Aces and Knaves

Esther.
    "Everything all set?" I asked her, raising my voice above the chatter of the volunteers.
    "Knock on wood," she said, tapping her head with her knuckles. "Esther's around here somewhere—as usual, doing 50 things at once."
    "I'll catch up with her later," I said. I knew she would be busy all night and didn't expect to get any of her time. Jeri turned to talk to somebody else and I contemplated sitting at one of the long volunteer tables to eat my hamburger and apple, but I didn't know many of the volunteers and I was too restless to sit.
    I leaned against a low stone wall that bordered the open area near the red carpet and took a generous bite of bun, beef, tomato and pickle.
    "Hello, Karl," a voice said and I looked up to see Pat Wong, the client who wanted to be an airport shuttle driver, also carrying a box lunch.
    "Hi Pat," I said, shaking his hand. "Are you working tonight?"
    "I wanted to give something back in return for all the help I've received from Emerge. My interview went well and I'm got a second one scheduled for next week. If I don't blow that..."
    "Good news. By the way, you're looking very dapper. Nice suit."
    "I got it from the clothes closet at Emerge."
    It was a close fit. And he had gotten a haircut. It's amazing what hope and a little help will do for a person. We ate and chatted for a few minutes. I thought of something. "I don't like to bring up the past, but didn't you tell me you were living in San Francisco when you were arrested for dealing?"
    Pat nodded. "I'm not going back. I've got to stay away from there. I don't want to get sucked back in..."
    "May I tell you a story about what happened to a friend of mine? And maybe you can tell me how plausible the police version of what happened is." I told him about Ned, how he had been found dead off Grant Avenue, shot several times, with cocaine in his car.
    Pat heard me out, and then said, "It doesn't ring true. You're telling me a white devil—excuse me, Karl—who doesn't even live in San Francisco is dealing in Chinatown? Did he have any Chinese friends?"
    "I have no idea."
    He shook his head. "That's as fishy as the seafood markets on Grant. Let me make a phone call. Is there a pay phone...?"
    "I don't have a credit card," I said, knowing that Pat had little money.
    "That's okay. I can call my uncle collect."
    I wondered where there would be a pay phone on a movie lot. At that moment Esther walked up and gave me a quick hug. She was wearing a smart pantsuit, designed for maximum mobility. She looked radiant. She was in her element.
    "How's it going?" I asked.
    "It's going," she said. "There's no stopping it now."
    I introduced Pat to her as a success story. She was always looking for success stories for the newsletter she published. They shook hands and he asked her if she knew where a pay phone was.
    "Use this," she said, handing me her cell phone.
    "How will I get it back to you?" I asked as she zoomed away.
    "I'll find you," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the growing crowd.
    Pat punched in a number and carried on a rapid conversation that I couldn't understand. After a minute he disconnected and said, "My uncle knows about this man, Mr. Mackay. The story was in the paper. My uncle says he thinks the cocaine was planted."
    "Does he have any idea who murdered Ned?" I asked.
    Pat shook his head slowly. "He wouldn't make a guess."
    I thanked him. It was time for me to get to work. I went to the table where raffle tickets—excuse me, opportunity drawing tickets; we weren't supposed to use the word raffle, and the $20 asked for a ticket was a donation to Emerge—were being sold. I took a book of tickets and walked over to where the car itself was on display, a Porsche Boxter convertible, sleek and white.
    Since it was for a good cause I felt only a little like a hypocrite, selling tickets for something I personally wouldn't want to own. Not that the car wouldn't be fun to drive, but I couldn't see paying income tax on the value of the car, or the insurance for that matter, to say nothing of the license fee, which was based on its value. And when I had tried to sit in it I had barely fit into the driver's seat. Completely impractical—perfect for rich Yuppies.
    The atmosphere was contagious for spending money. Not far away, rows of donated art objects, dresses worn by actresses, tickets for sports events and the “Rosie O'Donnell Show,” and even mini-vacations were being sold in a silent auction; write down