing with his program. “I’m too busy worrying.”
“I’ll give it a try, hot stuff,” Massha volunteered from my other side. “Maybe I can say it in less technical jargon than our friend here.”
“I’d appreciate it,” I admitted.
That got me a black look from the Geek, but Massha was already into it.
“First, you’ve got to understand that for the most part, bookies aren’t betting their own money. They’re acting as agents or go-betweens for people who are betting different sides of the same contest. Ideally, the money bet on each side evens out, so the bookie himself doesn’t have any of his own money riding on the contest.”