Who Cracked the Horse-Racing Code?

Horse hustling is something like a religion in Hong Kong, whose inhabitants bet more than some other individual on Earth. Their place of God is Happy Valley Racecourse, whose verdant oval track and floodlit stands are ringed during the night by one of the game’s most remarkable points of view: neon elevated structures and ideal heaps of tall designs, a sublime collection of lit up windows, and past them, rich slants illustrated in dinkiness.

The evening of Nov. 6, 2001, all of Hong Kong was examining the best huge stake the city had at any point noticed: in any occasion HK$100 million (by then about $13 million) for the champ of a single bet called the Triple Trio. The wager is like a trifecta of trifectas; it anticipates that players should predict the fundamental three horses, in any solicitation, in three remarkable warms. More than 10 million mixes are possible.

Exactly when no one picks precisely, the prize money moves over to the accompanying game plan of races. That invigorating November night, the pot had gone unclaimed on different occasions over. Around 1,000,000 individuals put down a bet—equivalent to 1 of each 7 city tenants. At Happy Valley’s ground level, young women in mix tents passed foamy pitchers to laughing expats, while the close by Chinese, for whom wagering is an undeniably certified endeavor, gotten a handle on hustling papers and loomed over the handrails. At the split of the starter’s firearm, the observer’s voice rang out over enhancers: “Last leg of the Triple Trio,” he hollered in Australian-supplemented English, “and away they go!”

As the pack thundered around the last bend, two horses tore ahead. “It’s Mascot Treasure a length in front, anyway Bobo Duck is gunning him down,” said the host, voice rising. “Bobo Duck in front. Mascot retaliating!” The gathering roared as the riders ran over the ultimate objective. Bobo Duck edged Mascot Treasure, and Frat Rat came in third.

Over the road from Happy Valley, 27 stories up, two Americans sat in an excessive office, dismissing a live feed of the action that played mutely on a TV screen. The fundamental sound was the mumble of twelve PCs. Bill Benter and an accomplice named Paul Coladonato had their eyes fixed on a bank of three screens, which showed a grid of bets their computation had made on the race—51,381 taking everything together.

Benter and Coladonato looked as an item content filtered through the losing bets, every one thusly, until there were 36 lines left on the screens. 35 of their bets had precisely called the finishers in two of the races, possessing all the necessary qualities for an accidental honor. Moreover, one wager had successfully foreseen all of the nine horses.

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It wasn’t immediately clear the sum they’d made, so the two Americans attempted some back-of-the-envelope math until the authority benefit streaked on TV eight minutes afterward. Benter and Coladonato had won a major stake of $16 million. Benter checked the zeros to guarantee, by then swung to his partner.

“We can’t assemble this—can we?” he asked. “It would be unsporting. We’d feel horrendous about ourselves.” Coladonato agreed they demonstrated incapable. On a nearby table, pink betting slips were arranged in a perfect stack. The two men looked over them, isolating three slips that contained all of the 36 winning lines. They looked at the pieces of paper for a long time.

By then they introduced, chuckling, for a photo—two master examiners with the best prize of their jobs, one they would never ensure—and got the tickets a safe. No significant trial, Benter figured. They could make it back, and that is just a glimpse of something larger, over the rest of the hustling season.

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