Aces and Knaves

maroon silk handkerchief that matched his tie out of his lapel pocket and wiped his eyes with it. He took several deep breaths. Then he said, "I need your help."
    Hearing this was almost as surprising as seeing him cry; I couldn't remember when he had ever asked for my help. And I couldn't recover that rapidly from the roller coaster ride down caused by his crying without risking serious effects from g-forces.
    He looked at me, composed again, all signs of tears removed from his handsome face.
    "What can I help you with?" I croaked.
    "I don't like to interfere in the lives of my employees," he said, "but if they are having problems I want to give them assistance."
    Ah, the benevolent dictator.
    He paused, searching for words, something he didn't have to do very often. He asked, "Do you know who Ned Mackay is?" (He pronounced it Mack-eye.)
    "Yes, he's your number two. President and possible successor—if you ever retire. I met him once a long time ago."
    My father raised his eyebrows, perhaps surprised that I knew that much about Dionysus Corporation. But my words seemed to loosen his tongue. "Partly right, at least. I'm not convinced yet that he can run the show by himself. But he has been a good president—up to a few weeks ago. Lately, however, he's been acting strangely."
    "In what way?" I was struggling to fit myself into this scenario.
    "It first came to my attention because he recently exercised all the stock options in which he is currently vested. This isn't confidential information; it's common knowledge. In fact, because he's a corporate officer it may get reported in the Wall Street Journal as insider selling because he exercised in such a way that he bought and sold simultaneously so that he didn't have to put up any cash. I'm talking about thousands of shares."
    "And the stock is near its low for the year."
    "Not to mention the tax implications for exercising so many shares in one year." What I had said suddenly registered on his face. "I didn't know you followed the stock."
    "Just a guess." I'd better be careful or I might give away something about my real life. "Okay, so he's not the sharpest stock trader in the world. And I'm sure he has an accountant who handles his taxes. Exercising options when the stock is low doesn't by itself mean he's in trouble."
    "No, but there's more. Recently, he's been coming in late and leaving early. It's not like Ned; he usually works a minimum of 60 hours a week. Now, even when he's there he seems distracted. His eyes are red and he even fell asleep in one meeting, something he's never done before."
    "Maybe he's got a drinking problem."
    "No." My father shook his head, emphatically. "Ned never touches the stuff. Maybe a glass of wine once in a while—or a pint of beer. I know he comes from the home of Scotch whiskey, but I swear it's true. I've known him for 20 years."
    "How about drugs?"
    "Not everyone who was young in the sixties was on drugs."
    Case in point—my father. At least he had never admitted that he inhaled. "What do you think it is then?"
    "There's still more. My executive assistant was returning from a weekend in Palm Springs when she and her girlfriend decided to stop at that Indian casino beside I-10."
    "I know the one."
    "I'm sure you do. Anyway, they went in and were wandering around when she saw Ned at a blackjack table. She was going to say hello when she noticed what he was doing."
    "Standing on a soft 16?"
    "No." My father looked annoyed. "He had a table all to himself. He was playing five hands at a time, and betting a pile of chips on each one. He was very intense and didn't see her. She got close enough so that she could hear some of the conversation between him and the dealer. She thinks he was betting $500 on each hand."
    "How did he do?"
    It looked to her as if he lost several thousand dollars in the ten minutes or so she watched."
    "Poor capital preservation. And she never talked to him?"
    "No. She hightailed it out of there before he spotted her, but she was so shocked by what she saw that she told me about it first thing Monday morning."
    "Which was yesterday."
    "Yes."
    Again, my father showed signs of not being the master of the situation, but this time it was only a shadow passing over his face.
    What should I say? "It looks like Mr. Mackay may have a gambling problem."
    "That's what I'm afraid of."
    "Did you confront him with it?"
    "No." My father's sharp exhalation of breath sounded almost like a sigh. "That would look too much