There is a story about a certain bookmaker who was making a long trip
by car when towards nightfall he happened upon an inn which had a
most unusual name, The Even Steven. Since it was located in the
middle of a desolate stretch of country, and he didn't know how much
farther the next place would be, he decided to stop there for the
night, and satisfy his curiosity about the name at the same time.
"It's very simple, really," the proprietor explained. "You see, my
name is Steven Even. So I just decided to turn it around and call
this The Even Steven. I thought if might get a few folks puzzled
enough to stop and ask questions, and sometimes it does."
" That's a pretty smart way to use the luck of a name," said the
bookie appreciatively. "I bet it brings you a lot of business."
"It hasn't brought me so much luck," he said. "The folks who stop
here don't stay long. There's not much gaiety around here, as you
could see. In fact, there's not another soul lives closer than thirty
miles away, whichever way you go. Makes it pretty lonely for me, a
widower. And worse still for my daughters. Three of the loveliest
girls you ever set eyes on, should have their pick of boy friends.
But, they are getting so frustrated they're about to do anything for
a man."
The bookie made sympathetic noises, and listened to more in the same
vein until hunger obliged him to change the subject to that of food.
An excellent home-cooked dinner was served to him by a gorgeous
blonde who introduced herself as Blanche Even; and when he was
finished she still kept pressing him to ask for anything else he wanted.
Finally, she said, "Would you like me to sit and talk to you for a
while?"
"Thank you," he said politely, "but I've had a long day and I feel
like closing the book."
He went to his room and had just started to undress when there was a
knock at the door and an absolutely breath-taking brunette came in.
"I'm Carmen Even," she said. "I just wanted to see if you'd got
everything you want."
"I think so, thank you," he said pleasantly. "I do a lot of
travelling, so I pack very systematically."
When he had finally convinced her and got rid of her, he climbed in
between the sheets and was preparing to read himself to sleep over
the Racing Form when the door opened again to admit an utterly
gorgeous redhead in a negligee to end all negligees.
"I'm Ginger Even," she announced. "I wanted to be sure your bed was
comfortable."
"It is," he assured her.
"I hope you're not just being tactful," she insisted. "May I try it
myself?"
"If you must," said the bookie primly. "I will get out while you do it."
When she had gone, he settled down with a sigh of relief and was
about to put out the light at last when the door burst open once more
and the proprietor himself stomped in, glowing with indignation.
"What's the matter with you," he roared. "I got to listen all night
to my daughters moaning an' wailing, the most luscious gals in this
county, because they all try to show you hospitality an' you won't
give one of 'em a tumble. Ain't us Evens good enough for you?"
"I'm sorry," said the transient. "But I told you when I registered
I'm a professional bookmaker. I only lay Odds."
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