“I am at the dog track,” says Benny. “Tell me that you do not book bets on dog racing.”

“I am Harry the Book,” I say with a note of pride. “I book bets on everything.”

“All right,” says Benny. “Tell me you do not book a bet on tonight’s dog races for Tabasco Sanchez.”

“As a matter of fact, Tabasco Sanchez bet five large on the feature race of the night,” I tell him. “Is there anything else I should not be telling you?”

“Yes,” says Benny. “Tell me that Tabasco Sanchez does not lay the five thousand dollars on an animal called Devil Moon.”

“I cannot tell you that,” I say, “and I do not think I want to hear what you are going to tell me next.”

“What odds do you give him?” asks Benny.

“Twenty to one,” I say. “After all, the dog is a first-time starter. He has never run before.”

“Well, he is now a first-time winner, though he has still not broken out of a trot,” says Benny. “It is a most unusual race and this Devil Moon is a most unusual greyhound, which is why I have called you.”

“What is unusual about Devil Moon?” I ask.

“I have never seen a shaggy brown greyhound before,” says Benny. “Furthermore, he has a pot belly, just like Sanchez himself.”

“Maybe I am hearing you wrong,” I say, “because otherwise I would be inclined to ask how a shaggy, pot-bellied dog can beat all the fastest greyhounds at the track.”

“It is somewhat out of the ordinary,” agrees Benny. “He is in an eight-dog field.”

“And?” I say.

“He kills five of them on the way to the post.”

“This is clearly a new form of strategy,” I say. “But that still leaves two healthy greyhounds, does it not?”

“They are two healthy, terrified greyhounds,” confirms Benny. “Devil Moon just stares at them and shows his teeth. One of them climbs into the stands and will not return to the track. He is still whimpering when last I see him.”

“And the other?” I ask.

“He jumps the outer fence and is still running. I figure he must be nearing the state line by now.”

“The New York state line is not that close,” I say.

“I am referring to the state line of Colorado, or maybe Burma,” says Benny. “I have never seen a dog run that fast. Devil Moon has turned him into the Secretariat of dogs. Unfortunately, he has also turned him into the Wrong-Way Corrigan of dogs. Anyway, the race begins and Devil Moon starts trotting leisurely around the track. The mechanical rabbit makes a complete circle and is bearing down on him when Devil Moon bites its head off. He crosses the finish line and goes back to the barn, which they call a kennel here, and then he seems to vanish, because nobody can find him, although between you and me I don’t know why anyone goes looking for a dog that eats his rivals and damages valuable track property.”

“Do you know who owns him?” I ask.

“It says right in the program book,” answers Benny. “He is owned by someone called Sylvester Sanchez.”

“That is Tabasco Sanchez,” I say.

“It says Sylvester,” insists Benny.

“Mighty few mothers christen their children Tabasco,” I note.

“You know,” says Benny thoughtfully, “now that you point it out, I’ll lay plenty of nine-to-five that Kid Testosterone is also an alias.”

“I would stay on the phone and discuss aliases all night with you,” I say, “but who should I see entering Joey Chicago’s other than Tabasco Sanchez himself?”

“Perhaps he will solve the mystery of his real name,” says Benny hopefully.

“I think he is more interested in collecting one hundred large from me,” I say, “which I do not have any intention of paying off until all the circumstances have been explained to my satisfaction, which I put on a probability scale right up there with anacondas tap-dancing and politicians turning away from cameras.”

I hang up the phone just as Tabasco Sanchez enters the bar.

“Hello, Harry,” he says with a big smile on his face. “I trust you have heard the results of this evening’s sporting events.”

“Yes,” I say. “ Benny Fifth Street was out at the dog track and has so informed me.”

“Have you got my money?” he asks.

“Before we talk money,” I say, “we have to talk about the race, because the condition book says it is for greyhounds and I am told that Devil Moon does not exactly resemble your everyday greyhound.”

“He is a most unusual greyhound, I will admit,” agrees Tabasco. “But the fact remains that he wins the race.”

Suddenly he coughs, and what should come out of his mouth but a bunch of dog hair.

“I thought that only cats choke on hairballs,” observes Gently Gently Dawkins.

“And those are gray hairballs, are they not?” I say.

“I must have picked them up when I was back at the kennel, kissing Devil Moon for winning my hundred large,” says Tabasco nervously.

“This is most interesting,” I say, “because I have it on good authority that Devil Moon differs from most greyhounds in that he is brown.”

“So I am nearsighted,” says Tabasco. “I kiss the wrong dog.”

“I am beginning to think that nearsightedness is the least of your physical problems,” I say. “I am told that Devil Moon sports a pot belly just like yours.”

“That is why I bet on him,” says Tabasco defensively. “He reminds me of me.”

“He reminds me of you, too,” I say accusingly. “Especially if your name is Sylvester.”

“My name is Tabasco.”

“Show me your driver’s license,” I say.

“Nobody in Manhattan drives a car,” he says. “But I am booked as Tabasco on my last three arrests.”

“What are you on the first seven?” I ask.

“I don’t remember,” he says stubbornly.

“Gently Gently,” I say, “what do you think his name was?”

“Sanchez,” says Gently Gently promptly.

“You see?” says Tabasco. “Nobody knows that I was Sylvester Sanchez.” He stops. “I mean, nobody remembers it.” He frowns. “That doesn’t sound much better, does it?” he concludes.

“So perhaps now you will deign to tell me about it,” I suggest.

“Tell you about what?” he asks, suddenly scratching his left shoulder.

“About you and Devil Moon.”

He leans down and scratches his thigh. “Damned fleas!” he mutters.

“So how long have you been a wolf?” I ask.

“Ever since I start noticing girls,” he says, trying to smile, and I see more gray hair stuck between his teeth.

“Why don’t you just admit that you are a werewolf?” I say.

“Do I look like a werewolf?” he scoffs.

“Yes,” I say.

“Oh,” he says unhappily. “I was hoping it wouldn’t show.”

“I wonder just how many rules, regulations, and laws you have broken tonight, Tabasco,” I say. “You have destroyed track property. You have killed five competitors. You have chased a valuable greyhound off of the premises. You have impersonated a greyhound yourself…”

“I do not impersonate a greyhound!” he says heatedly. “It is not my fault that the track steward took my entry fee. I never claimed to be a greyhound.”

“All right,” I say. “I will amend impersonating a greyhound to impersonating a wolf.”

“I didn’t impersonate a wolf,” he replies adamantly. “I am a wolf.”

“Okay, then,” I say. “You have impersonated a human…”

“I’m a human, too!” he insists.

“The court is going to have a difficult time with this one,” I predict. “They will not know whether to put you in jail or the dog pound.”

“Have you any suggestions?” he says.

“Yes,” I tell him. “I suggest you redeem your marker and pay me the five large before I decide to testify against you.”

“But I won the race!” he says.

“Do you think the track lets the result stand once I tell them what you are?” I ask.

“Would you do that?” he says.

“Absolutely, if you don’t redeem your marker,” I say. “I booked a bet on a greyhound. You were at best a brownhound.”

“I thought we were friends,” says Tabasco.

“I am very fond of you,” I assure him. “It is just that I am even fonder of the five large you owe me.”