He must have consulted James before letting me in. I asked, "Did Ned do much gambling?"
"He talked a lot, drank a little and did some gambling, but not much that I recall. He didn't seem to have the passion for it that some of the guests do."
This was at variance with what James had said. Of course, if it was true that no real money was changing hands, maybe that explained Ned's behavior. Perhaps a compulsive gambler wasn't compulsive when there was nothing real at stake. If that was true I couldn't be a compulsive gambler because I liked to play games, regardless of the stakes.
I wanted to ask Stan about the legitimacy of the casino operation, but why should he tell me anything? Instead, I asked, "How long have you worked for James?"
"About two years. I went there right from the Stanford business school."
Another MBA. "Isn't that work a little...beneath your talents?"
"Oh, I only work at the house one night a week. I work at the corporate headquarters the rest of the time. James makes all his management-track people do that. He says it's good to get some real-world experience. That's true, I suppose, if you want to end up running a casino."
I wasn't going to show my ignorance by asking what corporate headquarters he was referring to. I said, "I noticed that all his employees were men. Doesn't James have any women working for him?"
Stan took his eyes off the road and looked at me. Since we were cresting the top of Hyde Street and the pavement had disappeared from in front of us I hoped like hell he'd look back at the road. I felt like Steve McQueen's detective must have in the chase scene from the old movie, Bullitt . He finally turned his eyes back to the road and said, "What are you, a spy for the government equal opportunity people?"
"No."
He chuckled. "James just prefers men to women."
We arrived at my hotel. He pulled up to the front door. "Thanks for the ride," I said. We shook hands and I asked, "Do you have far to go?"
"Back to the Buchanan place. I live there."
As Stan drove away I stood there for a minute and gulped the cool night air. It brought back some sense of reality to me. Everything that had happened since I had entered James Buchanan's home was outside my known world. But I was afraid it would end up being a quickly fading dream.
I would fly home in the morning, talk to my father, commiserate with him briefly about Ned. He would formally thank me for trying to help, say he didn't need my services anymore, probably have a check made for me. Then we would go our separate ways again.
As for Ned, my father would make sure that his wife and children were provided for, financially. He would attend the funeral, perhaps give a eulogy. Then he would set about finding a replacement for Ned. The company stock would drop briefly, but it would recover.
Detective Washington and her partner would file their report. They would attempt to find witnesses to Ned's shooting and fail. The case would go on the books as an unsolved murder. Life would go on. Without Ned.
I walked into the hotel and asked the night clerk how I could get to the airport in the morning. He said he would get me a reservation on a shuttle bus. I also asked for a wakeup call and gave him several dollar bills from my wallet.
I took the elevator to the fourth floor, unlocked my room with the plastic magnetic card I had been given and went in. I used the toilet, brushed my teeth and threw my clothes in a chair. My travel clock read five minutes of two; I set the alarm for 6:30, not trusting the wakeup call. I wouldn't get my usual eight hours of sleep.
Almost as an afterthought I noticed the message light blinking on the telephone. I pushed the appropriate buttons and listened to messages from my father and Detective Washington. Their messages were old news, but the shock of Ned's death returned. I hung up the phone.
As I collapsed on the bed I wondered whether I would get any sleep at all. I had about two minutes of wondering and then I
"He talked a lot, drank a little and did some gambling, but not much that I recall. He didn't seem to have the passion for it that some of the guests do."
This was at variance with what James had said. Of course, if it was true that no real money was changing hands, maybe that explained Ned's behavior. Perhaps a compulsive gambler wasn't compulsive when there was nothing real at stake. If that was true I couldn't be a compulsive gambler because I liked to play games, regardless of the stakes.
I wanted to ask Stan about the legitimacy of the casino operation, but why should he tell me anything? Instead, I asked, "How long have you worked for James?"
"About two years. I went there right from the Stanford business school."
Another MBA. "Isn't that work a little...beneath your talents?"
"Oh, I only work at the house one night a week. I work at the corporate headquarters the rest of the time. James makes all his management-track people do that. He says it's good to get some real-world experience. That's true, I suppose, if you want to end up running a casino."
I wasn't going to show my ignorance by asking what corporate headquarters he was referring to. I said, "I noticed that all his employees were men. Doesn't James have any women working for him?"
Stan took his eyes off the road and looked at me. Since we were cresting the top of Hyde Street and the pavement had disappeared from in front of us I hoped like hell he'd look back at the road. I felt like Steve McQueen's detective must have in the chase scene from the old movie, Bullitt . He finally turned his eyes back to the road and said, "What are you, a spy for the government equal opportunity people?"
"No."
He chuckled. "James just prefers men to women."
We arrived at my hotel. He pulled up to the front door. "Thanks for the ride," I said. We shook hands and I asked, "Do you have far to go?"
"Back to the Buchanan place. I live there."
As Stan drove away I stood there for a minute and gulped the cool night air. It brought back some sense of reality to me. Everything that had happened since I had entered James Buchanan's home was outside my known world. But I was afraid it would end up being a quickly fading dream.
I would fly home in the morning, talk to my father, commiserate with him briefly about Ned. He would formally thank me for trying to help, say he didn't need my services anymore, probably have a check made for me. Then we would go our separate ways again.
As for Ned, my father would make sure that his wife and children were provided for, financially. He would attend the funeral, perhaps give a eulogy. Then he would set about finding a replacement for Ned. The company stock would drop briefly, but it would recover.
Detective Washington and her partner would file their report. They would attempt to find witnesses to Ned's shooting and fail. The case would go on the books as an unsolved murder. Life would go on. Without Ned.
I walked into the hotel and asked the night clerk how I could get to the airport in the morning. He said he would get me a reservation on a shuttle bus. I also asked for a wakeup call and gave him several dollar bills from my wallet.
I took the elevator to the fourth floor, unlocked my room with the plastic magnetic card I had been given and went in. I used the toilet, brushed my teeth and threw my clothes in a chair. My travel clock read five minutes of two; I set the alarm for 6:30, not trusting the wakeup call. I wouldn't get my usual eight hours of sleep.
Almost as an afterthought I noticed the message light blinking on the telephone. I pushed the appropriate buttons and listened to messages from my father and Detective Washington. Their messages were old news, but the shock of Ned's death returned. I hung up the phone.
As I collapsed on the bed I wondered whether I would get any sleep at all. I had about two minutes of wondering and then I
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