PRISONER EXPRESS

Carl Allen was a gambler and a go-getter. He would wager packs of cigarettes every day there was any kind of ball game on TV or the radio. Foot ant baseball were his favorites. He and hundreds of his flow sports nuts would live to make bets, collect scores and talk about the players. We had so many ballgame addicts that they supported at least three different parley tickets makes for years. These are not the mobsters or the gang members that the media's talking heads like to vend to the public. These are just friends and fellow prisoners with enough guts and savvy to handicap the games to be played and offer people a chance to pick four to sic potential winning teams from their lists. If a guy could pick four winners, his one pack of smokes would become eight. The 'house' took all the ties, of course, and getting around the handicap was very hard. Yet people played the parleys in droves, making the house-inmates into cigarette, stamp, coffee and junk food kings. The bookies who worked for them did fairly well for themselves too.

Carl was the busiest bookie. He had a run-man's job and thus could get out of his cage to sweep, mop and buff between the long rows of cages. Soon as the prison cops were not watching, Carl was off like a greyhound to book tickets, mooch coffee or pass dope, books and food between cages. The people he worked for, Don Stockton and Qunion Leigh gave him a third of all the ticket revenue he brought in. There were the financiers: the people who had the money to pay off all the winners of 'Lucky Strike!', which was what they called their ticket. From what I could tell, this wasn't very often, compared to sales. Income v. payout seemed quite low, but when I asked each of the players privately how well they did at parlays in the long run, they only had one answer or a non-answer: "Er-huh, I break even, or I'm a little ahead," Or "Oh, I just do parleys for fun: where I make MY money is on individual bets!"

They all appear to think that they can beat the handicap by watching sports, reading sports and talking sports. They seem like junkies to me; heroin fiends slavering over whose ticket has the loosest handicap, which pitcher has a sore arm, which team has the most injuries. The deadline for signing up is usually Friday. The flow of barter-goods being brought to the bookmakers cages slows to a trickle. TVs and radios blast all weekend to the accompaniment of loud cheers, screamed curses, yelled advice and howls of despair. Not a whole lot of triumphal hooting goes towards Sunday. Mostly it turns into excuses like, "I knew Florida State was going to screw me!" On Monday a dribble of payout is shoved out the bookmakers' bean holes and carried to the winners, if any. What these sports addicts can't seem to grasp is the chances of winning. There is a 50/50 chance of winning one game; a 25% chance of winning two games, 12.5% for three games, and a 6.5% chance of winning four games, which is the lowest number of games a bookmaker offers. That translates into a one in 16 chance of winning a four team ticket, one in 64 for a six team ticket. Since the payout on a four teamer is only eight times, seven actually, since you don't get your initial payment back), and the odds of losing are more than twice the payout, the bookmaker can't lose and the gambler can't win. I should say 'virtually' can't win. After all, we are dealing with some of the most poorly educated people in the US. One weekend I heard an announcer shrieking from the adjacent cage, 'this has been the week for upsets!' By Monday morning all the bookmakers and bookies for 'Fool's Gold' and Mother Lode' had sneaked off to protective custody to dodge having to pay their customers.

Don and Qunion barely survived, having paid out over 20 cartons of cigarettes. They were insolvent and nearly bankrupt. They didn't feel that they had the minimum capital necessary to cover the possible loss involved in mounting another week's operation. What to do? They eyed the money they'd just paid out to their bookie. Carl had gobs of cigarettes! They must come up with a plan.

They called Carl over and proposed making him a full partner. Instead of being a mere paid employee, he could be enjoying the profits! All he had to do is put up three cartons of cigarettes for his share of the risk pool.

Carl was thrilled to become partner with the top dogs. He rushed to his cage to get his stack of smokes for Don and Qunion so he could become part of Lucky Strike! Since Lucky Strike! Was the sole surviving bookmaking operation, their market had just expanded by at least 20%. Fabulous profits were soon to pour in! What a great deal!

By mid-week Carl had time to spare to come visit my cage and tell me of his great good fortune. He was busier than ever. Carl was making cigarettes and coffee as fast as he could collect them. He boasted of having become full partner. I congratulated him and asked for details of the deal.

The more he explained it to me, the more I wondered. I couldn't see the advantage. Finally I just asked him, "You're still the only bookie for Lucky Strike!?"

"Yeah," Carl replied, "I get it all."

"And the profits are split evenly between you, Don and Qunion?"

"That's what I get for putting up three cartons of cigarettes, yes."

"So," I asked, "you get one third of the profits now, but as bookie you were getting paid one third anyway, without putting up any cigarettes as collateral.  How is being a partner better than being an employee?"

Carl scratched his head, stared off to the side and up for a few seconds, then mumbled, "I know it is better somehow. Don and Qunion wouldn't screw me around." He left abruptly, presumably to ask a few questions of his partners.

Carl spent the next two days asking his friends for their opinions on the fabulous opportunity he had accepted. None of his friends found any flaw in my logic. By the third day Carl had gotten his cigarettes back and was a mere employee again. Carl was one of my best friends, but like all gamblers, he was a little dim and a lot gullible.