Aces and Knaves

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