70 / 84
68
expanding to track more than 120 factors per horse, but
the logistics were proving a grind. He felt disconnected from
his gambler friends in Wan Chai—a nocturnal clique of geeks
and rogues. He had started mixing with a more professional
crowd, adopting their dress code of smart suits and ties, and
he’d taken a more active role in the local Rotary Club chapter.
Benter embraced its motto of “Service Above Self,” giving mil-
lions of dollars anonymously and visiting impoverished schools
in China and refugee camps in Pakistan. For the irst time, he
thought seriously about quitting and moving back to the U.S.
If it all has to end
,
he thought, I’ve had an incredible run.
It was then, in November 2001, that he decided to have a
inal punt on the Triple Trio. Benter had avoided major prizes
since 1997 for fear of angering the Jockey Club’s management,
but this jackpot was too big to resist. Wagering on it was some-
thing of a lark, albeit an expensive one: He spent HK$1.6 mil-
lion on the 51,000 combinations. If he won, he decided, he
would leave the tickets unclaimed. Club policy in such cases
directed the money to a charitable trust.
After Bobo Duck, Mascot Treasure, and Frat Rat romped
across the inish line—and then days turned into weeks,
with no one collecting the prize—Benter was unprepared
for the level of mounting public interest. “The ghost of the
unclaimed $118 million Triple Trio,” wrote the racing col-
umnist for the
South China Morning Post
, “is still banging
around like an unwanted poltergeist.” Outlandish theories
spread across Hong Kong. One held that the winner had
watched the inal leg and died of shock.
Finally, Benter sent an anonymous letter to the Jockey
Club’s directors explaining his intentions. But the organi-
zation never shared it with the public. (Club spokeswoman
Samantha Sui told
Bloomberg Businessweek
, “We are not in a
position to disclose or comment on matters related to speciic
customers due to privacy and conidentiality concerns.”) At
the time, head of betting Henry Chan told the
Morning Post
that there was no way of knowing who the ticket holder was.
“Although this is bad luck for one winner,” he said, “it means
there will be a lot of winners through the charities.”
Later in 2001, without any warning, the Jockey Club lifted
the phone betting ban. It was as if Benter’s gift had appeased
the gambling gods. The club also bowed to public pressure and
let customers wager over the internet from their homes. Benter
opted to return to Pittsburgh, where he continued to bet. He
didn’t want to spend his whole life in Hong Kong.
In Manila, Woods lived like a hermit, bingeing on drugs for
days at a time, waited on by young women he hired to keep
him company. He employed gamblers remotely in Australia
and Hong Kong, but he was a diicult boss; he accused staf
of stealing, and once he made everyone take IQ tests before
telling them all howmuch smarter he was. Woods started call-
ing himself Momu—short for “master of my universe.”
In December 2007 he sent a letter to
Business Review
Weekly
, an Australian magazine, asking to be considered for
its rich list. “I had planned to delay my hope for inclusion
until I could make it into the top 10,” he wrote. “However, as
of today, it does not appear I will live long enough.” Woods
had been diagnosed with cancer. He came back to Happy
Valley for treatment; the Hong Kong Sanatorium & Hospital
was within sight of the racetrack. He spent his inal days beat-
ing his friends at a Chinese card game known as
chor dai di
and died on Jan. 26, 2008, at 62.
Interviews with Woods’s friends, employees, and other
sources indicate he had amassed a fortune of A$900 million
(then about $800 million). Mike Smith, a former Hong Kong
policeman who knew Woods, wrote about him in his book
In
the Shadow of the Noonday Gun
: “He left a very simple will that
pretty much summed up his lifestyle. Assets: A$939,172,372.51.
Liabilities: A$15.93.”
The Happy Valley Racecourse in Hong Kong.
VINCENT YU/AP PHOTO