Green Monster by Rick Shefchik Read Free Book Online Page B

computer. Jimmy the Rabbit’s real name was Jimmy Waldrin. He’d been an outstanding high school athlete who’d later become a first-rate golf hustler. Sam had met him at one of those resort tournaments in northern Minnesota, where Jimmy finished second, sold all his shop winnings for 50 cents on the dollar, won a bunch of side bets and went home with more than three thousand bucks in his pocket. He lived in a nice four-bedroom Victorian near the old Guthrie Theater, drove a Mercedes convertible, and hadn’t held a job since high school. He could be found most summer afternoons at one of the Twin Cities’ private golf clubs, and most evenings at the ballpark or the racetrack. In the winter, he’d be at a downtown sports bar, keeping track of his pro and college bets in front of a bank of TVs.
    Sam knew the sports books in Vegas adjusted the betting lines on a given game depending on how much money was being bet on either team, and if enough money suddenly came in on one team to change the odds, it was usually because of an injury or other significant piece of information. If somebody knew—or thought they knew—that a game was fixed, they’d put as much money as they could on the game, and that would definitely change the odds. If anyone in Minneapolis knew about the betting line being suddenly shifted during the Sox-Cardinals series, it would be Jimmy the Rabbit.
    â€œHere you go, Sam,” Marcus said. He read Jimmy’s number off his contacts list. “Say, you gonna be around three weekends from now? One of the cops in the second precinct is getting married. He asked me if Night Beat could play the reception.”
    â€œCan’t commit right now, Marcus. This case might wrap up in a couple of days, or I might be out of town for a while. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
    â€œDamn unreliable musicians.”
    Sam dialed the number Marcus gave him for Jimmy the Rabbit. It rang several times, then Sam heard crowd noise in the background and a voice say, “Yeah.” It sounded like a cell phone.
    â€œJimmy, it’s Sam Skarda.”
    Sam heard a loud cheer in the background, and guessed that Jimmy was at the Metrodome.
    â€œSammy! Long time, babe. How ya hittin’ em?”
    â€œI still need strokes from you, Jim.”
    â€œI’ll get a Good Citizen Award from the cops before you get a stroke from me. What can I do for ya?”
    â€œHow’s the game going?”
    â€œTwins up by three, but it’s still in the sixth, and the Indians just got into the Twins’ bullpen. This one ain’t over.”
    â€œHow much do you have on the Indians?”
    â€œA honeybee. What’s up?”
    â€œI need to ask you about some recent World Series. Any sudden changes in the lines over the last six or seven years?”
    â€œNah, nothing I can think of. Why?”
    â€œHow about the Tigers and Cardinals in ’06? Tigers were a heavy favorite, right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œAny late money come in on the Cards?”
    â€œNot really. Tigers just played bad.”
    â€œMarlins and Yankees in 2003?”
    â€œYanks were favored. Another upset, but the schmoes never saw it coming. I did okay.”
    â€œSometimes the underdog wins,” Sam said.
    â€œThat’s right. That’s why guys like me don’t need real jobs.”
    â€œRed Sox-Cardinals?”
    â€œAw, Sammy, why you gotta bring up bad memories? I got killed on that one. Murdered. Lost the kids’ college fund.”
    â€œI didn’t know you had kids, Jimmy.”
    â€œI don’t. But if I did…”
    Sam heard the familiar foghorn voice of Wally the Beerman, the Dome’s most recognizable vendor, bellowing “Who’s ready?” as he passed Jimmy’s seat.
    â€œThe Cards were underdogs, right?” Sam said. He was trying to steer Jimmy back to the subject at hand without sounding too focused on the