But Mt. San Jacinto has the advantage of the Palm Springs Tramway, gliding almost straight up to 8,500 feet. From there, the peak is a breathtaking but not arduous climb of five-and-a-half miles. I did it every year.
The speed limit here was 70. I eased up to 75 and was passed by little old retirees doing 90 in their Cadillacs. The huge statues of a Tyrannosaurus Rex and a Brontosaurus just off the Interstate at Cabazon told me I was almost there.
I exited I-10 at a sign for the casino, crossed over the freeway and coasted into the parking lot. Monday afternoon is not what I would consider prime gambling time, but judging from the number of cars in the huge lot not everybody agreed with me. I guess gamblers know no time limitations.
The sun was warm and friendly as I walked 100 yards to the casino. I felt sleepy from the drive, and the heat didn't alleviate this condition. I knew the casino would be air-conditioned and figured a blast of cold would wake me up.
What woke me even faster were the noise and the cigarette smoke. Arrow had been correct in her description; if anything, she had understated the case. I had forgotten how awful the environment was inside a casino.
Look on the bright side; at least I didn't have to work here like the ladies of indeterminate age, dyed hair and short skirts who served drinks to the fatties emptying their bank accounts into the slots, or the neatly dressed dealers and croupiers at the blackjack and craps tables who were being watched along with the patrons through one-way mirrors in the ceiling. James's pretend casino was superior to this in three respects: It didn't have the cigarette smoke, it didn't have the grating din of slot machines and the patrons were much better dressed.
I took a minute to orient myself and then moved over to the blackjack tables. The dealers were sliding the cards to the players along the green felt surfaces from shoes containing multiple decks. The players were betting their five-dollar chips and idly glancing at their cards, standing, taking hits, sometimes busting. Everybody looked supremely bored.
I quickly determined that there were no big-stakes games in progress. It was all small potatoes. I passed by some video-poker machines. I had been known to play video poker in my time, rationalizing that there was at least a modicum of skill to the game.
I stopped in front of a machine. The payoff for four-of-a-kind was 40-to-one. Once in Las Vegas I had taken a calculator and figured out that the best machines to play were the ones where the payoff was 80-to-one for four- of-a-kind, even though some of the other payoffs were lower. The strategy was to expend all one's effort on getting four-of-a-kind and hope to break even the rest of the time.
I had a few quarters in my pocket and was tempted to try my luck, anyway. What could happen? I knew what could happen. I could end up spending the day, hypnotized, shoving quarters into the slot. After an agonizing minute I walk away from the machines. Proud of myself, I found a casher's cage and waited while an old man in a wrinkled short-sleeved shirt exchanged a hundred-dollar bill for chips.
When the cashier was free I asked her if I could speak to the casino manager. She gave me a skeptical look and called to a man behind her, who was talking to another employee. When he came over she said, 'This guy says he wants to speak to the manager.'
The young man had black hair and was dressed in a black suit. He said through the bars, 'I'll be right with you.' He disappeared around a corner. A minute later he came through a doorway a few feet away. We approached each other and met in the middle.
He said, 'What can I do for you?'
'Are you the casino manager?' I asked.
'I'm one of the floor managers.'
That wasn't high enough. I only wanted to tell my story once. 'What's the name of the casino manager?' I asked.
He looked at me without expression and I wondered whether he was going to have me thrown out. Then he said, 'That's Charlie White. What's your business with him?'
I had to say something. I gave him my name and then said, 'Tell him I'm a friend of Ned Mackay.'
Ned's name meant zilch to him, judging by his continuing lack of expression. He said, 'Wait here,' and disappeared through the mysterious doorway.
After five minutes I figured I was on a hopeless quest. I would go back empty-handed. I least I had had the fun of the drive. Or maybe I would play some blackjack. I took out my wallet to count my money and didn't see the young man return.
I jumped when he said, 'Follow me.'
We went back through the doorway. The noise and the cigarette smoke disappeared as the door closed behind us. Here was plush. Plush carpets and plush offices. He led me to the door of the biggest office, stuck his head in and said, 'This is Mr. Patterson.' Then he left.
'Come in,' the man behind the large desk said.
He was middle-aged, with short black hair and a wrinkled face that could have modeled for Geronimo or Crazy Horse, but he wore a dark suit and smiled as he shook hands with me and introduced himself as Charlie White.
I gave him my full name and sat down across the desk from him, at his invitation. I was wondering how to begin when he said, 'So you're a friend of Ned Mackay. I was very sad to read about his death.'
That was as good a place to start as any. I told Mr. White that I had been with Ned that evening and filled in other details, including my suspicions that the cocaine had been planted.
Mr. White nodded at that. He said, 'I have known Ned for a long time. He was a good friend. He helped my people make the dream of this casino a reality. I owe him a lot. What can I do for you?' From the grim look on his face, it was probably just as well for the San Francisco criminal element that Indians no longer mounted raiding parties.
I explained my association with Dionysus and then said, 'One thing puzzles us about Ned's behavior before he died. A co-worker saw him in this casino one day betting large sums of money at the blackjack table-and losing. And yet, everything points to Ned not being much of a gambler.'
Mr. White looked at me for a few seconds and then his face lit up in a broad smile. He said, 'Let me tell you a story. Cigar?'
He opened a box of cigars, sitting on his desk, and offered me one. From the writing on the box I had the suspicion that they were contraband from Cuba. I declined, not for that reason. He selected one for himself, clipped off the end with a gizmo and lit it with a lighter, in an elaborate ceremony. He didn't ask whether I objected to him smoking.
Mr. White leaned back, took a luxurious puff, blew out the smoke and said, 'Ned called me one day and told me he had a problem. I would do anything for Ned so I asked him what his problem was. He told me he wanted to make it appear to somebody that he had lost a lot of money. Since people sometimes lose large amounts in casinos he wondered if I had any idea how he could do it.
''How much money do you want to lose?' I asked. 'Separating people from their money is our business.' 'Say, $50,000,' he said. 'Does this somebody you want to fool know how to play blackjack?' I asked. 'He is an expert at blackjack,' Ned said. 'Can you get your friend to come here?' I asked. He said he thought he could.
'I orchestrated the whole thing. I sent Ned an email detailing exactly what his strategy should be. I reserved a table exclusively for him and put my best dealer on it. When he arrived we went through an elaborate charade of giving him chips in exchange for his IOU.
'He played five hands simultaneously, $500 a hand. He hit all 16s and stood on all 17s. I even had him split aces and eights and double-down on ten and eleven so it wouldn't look as if he was deliberately losing.
'We calculated that he would lose ten to fifteen-thousand dollars an hour. In fact, he lost $50,000 in just under four hours.'
'Didn't the friend try to stop him?' I asked.
'He tried everything in the book. He pleaded, he cajoled, he got angry. Several times he walked out. Ned played his part perfectly. He kept saying, 'I just want to break even,' and 'just a few more hands.' Finally, I had my five minutes on stage when I told him that we wouldn't extend him any more credit-that he had lost too much. Ned yelled at me so realistically I even wondered for a minute if he had been smoking something-and not a peace pipe, either.'
'Do you remember the name of the other man?' I asked.
