by Alan Cook
I gave him my full name and sat down across the desk from him, at his invitation. I was wondering how to begin when he said, "So you're a friend of Ned Mackay. I was very sad to read about his death."
That was as good a place to start as any. I told Mr. White that I had been with Ned that evening and filled in other details, including my suspicions that the cocaine had been planted.
Mr. White nodded at that. He said, "I have known Ned for a long time. He was a good friend. He helped my people make the dream of this casino a reality. I owe him a lot. What can I do for you?" From the grim look on his face, it was probably just as well for the San Francisco criminal element that Indians no longer mounted raiding parties.
I explained my association with Dionysus and then said, "One thing puzzles us about Ned's behavior before he died. A co-worker saw him in this casino one day betting large sums of money at the blackjack table—and losing. And yet, everything points to Ned not being much of a gambler."
Mr. White looked at me for a few seconds and then his face lit up in a broad smile. He said, "Let me tell you a story. Cigar?"
He opened a box of cigars, sitting on his desk, and offered me one. From the writing on the box I had the suspicion that they were contraband from Cuba. I declined, not for that reason. He selected one for himself, clipped off the end with a gizmo and lit it with a lighter, in an elaborate ceremony. He didn't ask whether I objected to him smoking.
Mr. White leaned back, took a luxurious puff, blew out the smoke and said, "Ned called me one day and told me he had a problem. I would do anything for Ned so I asked him what his problem was. He told me he wanted to make it appear to somebody that he had lost a lot of money. Since people sometimes lose large amounts in casinos he wondered if I had any idea how he could do it.
"'How much money do you want to lose?' I asked. 'Separating people from their money is our business.' 'Say, $50,000,' he said. 'Does this somebody you want to fool know how to play blackjack?' I asked. 'He is an expert at blackjack,' Ned said. 'Can you get your friend to come here?' I asked. He said he thought he could.
"I orchestrated the whole thing. I sent Ned an email detailing exactly what his strategy should be. I reserved a table exclusively for him and put my best dealer on it. When he arrived we went through an elaborate charade of giving him chips in exchange for his IOU.
"He played five hands simultaneously, $500 a hand. He hit all 16s and stood on all 17s. I even had him split aces and eights and double-down on ten and eleven so it wouldn't look as if he was deliberately losing.
"We calculated that he would lose ten to fifteen-thousand dollars an hour. In fact, he lost $50,000 in just under four hours."
"Didn't the friend try to stop him?" I asked.
"He tried everything in the book. He pleaded, he cajoled, he got angry. Several times he walked out. Ned played his part perfectly. He kept saying, 'I just want to break even,' and 'just a few more hands.' Finally, I had my five minutes on stage when I told him that we wouldn't extend him any more credit—that he had lost too much. Ned yelled at me so realistically I even wondered for a minute if he had been smoking something—and not a peace pipe, either."
"Do you remember the name of the other man?" I asked.
"He was from San Francisco, I think. His name was...Buchanan."
Chapter 17 THE FUNERAL
The service for Ned was held in a chapel at the cemetery. It was presided over by a minister belonging to a Protestant denomination; I wasn't sure which one. The chapel was almost full of people.
The casket was closed and had lots of flowers around it. The organist played “Auld Lang Syne,” among other Scottish songs.
Elma sat in front with her three children. Her eyes appeared to be red and she held a handkerchief, but she was in control of herself. She must be a strong woman.
My father wasn’t there, of course, but many Dionysus employees were. I didn't know most of them. I recognized John, my father's administrative assistant. He was with a group and didn't see me so I decided not to approach him. Arrow came in with several other people. She was wearing a black dress, much less revealing than the one she had worn in San Francisco.
The service was simple and respectful. Several friends of Ned got up and spoke glowingly of him. When the service ended the minister invited the attendees to form a procession of autos and follow the hearse along the grounds to the gravesite.
I was sitting in an outside aisle seat. When I stood up and turned around to walk up the aisle I saw James Buchanan getting up from a side seat in the last row. A woman was with him. She looked Asian. Before I could approach them they walked briskly out of the chapel, with James holding the woman by the elbow as if to urge her to greater speed.
I followed as fast as I could without knocking people down. When I went through the outside door I was momentarily blinded by the bright sunlight. Then I saw the white limousine, as long as a city block, pull away from in front of the chapel. I couldn't see through its windows, but a quick sweep of the parking lot confirmed that James and the woman were not in evidence.
I strolled outside, cursing myself for not figuring out that James would attend the funeral of his erstwhile partner. I had missed my chance to ask him about that day in the casino, but a second thought told me that he probably wouldn't have told me anything, anyway.
My thoughts went back to Ned and a feeling of sadness returned. At least Ned hadn't been trapped in northern Scotland all his life. He had been able to pursue his dreams.
I stood in the sun, waiting for Arrow to come out, in case I could get a chance to speak to her about the casino. To my surprise, Charlie White walked out of the chapel all alone, dressed in a dark suit similar to the one he had worn yesterday. He had not mentioned to me that he was coming to the funeral. He looked larger and stronger than he had across the desk, not the kind of person you wanted to have as an enemy.
I walked over to him, called his name and said, "It was a beautiful service."
"A fitting sendoff for Ned on his journey to the Happy Hunting Ground," he said with a twinkle in his eye.
"Are you going to the grave site?"
"No, I have to get back to work, much as I hate to on a day like this."
He strolled slowly toward a large Cadillac so I walked along with him. I remembered a question I had forgotten to ask. "Did Ned say why he wanted to make it appear that he had lost a large sum of money?"
"He didn't volunteer anything and I didn't ask him. I'm sure he had his reasons."
"Karl!"
The voice, coming from behind us, was Arrow's. She had separated herself from her group. She had been crying. I gave her a sympathetic hug.
"Karl, who is your beautiful friend?"
I had momentarily forgotten about Charlie White. I said, "Mr. White, this is Arrow. She's the one who saw Ned at your casino."
They shook hands. He stared at her and said, "I remember you. You were watching Ned play. I wondered who the Indian babe was and why I didn't know her."
Arrow managed a smile and said, "Well, at least I have a few drops of Indian blood."
"A few drops are enough. Why don't you come to work for me? I need to brighten up the place. I won't even ask what tribe you are."
"Thanks, but I already have a good job."
"Arrow is executive assistant to my father," I said. Then to Arrow, "Mr. White told me Ned didn't really lose any money playing blackjack. It was faked to fool Buchanan."
Arrow looked from one of us to the other and said, "That's where I saw Buchanan before. He was watching Ned play and looking upset and angry. I wondered who he was, but then I forgot about him."
"Now all we have to do is to determine why Ned wanted to fake him out."
We chatted about that for a few minutes. I hoped Charlie White would come up with something. He didn't, and soon he made ready to leave. He said to Arrow, "Since we're both friends of Ned, we need to console each other." She gave him a smile and he enveloped her in a gigantic hug.
He gave her his business card and told her to drop by the casino anytime, but he didn't tell me that. Then he drove away in his big car. I asked Arrow if she wanted to go to the gravesite. The procession was about ready to move out. She shook her head. "Can we have a quick strategy session?" I asked.
"Sure. Then I have to go back to the office."
"I'm wondering whether Ned's attempt to fool James into thinking he was throwing his money away has anything to do with Dionysus."
"Or whether it was something more personal since they've known each other all their lives."
"Would you like to fill Elma in and get her reaction? I don't think it would hurt to do it now." We hadn't told her about the casino episode, pending Arrow's evaluation of her financial situation.
"Let's wait. Elma has enough to deal with at the moment. Even if this didn't cost her money, the relationship between Ned and James is an emotional issue with her."
"When will you see her?"
"Tomorrow."
"At least try to find out which way she's leaning with her stock—toward James or toward my father."
"That may be hard to do. She's definitely got a mind of her own."
I walked Arrow to her car. Before she got in she gave me another hug and said, "I want you to know how glad I am that you're working on this even though Richard has released you from anything to do with Dionysus. It means a lot to me. And I'm sure it means a lot to Richard, too, even if he doesn't say so."
I didn't know about my father's feelings. For one thing, he wasn't aware of what I was doing and I wasn't going to fill him in until he was further along the road to recovery. But it warmed my heart to know that Arrow appreciated me.
***
I stopped by the hospital on the way to my Tuesday afternoon gig at Emerge to see how my father was doing and to tell him about the service for Ned. I met Jacie in the hall where she had been talking to a nurse. She looked excited.
"They're going to move Richard out of Intensive Care this afternoon," she said. "He's out of danger."
"Great news," I said. "It's because you've been taking such good care of him." That gave a boost to my spirits. I was even giving compliments to Jacie.
"I've been with him all the time except when I was sleeping. I knew he was getting better this morning when he started talking about having sex. But I guess you can't relate to that—having sex with a girl, that is."
Jacie was in a good mood too. She hadn't ridiculed me about my sex life since before my father's stroke.
***
Since I went to Emerge only once a week, I got a stroboscopic look—a snapshot—of the place each week and then nothing in between. Sometimes the players in the snapshots changed from one week to another.
Today's change was a new person at the front desk, a woman instead of a man. She had wind-blown gray hair and a low center of gravity. I stopped to sign in on the volunteers' sheet and she asked me what my name was. When I told her she said, "I have a message for you. From Pat Wong."
She looked through some papers and said, "We don't give the telephone numbers of the staff and volunteers to clients, but I told him I'd take a message for you."
The way she stated organization policy I would have thought she had been there five years. Then I remembered: She had been there when I started volunteering, a year before, and then disappeared. Now she was back. She produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to me.
The message from Pat was merely a telephone number. Since his call might have something to do with Ned I decided to return it immediately. The client telephone area was right beside the entrance so I located an unused phone and called the number.
After two rings an answering machine picked up and a voice, not Pat's, implored me to leave a message after the beep. Not sure I had called the correct number I hung up and called again. On hearing the same voice I left a message, saying I would be at Emerge the rest of the afternoon.
Six students showed up for the basic computer class I taught, a good number since each one had a computer to practice on. By the end of the class they could navigate using the mouse, get into Microsoft Word and start writing their resumes. In addition, I taught them how to back up their resume files to the diskettes they were issued by Emerge and take them from computer to computer.
After the class I gave individual instruction to anyone who needed it. I had found that most clients were very grateful for any assistance and had a genuine desire to make their futures better than their pasts.
At 3:30 the clients had to leave. I walked back to Esther's bailiwick. Jeri, her volunteer coordinator, was buried in paper.
"What are the financial results from the dinner?" I asked her.
"It looks like we're going to take in over $300,000, altogether," she said, with a harried smile.
"That's wonderful!"
"Yeah. Now all we have to do is get all the silent auction winners to pay up. That's going to be a royal pain in the butt."
"You'll do it," I said with a wave of my hand. That's what administrative types did best. I was glad my paperwork consisted only of what went with my baseball card business. That was enough.
I glanced into Esther's office. She was on the phone and the computer at the same time. Typical. When she saw me she motioned for me to come inside. I loitered in her doorway, not wanting to get in her way.
After a minute she hung up the phone and said, "Hi." She jumped up from her chair and gave me a quick hug. "How are you? Have a seat. I was sorry to read about your father. How is he? Where can I send flowers?"
Esther had left me a message of sympathy on my voice mail the night before. I sat down, thanked her, told her my father was recovering nicely and not to send flowers because he had received many bouquets already. I didn't say it was an unnecessary expense for her, but it was. Then I said, "Have you recovered from Saturday night?"
"Of course. You were great, Karl. Everybody was great."
She was the one who had been great. She was wearing a short blue skirt with a white blouse and a multi-colored vest. She looked good enough to eat. "Are you doing anything tonight?" I asked, hoping to get lucky.
"I've got Emilio today," she said, slowly. "I have to pick him up from pre-school."
I had met Emilio a few times and he seemed like a good kid, although we would have to be careful if he was with us. Children cooled passion. Suddenly I didn't care. I wanted to be near Esther anyway. Was this love? "Why don't I take you both out to dinner?" I asked.
"Why don't I cook dinner for the three of us? If you don't mind Emilio being there."
"I don't mind. I'll keep him out of your hair." I had played with my niece and nephew a few times. It was fun to be with kids, as long as you didn't have to be around them all the time.
"He'd love to show you his frog."
A voice over the intercom said, "Karl Patterson, please call the front desk."
Esther gave me her telephone receiver and pushed a button. The receptionist told me Pat Wong was on the line. She connected us and I said hello.
After a few preliminaries, Pat said, "My uncle is in town. He wants to meet you."
"Okay. How about tomorrow?"
"He's leaving tomorrow. It has to be tonight."
My heart sank. I wanted to kiss him off. But it might be important—for Ned, for Dionysus. After a pause, during which my conscience struggled with my desire to be with Esther, I said, "Okay. Where and when?"
When I hung up the phone Esther had a look of concern on her face. "Bad news about your father?"
"No. But I'm going to have to cancel dinner."
"That's all right."
She was being nice. But it wasn't all right.
***
Pat had asked me to pick him up at an apartment east of Lincoln Boulevard. The skuzzy side of Santa Monica. Cracked sidewalks, barred windows and houses that needed painting. Trash in the side yard. Still, if these were the worst slums Santa Monica had to offer they beat the hell out of most cities.
The
address Pat had given me was a small house that had evidently been split into two or three apartments. I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. Pat immediately appeared through a doorway.
As he got into the car I could see that he was overdressed for the area, with a nice shirt and tie, pressed slacks and polished black shoes.
After he said hello he added, "I'm staying here with a friend until I have enough money to get my own place."
That explained the unrecognizable voice on the answering machine. I asked him where we were going. He said the Beverly Hills Hotel. I laughed and said, "I'm not sure we can get there from here. Are you serious?"
Pat laughed too, and said, "My uncle always stays at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He's made a lot of money in real estate. I worked for him for a while—until I got into trouble. Speaking of work, I just got off a little while ago, but since we're going to an up-scale place I kept my uniform on."
"Uniform?"
"Yes, I got the job as airport shuttle driver. They make us wear a tie."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks. And thanks again for your help with the computers. And to everyone at Emerge."
Actually, getting to the Beverly Hills Hotel wasn't difficult at all. Take Lincoln north to Sunset Boulevard and head east on that winding and dangerous street, the graveyard for many a Chevrolet Corvair in the sixties, or so the story goes. I wished I were driving the Jaguar, with its superior handling ability, but even the Toyota far outperformed the Corvair, which was supposed to be so bad that Ralph Nader wrote a whole book about it and established a name for himself.
***
I told myself it was better to suffer minor embarrassment from leaving a Toyota with a parking valet than to risk damage to a more expensive car. In any case, the young man who didn't speak much English didn't seem to care what kind of car I drove as he handed me a parking stub.
A number of uniformed employees hovered about and one held the front door of the hotel for us, but Pat knew where he was going. There was no smiling girl to bow us into the elevator like the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo had featured when my father stayed there, but other than that I suspected the service here was first rate.
