computer. Jimmy the Rabbitâs real name was Jimmy Waldrin. Heâd been an outstanding high school athlete whoâd 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 hadnât held a job since high school. He could be found most summer afternoons at one of the Twin Citiesâ private golf clubs, and most evenings at the ballpark or the racetrack. In the winter, heâd 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 knewâor thought they knewâthat a game was fixed, theyâd 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.
âHere you go, Sam,â Marcus said. He read Jimmyâs number off his contacts list. âSay, 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
âCanât commit right now, Marcus. This case might wrap up in a couple of days, or I might be out of town for a while. Iâll let you know as soon as I can.â
âDamn unreliable musicians.â
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, âYeah.â It sounded like a cell phone.
âJimmy, itâs Sam Skarda.â
Sam heard a loud cheer in the background, and guessed that Jimmy was at the Metrodome.
âSammy! Long time, babe. How ya hittinâ em?â
âI still need strokes from you, Jim.â
âIâll get a Good Citizen Award from the cops before you get a stroke from me. What can I do for ya?â
âHowâs the game going?â
âTwins up by three, but itâs still in the sixth, and the Indians just got into the Twinsâ bullpen. This one ainât over.â
âHow much do you have on the Indians?â
âA honeybee. Whatâs up?â
âI need to ask you about some recent World Series. Any sudden changes in the lines over the last six or seven years?â
âNah, nothing I can think of. Why?â
âHow about the Tigers and Cardinals in â06? Tigers were a heavy favorite, right?â
âRight.â
âAny late money come in on the Cards?â
âNot really. Tigers just played bad.â
âMarlins and Yankees in 2003?â
âYanks were favored. Another upset, but the schmoes never saw it coming. I did okay.â
âSometimes the underdog wins,â Sam said.
âThatâs right. Thatâs why guys like me donât need real jobs.â
âRed Sox-Cardinals?â
âAw, Sammy, why you gotta bring up bad memories? I got killed on that one. Murdered. Lost the kidsâ college fund.â
âI didnât know you had kids, Jimmy.â
âI donât. But if I didâ¦â
Sam heard the familiar foghorn voice of Wally the Beerman, the Domeâs most recognizable vendor, bellowing âWhoâs ready?â as he passed Jimmyâs seat.
âThe Cards were underdogs, right?â Sam said. He was trying to steer Jimmy back to the subject at hand without sounding too focused on the