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
"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
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