Aces and Knaves

Chapter 4 NED

"Your plan looks very professional," Ned said as he glanced through it. He read some more. "I don't know anything about sports memorabilia. Do you think you can really do all this?"

"I'll never know until I try," I said, attempting to keep a straight face and making a mental note that if I ever did start a serious business to steal Arrow away from Dionysus.

We were flying over the coastal mountains of California, climbing to a cruising altitude of thirty-something thousand feet, as the pilot had just informed us. Scattered clouds below us were unsuccessful in blocking the sun's rays, which lit up the harsh brown hillsides. However, at sunset they turned into velvet.

As the occupant of the window seat, I was getting a good look at some of the many aspects of my native state, the most versatile one in the union in variety of scenery. We had taken off over Santa Monica Bay and then turned right to a northerly heading. Just after takeoff I would have been able to make out my father's castle on the hill south of Los Angeles International Airport if I had had a pair of binoculars.

Ned and I chatted about starting a business. If I could just soak up some of his knowledge, it would be very helpful, even with my modest aspirations. He was easy to talk to, unlike my father, but my mission wasn't to talk about business. After a while I realized I had to change the subject.

I said, "I'll be honest with you. The reason I need to be successful in business is to feed my gambling habit."

"Gambling?" Ned looked concerned. "What kind of gambling do you do?"

"You name it. Vegas style, sports events, card games, backgammon…if you can bet on it I probably have."

"You have to be careful with that shit. Gambling can ruin you. Have you run up any debts?"

Now he sounded like my father. "Nothing I couldn't handle." By tending bar for up to 12 hours a day for three years.

"You should never bet more than you can afford to lose."

Something was wrong; Ned was lecturing me as if I were the compulsive gambler instead of him. Maybe I could build on this. I said, "You’ve got to spend money to make money. I'll quit when I hit the big one."

"And what might that be, the lottery?"

"I never bet the lottery. The odds aren't good enough. The state only pays out half the money it takes in."

"At least you've got some sense." Ned looked relieved.

"But on some of the other games, you can swing the odds in your favor. Like blackjack. Do you play blackjack?"

"A little."

"You win more often with a ten-rich deck. So if you count the cards you bet more when there are proportionately more tens. Of course most casinos play with four or more decks now, which makes counting harder. But not impossible."

"But if they catch you counting they'll throw you out on your ass."

I grinned. "That makes it more interesting, doesn't t? So where have you played blackjack?"

"Oh, here and there. Look, if you want to gamble, here's what you do. I have a meeting that will last until nine, or 9:30 at the latest. I'm going to give you an address. Meet me there at 10 o'clock. Or is that too late or you?"

The last was said sarcastically. My father was usually in bed by ten and didn't take calls at home after nine.

"Ten o'clock is fine with me." I had been up since five, but I could always take a nap at my hotel.

Ned wrote an address on the back of one of his business cards and handed it to me. I glanced at it briefly and put it in my pocket.

"What kind of a place is this?" I asked.

"It's a private home, owned by a man named James Buchanan. Have you ever heard of him?"

"No. Should I?"

"If you follow the business news you might have. He's wealthy and somewhat eccentric. He has part of his house set up like a casino. Of course, having a real casino in your home is strictly illegal; you'll never see any money changing hands. But if you want to gamble, I guarantee you can do it there. You just won't have the thrill of losing your money."

I was confused. "But what about the police…?"

"As I say, no money changes hands. And Buchanan is an influential man. He's never been bothered by the police."

As we approached San Francisco International Airport, Ned became quieter. I could almost feel his powerful muscles tensing beside me. I asked him about the dinner he was attending, but all he would say is that it was a routine business meeting for Dionysus. As we made our over-the-bay approach to the runway I got the distinct impression that he didn't want to land.

The evening was cool and clear, with no fog in sight. I was thankful for that because it would make my walk to the home of James Buchanan more fun. Using the San Francisco street map I had acquired at the front desk of my hotel, I estimated that I had to walk between two and three miles. Since I ran five or six miles every morning, a little walk was nothing.

Of course I could take a taxi, but I did my best thinking outside where I wasn't closed in. And getting to my destination under my own power made me feel more in control when I got there.

Ned had driven me to my hotel and then gone directly to his business meeting, which was supposed to start at seven. Fortunately, his meeting wasn't far from my hotel or I would have blamed myself for him being late. He said he would check into his own hotel after we left James Buchanan's home. He said he had guaranteed late arrival, which meant that his room would be waiting for him even if he didn't show up until 2 a.m.

The guarantee was made with a credit card. If I were going to start traveling I would need to get a credit card again. But I didn’t want any part of rushing from one appointment to another all day and all night. If this defined the life of a corporate executive I would stick to selling baseball cards. No wonder Ned appeared to be under stress. Maybe he was just suffering from burnout. I could understand that.

But would my father understand a concept like burnout? I doubted it. Anyway, my job was just to find out whether or not Ned was a compulsive gambler. If not, my report to my father would be succinct. What happened next between them wouldn't be any of my business.

My hotel was near Market Street and the Buchanan home was in the North Beach area. By detouring a little to the east I was able to walk north on Grant Avenue, one of the most exciting streets I knew. There were still crowds on the sidewalks, tourists mixed with the local Asians, even though it was after 9 p.m.

The neon lights of the Chinese restaurants beckoned. They had delicious names like The Golden Dragon, or was it the Golden Lotus? Grand Palace or perhaps Imperial Palace or Imperial Emperor. Some of the shops selling spices, herbs, meat, chicken and fish were still open. The odors could be overwhelming to the delicate western nose.

Store windows contained fantastic sculptures carved in jade and other semi-precious stones. And enough ivory was on display to supply most of the elephants remaining in the world with tusks. Luggage stores offered steep discounts on a variety of bags-where did they get them?-and the ubiquitous souvenir shops peddled poorly made miniature cable cars and tons of T-shirts.

I hummed "Grant Avenue" from Flower Drum Song as I walked diagonally left on Columbus, at Broadway, where, I had been told by my father, topless dancing was popularized at the Condor Club in the sixties by a woman named Carol Doda who danced on top of a piano. She had also reportedly had her breasts enlarged, which may have started another trend. The Condor Club was still there, but Carol Doda was long gone.

I was soon in a quieter part of town, with fewer people about, but I wasn't apprehensive. San Francisco has never struck me as being a dangerous place.

I had time so I walked up Lombard, including the section that has earned it the title of "the crookedest street in the world." A few cars were still wending their way slowly down the steep curves, as if they were on a slow-motion ride at a theme park. I was puffing hard by the time I got to the top. I didn't have far to go, however.

James Buchanan's home faced north and had a clear view of the lit-up Golden Gate Bridge. The room with the large picture window on the front of the house was also lit as I approached, but I couldn't see anybody inside.

Ned had told me not to attempt to enter the house until he arrived. My watch showed ten minutes of ten. The house was large by San Francisco standards and sat on a hillside lot, above the street level. A brick stairway led up to the front door. Several luxury cars and SUVs were parked in the sloping driveway.

I didn't want to be arrested for loitering so I walked slowly along the street, admiring the view of the bay and the bridge. After 15 minutes of this, no cars had stopped at the Buchanan house. Maybe Ned had been held up at his business meeting. I started to get restless, but I decided to give him ten more minutes.

By 10:20 I was really restless. I am not a good waiter. I didn't know where Ned's business meeting was. I could call his hotel to see if he was there, except that since I didn't have a cell phone I would have to walk down to the commercial area at the beach where there would be pay phones. If I did that and he arrived while I was gone I would miss him.

On impulse, I walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. After a few seconds a disembodied male voice said, "Yes?"

I located the intercom beside the door and said, "This is Ned Mackay."

There was a pause. A video camera probably monitored me; I would be found out. I waited to be rejected.

However, in less than a minute the voice said, "Here is the puzzle for today. A ship and its boiler have a combined age of 49 years. The ship is twice as old as the boiler was when the ship was as old as the boiler is now. What is the age of each? When you know the answer, buzz me."

What the hell was he talking about? He couldn't be serious. Was this just a subtle form of rejection? I stared at the intercom, thinking up a sharp retort. But I wasn't in any position to make sharp retorts. Besides, how hard could the puzzle be? I was good at puzzles.

I had a pen in my pocket and a small notebook for jotting down anything I learned. I pulled them out. Let X equal the age of the ship and Y equal the age of the boiler. The problem could be solved with simultaneous equations. One equation was easy; X + Y = 49. The other was a little more complicated and required untangling the terminology. Something about X = 2 times Y minus some quantity.

I struggled with it for a minute and then thought, there aren't that many possibilities. I can solve it by trial and error. I tried and erred several times, but in another minute I had the answer: The ship was 28 years old and the boiler was 21. I pressed the button again.

"Yes?"

I gave my answer. Something clicked. I tried the door and it swung open.