CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mason crawled out of bed Friday morning feeling as if he'd slept in the middle of a rugby scrum. The blow he'd taken to his back had scrambled his internal organs and hardened his soft tissue. He was relieved that there was no blood in his urine. His kidneys had been shaken but not stirred.
Ed Fiora was the only person Mason knew who had been involved with Jack Cullan and had a charge account at Thugs R Us. When Mason called the Dream Casino the day before and asked for Fiora, his call was transferred to an enthusiastic telemarketer named Dawn.
'This is Dawn. May I make your dream come true today?'
Mason had told her, 'Absolutely, Dawn. Just connect me to Ed Fiora.'
'We have a fabulous special offer today. I can sign you up for the Dream Casino's free Super Slot Ultra-Gold New Millennium Frequent Player Bonus Point card. It's personal and confidential.'
'So is my business with Mr. Fiora.'
'Just swipe your card through the card reader on any of the Dream's fabulous slot machines, and each time you pull the handle, you'll receive, absolutely free, ten bonus points. You can redeem your bonus points for fabulous prizes, beginning with two nights at the Dream's Riverboat Casino Resort in Lake Winston, Mississippi, for only twenty-five thousand points. Isn't that fabulous?'
'No, Dawn, it isn't. Fabulous would be not spending two minutes in Lake Winston, Mississippi. Fabulous would be you putting down your script, listening to me, and connecting me to Mr. Fiora. That would be really fabulous.'
Dawn sputtered into the phone, caught somewhere between tears and ticked off. 'One moment, please.'
The next voice Mason heard was all New Jersey bent nose. 'Sir, do we have a problem here?'
'Who's this? One of Frank Nitti's boys?'
'This is Carmine Nucci, guest relations. Who the fuck is this?'
'You're making that up, aren't you, Carmine? I mean your name's not really Carmine and the accent is phony. This is like part of the entertainment. Am I right?'
Mason was certain that none of it was made up. Not Dawn. Not the bonus points, and not the threat laced through Carmine's voice like battery acid.
'Hey, pal. You want to make jokes, call Comedy Central. You want an Ultra-Gold slot card, we'll give you one. You want to bust my girl's chops, I'll stick this phone up your ass you come around here.'
'How many bonus points is that?' Mason asked, hanging up before Carmine could reply.
Mason called back, this time asking for the business office, identifying himself as a lawyer, and asking to speak with Mr. Fiora concerning a criminal matter. Three underlings later, none of whom sounded as if they'd ever left Nebraska, Mason spoke with a woman whose name was Margaret who said she was an assistant to Mr. Fiora.
'My name is Lou Mason. I'm an attorney. It's very important that I speak with Mr. Fiora about a criminal matter.'
'May I tell Mr. Fiora what the nature of the matter is?'
Mason couldn't tolerate people who didn't take their own calls, who hired other people just to answer the phone calls transferred to them by other people who'd been hired for the same purpose, only to ask the caller the nature of the matter. He pictured Margaret sitting at her computer, scrolling down the list of criminal matters that would be worthy of Ed Fiora's attention.
'You may tell Mr. Fiora that the nature of the matter is the murder of his lawyer, Jack Cullan, and what he might know about it.'
'I see,' Margaret said with more disappointment in Mason than concern for her boss. 'I see,' she repeated as if the words had cured her astigmatism.
'So, if you'll just connect me to Mr. Fiora, I'm sure he'll want to talk with me.'
'Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Mason, Mr. Fiora is not available.'
'And when will he be available, Margaret?'
'I don't believe that he will ever be available, Mr. Mason. I'm so sorry.'
'Margaret, you aren't even close to sorry. You aren't in the same zip code as sorry. Sorry would be that Mr. Fiora had a terrible accident on the way to the office, was rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery, but can work me in this afternoon. That would be sorry. This is just a mistake. A big mistake. You tell Mr. Fiora I said so.'
'If you insist, Mr. Mason.'
Mason replayed his conversations with Dawn, Carmine, and Margaret as he settled into his rowing machine and slowly began easing the kinks out of his back. He set the digital readout for ten thousand meters and gradually lost himself in the soothing repetitions of the stroke.
The seat slid backward with each leg drive and rode forward with each pull of his upper body. He imagined that he was sculling downriver, the ripple of his lean wake cutting the water as he slipped unnoticed through the morning's enveloping mist.
A quick look around reminded Mason that he was in the middle of his dining room and that his rowing machine occupied the space that had been home to a table that seated eight. Not long ago, the Kansas City auxiliary of the Chicago mob had reduced the table, the chairs, and the rest of his worldly possessions to a pile of broken legs, glass, and splinters. It was their way of saying he shouldn't have taken work home from his last law firm, Sullivan amp; Christenson.
Mason lived on the money his homeowner's insurance company paid for the loss of his personal possessions, using part of it to pay the expenses for his childhood friend Tommy Douchant's lawsuit. By the time Mason settled Tommy's case and could afford to refurnish the house, he didn't want to. Instead, he bought only the things he needed, which turned out to be the only things he wanted.
He finished his row. The mist, the lake, and the ache in his body were gone. 'Plan your row and row your plan' was the rower's creed. He hadn't followed that simple rule when he tried to reach Ed Fiora. Instead, he'd smart-assed his way into a one-punch knockdown that underscored what to expect if he insisted on not getting the message.
After downing a bottle of Gatorade, he went outside for the morning paper. The wind had moved on to punish some other part of the country. A light cover of snow crunched under his feet. The subzero air was bracing. His dog, Tuffy, a German shepherd-collie mixed breed, joined him on the short walk to the end of his driveway. Her blond and black German shepherd colors were layered through her winter coat in a collie's pattern, complete with a pure white thatch under her chin.
Tuffy raced through the front yard, nose to the ground, sniffing for anything interesting. She found nothing and followed Mason back into the house, where the phone was ringing.
'Hello.'
'It's Rachel Firestone. What did you think of my story?'
'What story?'
'Don't tell me you don't get the paper. The story is on the front page, above the fold.'
'I just brought the paper in,' he said. 'Give me a minute.'
Rachel's story recited Judge Pistone's refusal to grant bail to Blues and Mason's implied charge that unknown persons were applying pressure to get either a conviction or a plea bargain that would close the case of Jack Cullan's murder as soon as possible. It tied Ed Fiora, Mayor Sunshine, and Beth Harrell into a tight circle around Cullan's body and speculated aloud whether any of them would cooperate with Lou Mason in his defense of Wilson Bluestone, Jr., against a first-degree murder charge and possible death penalty. Fiora, the mayor, and Beth Harrell declined to comment.
'You left out one thing,' he told her.
'What?'
'Off the record.'
'Fine, fine. What?'
'I think Fiora commented privately,' he said, telling her about his parking lot encounter.
'Holy shit! Did you call the cops?'
