Aces and Knaves

sturdy stone building near the Wick River. The intersection beside it is actually a small roundabout, as I discovered when I attempted to turn right into the side street and saw oncoming traffic waiting for me. A circle painted in the middle of the intersection designates it as a roundabout.
    Tired from having driven almost 300 miles, and still suffering from eight hours of jet lag, Arrow and I decided to eat at the hotel rather than venturing forth into the village of Wick. The food was good, if unimaginative, and there was plenty of it. We would not starve. Judging from the girth of some of the people we had seen so far, none of the population was starving.
    As we tried to compensate for our sleep-debt by filling our stomachs, I said to Arrow, "I notice you didn't say anything when Larry talked about the black problem. You didn't take offense, did you?"
    "Of course not. He was just reporting; it was nothing personal. And I've heard it all before. Perhaps he was warning me I might hear some talk like that. But so far the people seem very nice."
    That wasn't surprising. I had noticed that Arrow charmed almost everybody on contact. "What do you think about his plan to walk the length of the UK?" I asked.
    "I think it's exciting. And isn't he handsome."
    "That's right, you like older men, don't you." The look Arrow gave me convinced me to change the subject.
    After dinner we saw a sign in the lobby advertising a show to be held that evening in the hotel. It featured singing and dancing and, best of all, it was free. We agreed that this was a good chance to meet some people.
    ***
    "I suspect that this is a substitute for pub night," I said as Arrow and I slid into a bench seat of one of the long tables at a ninety-degree angle to the front of the large room. The room was filling up fast with whole families, and most of the men went and purchased drinks at the bar as soon as they were settled.
    "Elma told us about these get-togethers, remember?" Arrow said. "She used to sing here."
    "I guess nothing's changed. I'll get us a couple of pints."
    When I returned, a man was sitting next to Arrow on the bench and talking to her. He hadn't wasted any time. I looked around to see if he was there with anyone, but no wife or girlfriend was in evidence. He appeared to be in his thirties. His cheeks were redder than his thinning hair. I was glad to see that his waistline was expanding—not that I was feeling any jealousy.
    "Karl, this is Jock," Arrow said, as I put down the mugs.
    He reached in front of Arrow to shake my hand and said, "Glad to meet you, Karl."
    I replied in kind and asked, "Can I get you a drink?"
    For answer he lifted his own mug, which was half full. Before I could say anything more the room hushed. The emcee, another well-fed man whose name was Mackay, welcomed everybody and introduced the first singer, another Mackay.
    The young woman had a nice voice and I could picture Elma singing in her place, except that she made two of Elma. I said into Arrow's ear, "Is everybody here named Mackay?"
    She passed the question along to Jock, who laughed and shook his head, indicating that he was not.
    The traditional Scottish song received a rousing round of applause; I'm sure everybody in the room had learned the words while still in diapers. Ms. Mackay sang several others, on the mournful side, and was followed by more singers and some kilt-clad dancers.
    The small band struck up a tune that was a signal for members of the audience to get up and dance. They did a round dance that involved changing partners frequently. I was trying to figure out the steps when Jock asked Arrow to dance.
    I'm sure she had never done this dance before, but she picked it up fast and obviously enjoyed herself. Men glanced at her while pretending not to; women stared more openly, partly because she was the only dark-skinned person in the room and partly because she looked striking in her short curls and blue dress.
    After the song ended Arrow and Jock returned to the table and sat down. The three of us talked, half-shouting to be heard over the din of the crowd. We told Jock we were in the UK on business, without being too specific, and said that we had promised to attempt to look up some people for friends of ours. We bounced several names off him until he reacted to one.
    "Aye, Michael McTavish. He lives over by John O'Groats."
    Jock verified that his age was probably late forties. It appeared we had a hit.
    "Could you tell us how to get