Aces and Knaves

His da beat him when he received a bad report. Dickie came to James for help because James had the brains in our group. He received top grades without much effort.
    "The arrangement was that James would write some papers for Dickie and otherwise help him with his studies. Of course, Dickie had to play The Game first. He lost, but it was James who insisted he go through with his penalty on a stormy day, not Ned. In defense of James, he always kept his promises and he expected others to do the same."
    Mr. Zeebarth paused, took a long drink of beer and said, almost as an afterthought, "It amused James to play games with other peoples' lives."
    We chatted some more about James and Ned and the others, but Mr. Zeebarth didn't say anything else that was earthshaking.
    When I suggested another round of drinks, he looked at his watch and said, "Not for me. I have to be at work in something over an hour, in a reasonably sober state since I work in a hospital. But we have time for a game of darts."
    "I've never played darts," Arrow said.
    "It should be an easy game for a lass as coordinated as you," Mr. Zeebarth said. "I'll show you."
    I had never played darts, either, but it was obvious I wasn't going to receive individual instruction like Arrow. Mr. Zeebarth very carefully helped position her body and then showed her how to hold the dart lightly between thumb and forefinger and guide it with her third finger. He pulled her arm back to her ear, and told her how to aim and release the dart in an economical overhand throw for maximum accuracy.
    He was so solicitous of her that it made me want to barf. And she soaked it up. Everybody was getting along better with Arrow than I was.
    Naturally, she beat me.
    While we played, the talk turned to the Internet. Mr. Zeebarth said that the owner of the pub had Internet access. Half-jokingly, I wondered aloud whether he would let me check my email. Mr. Zeebarth asked him and next thing I knew I was sitting in his office in front of a monitor.
    I read several routine messages. Then came the shocker: a message from eBay to the effect that I was the winner of the T-206 Wagner baseball card, with a bid of just over $380,000. I hadn't thought about that card since leaving the US. Now what should I do?
    I read the next message. It was from the seller of the card, congratulating me, telling me the amount of the postage and where to send a check. I had to stall him. I quickly typed a response to the effect that I was out of the country and would mail him a check in a few days.
    If I reneged, that information would be all over the Internet and my baseball card business would go down the tubes. Nobody would deal with me again.
    My face gave me away when I returned to the darts game. Arrow asked me if I had a problem. "Not if you happen to have several hundred thousand dollars you can lend me," I said.

    Chapter 25 WINNER
    The next day we raced the sun back to Los Angeles and arrived only two hours after we started, local time. The route took us over the whiteness of Iceland and Greenland. Mini-icebergs floated in the bays and snow covered the land, with no relief from the starkness and cold.
    In spite of being punchy after a ten-hour flight I was determined to call James Buchanan as soon as I got home. I had to come up with the money for the baseball card, but I couldn't afford to be obligated to him, especially since he was the enemy. Maybe he would just take the card, himself, and resell it. He could probably make a quick profit and he was, after all, in the business of making money. I clung to that hope as the airport shuttle deposited me at the gate of the castle.
    Before I called James I went to check on my father. He was dressed and sitting downstairs, reading some reports. He looked fairly good, except for a few new wrinkles and more gray hair. He also looked as if he had shrunk. The bones in his face were more prominent and I was sure he had lost weight.
    I didn't tell him any specifics about our trip; Arrow would be coming tomorrow to give him a briefing. I considered asking him to lend me $380,000, but rejected the idea. Whatever credibility I had gained with him during the last two weeks would be lost—and more.
    Enough stalling; I had to make the call before the business day ended. A young man answered the phone, as I expected. He said Mr. Buchanan was out of town. Damn! This couldn't wait. Every day I delayed in sending the check lowered my credit rating with the buyer—and everybody