by Alan Cook
Chapter 16
Again it looked as though my involvement with
Dionysus had ended. Arrow knew as much as
I did about the threat James posed and was in
a better position to take action on it. And I
didn't know what else I could do to clear Ned's
name. But my family responsibilities hadn't ended.
By the time I got to the hospital Monday morning,
Jacie was already there. I had gained a new
respect for her, watching her concern about and
care for my father. She was reading to him from
the Wall Street Journal. He was sitting up in bed
and looked much better. He was still hooked to a
heart monitor and an IV, but he wasn't receiving
oxygen.
I forced myself to give him a quick hug and said,
"You look good, Dad."
"I feel fine. I'm ready to go back to work."
He spoke slowly, but at least he wasn't slurring
his words.
Jacie patted his hand and said, "You'll be back at
work soon enough, Richard. Relax and enjoy
your vacation." To me she said, "He can move
his right arm."
My father demonstrated, and although he was stiff
he did manage to lift it.
"The doctor said I can start physical therapy soon,"
he said. "I'll be back to walking in no time."
"Do as Jacie says and enjoy your vacation," I said.
He was too anxious to get back in the game. And
the game could kill him if he wasn't careful. I
couldn't picture life without my father. I wondered
what was in his will and whether Jacie would kick
me out of the guesthouse. Selfish thoughts. More
important was what would happen to Dionysus.
"I can't let James get control of Dionysus."
Was he reading my mind? "Don't worry about
James, Dad. Everything is under control. When
you've rested a little more we'll play chess
together." We used to play chess when I was
young.
"Chess is one game I can beat you at."
We would see about that. Jacie and I steered
the conversation to inconsequential things. He
wasn't in any shape to talk about whether or
not James might get Elma's proxy and/or her
stock, but I realized that he must know about
her relationship to James, even though we hadn't
discussed it.
I didn't tell him that one of my sources had said
that the cocaine was planted in Ned's car, either,
because that wouldn't clear his name unless the
perps who had planted the drugs were caught.
The information would just be a source of
frustration to my father.
I left him in Jacie's capable hands, determined
to work harder on my sports card business.
Perhaps the last few days had made a change
in me.
# # # #
Dionysus stock was down again so I purchased
more for Luz and for myself. This wasn't insider
trading. The newspapers and the Internet carried
the story of my father's stroke. Of course word
that he was much better this morning hadn't
gotten out yet, but I deserved some kind of an
edge.
I had received enough cash flow from my business
so that I had recently been able to purchase part
of a baseball card collection for a good price. I
separated out the more valuable cards from the
commons and placed some of the best ones for
sale on eBay.
When I updated my auctions on eBay I often
checked to see whether other cards I was
interested in owning for my personal collection
were being sold. I acquired them one by one,
as I could afford them.
I was casually looking through some of the pages
of cards for sale when I caught my breath. There
was a T206 Honus Wagner listed. I looked at the
scans of the front and the back of the card. No
lines or other apparent damage. This might be one
of the good ones. The dealer who was selling it,
probably for somebody else, said it was in
near-mint condition. This was highly unlikely, but
I couldn't see anything wrong with it.
The dealer had a high personal rating, given by
people who had done business with him on
eBay; he must be reputable. And the bidding
was already at several-hundred-thousand
dollars, even though the card had only been
listed for two days. It would go higher before
it was over, if this was one of the two of three
best examples of this card, which it appeared to be.
I couldn't bid on this card, of course. Some day
I would. Reluctantly, I clicked to another page.
I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich
and thought about Ned. Arrow wouldn't really be
able to dig into his financial situation until
Wednesday, after the funeral. One of the puzzles
that remained was what he was doing at the
casino, apparently losing thousands of dollars,
when everybody said he wasn't a compulsive
gambler. At least everybody except James. And
was James reliable when it came to talking about
Ned?
In searching for answers, I remembered Elma
saying that Ned had been involved in getting
financing for a casino. Any lead was better
than none. I called Elma's number and caught
her at home. She couldn't come up with a name,
but she said it was an Indian casino on the road
to Palm Springs. Bingo.
# # # #
It was a great day for a drive. It was a great day
not to be tied down with responsibilities such as
a family or having to sit at a desk all day. The sun
was shining; it was a day for extolling the
wonders of Southern California.
I drove the Jaguar, not only because it handled so
well but also because it was the only car we had
with a manual transmission. Shifting gears made
me feel as if I were accomplishing something--
actively driving the car instead of having it drive me.
I took Pacific Coast Highway to the 110 Freeway,
aka the Harbor Freeway, because it goes to the
Los Angeles Harbor. Giving it a number to replace
the name de-romanticized it, made it mundane. I
headed north, away from the harbor, and bore right
on the 91 Freeway, which was called a variety of
names, depending on the year and where you were
on it.
Traffic was moderate, meaning it was moving at
65 miles-per-hour or higher. The Jag rode
effortlessly at 70, but I refused to go faster
because exotic red cars attract the attention
of the California Highway Patrol. We were in
synch, the car and I, as it responded to my
every touch. We passed from Los Angeles
County into Orange County. Miles and miles of
well-groomed stucco suburbs. Then Riverside
County. Through Corona, once a farming
community, now motels and fast food.
As we approached the Inland Empire city of
Riverside I headed east on Route 60, through
the Moreno Valley, one of the fastest growing
communities in the state. Wound through
foothills and down to the floor of the Coachella
Valley and Interstate 10, the east-west artery
that is often followed to LAX by planes coming
from the East.
I got a close-up look at massive Mt. San
Gorgonio, all 11,500 feet of it, which was
visible from my window at home on a clear
day, and Mt. San Jacinto, less massive at
10,800 feet and not visible from home because
of intervening mountains in Orange County.
But Mt. San Jacinto has the advantage of the
Palm Springs Tramway, gliding almost straight
up to 8,500 feet. From there, the peak is a
breathtaking but not arduous climb of
five-and-a-half miles. I did it every year.
The speed limit here was 70. I eased up to 75
and was passed by little old retirees doing 90
in their Cadillacs. The huge statues of a
Tyrannosaurus Rex and a Brontosaurus just
off the Interstate at Cabazon told me I was
almost there.
I exited I-10 at a sign for the casino, crossed
over the freeway and coasted into the parking
lot. Monday afternoon is not what I would
consider prime gambling time, but judging
from the number of cars in the huge lot not
everybody agreed with me. I guess gamblers
know no time limitations.
The sun was warm and friendly as I walked 100
yards to the casino. I felt sleepy from the drive,
and the heat didn't alleviate this condition. I
knew the casino would be air-conditioned and
figured a blast of cold would wake me up.
What woke me even faster were the noise and
the cigarette smoke. Arrow had been correct in
her description; if anything, she had understated
the case. I had forgotten how awful the
environment was inside a casino.
Look on the bright side; at least I didn't have
to work here like the ladies of indeterminate age,
dyed hair and short skirts who served drinks to
the fatties emptying their bank accounts into
the slots, or the neatly dressed dealers and
croupiers at the blackjack and craps tables who
were being watched along with the patrons
through one-way mirrors in the ceiling. James'
pretend casino was superior to this in three
respects: It didn't have the cigarette smoke,
it didn't have the grating din of slot machines
and the patrons were much better dressed.
I took a minute to orient myself and then moved
over to the blackjack tables. The dealers were
sliding the cards to the players along the green
felt surfaces from shoes containing multiple decks.
The players were betting their five-dollar chips
and idly glancing at their cards, standing, taking
hits, sometimes busting. Everybody looked
supremely bored.
I quickly determined that there were no big-stakes
games in progress. It was all small potatoes. I
passed by some video-poker machines. I had
been known to play video poker in my time,
rationalizing that there was at least a modicum
of skill to the game.
I stopped in front of a machine. The payoff for
four-of-a-kind was 40-to-one. Once in Las
Vegas I had taken a calculator and figured out
that the best machines to play were the ones
where the payoff was 80-to-one for four-of-a-kind,
even though some of the other payoffs were lower.
The strategy was to expend all one's effort on
getting four-of-a-kind and hope to break even the
rest of the time.
I had a few quarters in my pocket and was tempted
to try my luck, anyway. What could happen? I
knew what could happen. I could end up spending
the day, hypnotized, shoving quarters into the slot.
After an agonizing minute I walk away from the
machines. Proud of myself, I found a casher's cage
and waited while an old man in a wrinkled
short-sleeved shirt exchanged a hundred-dollar bill
for chips.
When the cashier was free I asked her if I could
speak to the casino manager. She gave me a
skeptical look and called to a man behind her, who
was talking to another employee. When he came
over she said, "This guy says he wants to speak
to the manager."
The young man had black hair and was dressed in
a black suit. He said through the bars, "I'll be right
with you." He disappeared around a corner. A
minute later he came through a doorway a few
feet away. We approached each other and met in
the middle.
He said, "What can I do for you?"
"Are you the casino manager?" I asked.
"I'm one of the floor managers."
That wasn't high enough. I only wanted to tell
my story once. "What's the name of the casino
manager?" I asked.
He looked at me without expression and I wondered
whether he was going to have me thrown out.
Then he said, "That's Charlie White. What's your
business with him?"
I had to say something. I gave him my name and
then said, "Tell him I'm a friend of Ned Mackay."
Ned's name meant zilch to him, judging by his
continuing lack of expression. He said, "Wait here,"
and disappeared through the mysterious doorway.
After five minutes I figured I was on a hopeless
quest. I would go back empty-handed. I least I had
had the fun of the drive. Or maybe I would play
some blackjack. I took out my wallet to count my
money and didn't see the young man return.
I jumped when he said, "Follow me."
We went back through the doorway. The noise
and the cigarette smoke disappeared as the
door closed behind us. Here was plush. Plush
carpets and plush offices. He led me to the
door of the biggest office, stuck his head in
and said, "This is Mr. Patterson." Then he left.
"Come in," the man behind the large desk said.
He was middle-aged, with short black hair and a
wrinkled face that could have modeled for
Geronimo or Crazy Horse, but he wore a dark
suit and smiled as he shook hands with me and
introduced himself as Charlie White.
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 your friend know how
to play blackjack?' I asked. 'He is an expert at blackjack,'
he 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 10 and
11 so it wouldn't look as if he was deliberately losing.
"We calculated that he would lose 10 to 15-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."
Aces and Knaves copyright ©2002 Alan L. Cook
Give me feedback
Home Page--read about my mystery novel, The Hayloft,
available as a trade paperback book.