LITMIR.BIZ

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he would still fall far short of the amount he needed. His tiny supply of cash could not be stretched to cover even his absolute minimum projected expenses. “Well,” he said aloud, “I wonder if I could get a bit of help from my friends.” Those prospects were dim, indeed.

      Sandy Hausman owned an automobile dealership. Sandy did not have sandy hair. As his surname indicates, he was not a Scot. He was a German. He was not a blond Nordic. He was the black haired, Baltic kind of German. He got the nickname “Sandy” because of his super-frugal nature. The most conservative, close-fisted Scotsman would admire him.

      Sandy Hausman was a stingy man. He was often described as “tighter than the bark on a paper birch tree”. He was very good at accumulating money, but an abject failure when it came to disbursing it - any of it. For example, while the three hunters were enjoying libations during their four hour stop-over in Miami, not once did Sandy’s hand find his wallet.

      Nevertheless, Major Peabody admired Sandy. He and Sandy once came out of a Minnesota woods and found themselves on a dirt road close to a country tavern. Smelling a bit un-bathed and with a beard grown during a four day Ruffed Grouse hunt, Sandy convinced the bartender he was a man of the cloth and, thus, entitled to what he called “the usual clergyman’s fifteen percent discount on drinks”. You have to admire a man who can do that.

      Admirable or not, Sandy Hausman’s record of making loans was perilously close to being completely non-existent. He was known to occasionally - very occasionally - engage in wagering, but only when the potential for loss was minimal. Actually, less than minimal - infinitesimal would be a better description. (And, if possible, less than infinitesimal.) To attempt to pry money from Sandy Hausman was a heroic, Herculean labor.

      The other hunter, Steve Gress, was a successful personal injury attorney. Successful personal injury attorneys are experts at scaring the living bejaysus out of casualty insurance companies and doing enormous damage to the reserves established for claim payment. Steve Gress was an expert con artist. He knew all the tricks of deception because he practiced every one of them.

      The Major appreciated Gress’s ability to mislead and defraud - characteristics common to all good damage attorneys. He knew the lawyer was very careful when it came to betting. Steve would be a man difficult to outsmart.

      When it came to wagering, Peabody, the used car salesman and the personal injury attorney were three of a kind. Each one was cautious. Each one was schooled in duplicity. Each one always assumed his associates had something up their sleeves. Each one was hard to fool. The Major knew he would not have an easy time of it.

      Peabody sighed and resigned himself to a week of austerity and, perhaps, some unpleasantness when it came time to pay the bill. “We live in an imperfect world,” he said to himself as he unpacked his gear. He left the room and began to walk to the lodge patio just as Sandy Hausman came into the hallway from the adjoining room.

       “How goes it, Major?” he asked, “Ready for tomorrow’s hunt?

      “Ah, Sandy, my boy,” the Major answered, trying to find a palatable explanation for his lack of funds. “I’m afraid misfortune has visited me.”

      “Nothing serious, I hope.”

      “Oh, no. Nothing serious - merely a temporary inconvenience.” The explanation came to him. “All that jostling and crowding in the airport at Montevideo. I’m afraid someone picked my pocket. He got my wallet, credit cards and all.” Peabody hoped Hausman might offer temporary relief from his predicament. It was a forlorn hope. Sandy limited himself to saying “A pity, Major. A pity. You have my sympathy.” (Sandy was known for his generous offerings of sympathy to those in financial distress.)

      The Major and Sandy sat at a table on the patio and awaited the arrival of Steve Gress. Hausman ordered a drink - for himself. Then a thought occurred to him. He leaned forward in his chair. “Major,” he said. “I may be able to help you out. Suppose I were to advance the price of, say, four cases of shell. Suppose I were to bet Steve I’d get more birds that you. What would you think of that?”

      Major Peabody had a number of thoughts. One of them was: Providence was smiling upon him.

      “Two things occur to me, Sandy,” he answered. “The first is: What’s in it for me? I noticed you used the word ‘advanced’. Second: I presume you intend to somehow take advantage of our attorney friend. Correct?” Sandy nodded. “Well, then,” Peabody continued, “if you bet Steve you’ll take more birds than I will, Steve will wonder why you haven’t bet with me. He’ll know something is up. We’ll have to be more subtle.”

      Sandy puzzled over the problem. He wanted to tap Steve, but the thought of actually paying for the Major’s shells was dreadful. The Major watched Sandy struggle with the dilemma before coming to his rescue.

      “Suppose,” Peabody suggested, “you were to give me six cases of shells.” The word ‘give’ was emphasized. “Suppose you were to bet me a thousand dollars you’d get more birds than I would. Suppose - just between ourselves - we agreed any debt that might be owed as a result of our bet would automatically be cancelled. What would you think of that?”

      Sandy looked shocked. “I think I’d be crazy to accept that one. I’d be sure to lose the price of six cases of shells.”

      “Don’t be too hasty, Sandy,” Peabody said. “Let me explain. Steve is cagey. If he hears me take your thousand dollar bet, I think he’ll bet another thousand I’ll outshoot you. If he bets with you, you could win a thousand from him. What’s a case of shells worth down here? Ten bucks a box? Six cases? That’s six hundred dollars. You’ll make four hundred, net, if he bites.”

      Sandy smiled. It sounded good to him, but he wanted to make sure. “How much money do you have?” he asked.

      Peabody admitted to having thirty-two dollars and sixty-three cents.

      “That’s it?” Sandy asked.

      “Yup.”

      “If Steve doesn’t bite, we cancel our bet and you owe me for the shells. Right?

      “Right.”

      “If Steve does make the thousand dollar bet, we cancel the shell debt and our own thousand dollar bet. Right?”

      “Right’”

      In order to make his proposition “suitable”, Sandy proposed some additional agreements. “First, we agree to reduce my investment from 6 to 4 cases of shell and you agree to shoot them all in the first two days. Right?”

      “Right.”

      Sandy’s final condition was: “You agree you won’t shoot more birds than I do during those first two days. Right?”

      “Right.”

      They shook hands. Peabody was pleased. At the very least, he got Sandy Hausman to provide four cases of shotgun shells. He might have to re-pay Sandy for the shells, but he’d gone a long way toward solving his cash flow problem.

      Sandy was also pleased. He wouldn’t lose a cent if Gress didn’t bet. Peabody would have to pay for the shells. If Steve bet, Peabody would not outshoot him during the first two days and Peabody would be out of shells and with no money to buy them for the last day of the hunt. Sandy couldn’t lose. When Steve came to the patio, they were ready for him. They watched until he got close to the table - close enough to hear the Major say: “You’ve got a bet, Sandy.”

      “What kind of a bet?” Steve asked and he learned Sandy bet a thousand dollars he’d drop more birds than the Major during their three day hunt. Steve had seen them both in action. He knew Major Peabody could outshoot Sandy any day of the week. Sandy was clever about it. He acted as if he was a bit reluctant to agree to Steve’s thousand dollar bet on Peabody.

      At the end of the second day, the Major did well with the Perdiz, but fired injudiciously at the pigeons. He managed to shoot two birds fewer than Sandy Hausman. Peabody was out of shells and Sandy Hausman was happy.

      * * * * *

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