by Alan Cook
Chapter 17
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.
The room that appeared before us when the door was
opened to Pat's knock was more luxurious than I had
anticipated, with expensive antique furniture. In fact,
it must be a suite because there was no bed in
evidence and I doubted that the Beverly Hills Hotel
used hide-a-beds.
I gathered that the man who answered the door
was not Pat's uncle from the way he bowed to
Pat. He led us through a doorway into another
room, still with no bed but with a desk and a
telephone.
The man who sat at the desk was small and gray,
including the suit he wore, and distinguished
looking. He rose and hugged Pat and then shook
my hand when Pat introduced us.
"I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Patterson," he
said, formally, in a low, rumbling voice. "I am glad
you came. I wanted to personally thank you for
helping Pat to get his feet back on the ground."
"I didn't do much," I protested. "Many other people
helped as well. And if Pat didn't have the drive to
improve his life, nothing any of us could have done
would have helped."
"Nevertheless, you and the others in your
organization succeeded where I and Pat's
parents couldn't."
I saw pain in his eyes and I suspected it was
difficult for him to admit this. I said, "Mr. Wong,
Pat is a fine young man and you will be proud of
him." I hoped it was true.
Mr. Wong led us back into the first room where we
sat in overstuffed chairs and his assistant brought
us tea, which we sipped in small cups. Then he
brought us a plate of fortune cookies.
Mr. Wong smiled and said, "We ordered takeout
from a Chinese restaurant and these cookies came
with it. Let us see what the fates have in store for
us."
He took one of the cookies, broke it open and
extracted the fortune. He read, "'You will never
lack for money.' That is reassuring. Although I
would rather have serenity. Pat, what is your
fortune?"
Pat read, "Your journey begins with a single step."
"That is appropriate," Mr. Wong said. "Mr.
Patterson?"
I was hoping for a good stock tip, but what I read
was, "A crisis is an opportunity blowing on a
dangerous wind."
Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Then Mr. Wong
said, "Perhaps this is a good time to tell you why
I really asked you to come here. I wish to speak
about Ned Mackay." He paused, took a sip of tea
and said, "I believe Pat told you my belief that Mr.
Mackay was not a drug dealer, but was killed by
some person or persons who also placed cocaine
in his rental car."
I nodded.
"I wanted to help you because you helped Pat, so I
conducted a small investigation," he continued.
"The results have confirmed that my suspicions are
true."
I waited for Mr. Wong to say more, but he sipped
his tea and looked off into space. "Do you know
who killed Ned?" I asked.
"It is probably not relevant who did the actual killing
because they were undoubtedly hired by somebody
else. But I think they are members of a local gang."
I must have looked surprised, because he said, "Oh,
yes, there is a gang in Chinatown, just as there
are almost everywhere else. They would do
something like that, for money."
"And plant the drugs?"
"Many gang members are drug dealers. The person
who hired them must have paid for the drugs."
I looked at Pat. He said, "Uncle knows more
about this than I do. I wasn't a gang member."
"He was a good boy," Mr. Wong said.
"Can you give me the names of the people you
talked to?" I asked Mr. Wong.
He shook his head. "They will not talk to the police.
They will not talk to you, either. And it could be
bad for both of us if I gave you their names."
That sounded final. I was preparing my exit words
when Mr. Wong spoke again. "I have another
piece of information for you. In my inquiries I
found an old friend of Mr. Mackay's. Mr. Mackay
gave this person a gun some time ago to keep for
her own protection. On the night he was murdered,
Mr. Mackay came to her house and borrowed the
gun. He said he would return it later in the
evening."
"Can you tell me who this person is?" I asked.
"She wishes to remain anonymous. She cannot
contribute anything beyond what I have just
told you."
"Is...this person Chinese?"
Mr. Wong nodded.
"But if Ned wasn't involved in drugs, why did he
need a gun?"
"I can't tell you that."
Perhaps seeing the look of disappointment on my
face, he continued, "I want to reassure you that
Mr. Mackay was not a drug dealer. This should be
comforting to Mr. Mackay's family and friends. I
know it is not a completely satisfactory conclusion
to his murder, but I suggest that you do not
pursue this further."
"And not try to find the murderer?"
"Yes."
Mr. Wong was right about one thing. It wasn't
satisfactory. I tried once more. "Do you have any
idea who is behind Ned's murder?"
Mr. Wong looked at me for a while and then said,
slowly, "A fortune cookie can make danger sound
romantic, but it isn't."
Aces and Knaves copyright ©2002 Alan L. Cook
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