Rachel rang Mason's doorbell at exactly nine. He finished smoothing out the knot in his tie before he opened the door.
'Man-O-Manishewitz!' Mason said.
Rachel swirled into the entry hall wearing a full-length mink coat. She slipped one arm effortlessly out of her coat, letting it slide down the other into a pile on the floor, revealing an off-the-shoulder, above-the-knee, black sheath that clung to her body as if she were born with it on. Hands on her hips, she bumped to the right, then grinded to the left, the light reflecting off the diamonds and gold on her wrist, ears, and neck.
'Am I not fabulous?'
'Fabulous doesn't come close. You're going to break every heart in the place. The men will die because they can't have you and the woman will hate you because they don't know they're the only ones with a chance.'
'Trust me. The right ones will know.'
'What? You have a secret handshake?'
'Can't tell you. That's what makes it a secret.'
'How do you afford all this glory on a reporter's salary?'
'I'm different.'
'Why? Because you're gay?'
'No, because I'm rich. Let's go.'
Casinos are built on the myth that luck lies in the next roll of the dice; the optimism that prosperity is in the next card and not just around the corner; and the greed of human beings dying to spend the rent money to cash in on something for nothing. Casinos sell euphemisms by the pound. Gambling is gaming. Blackjack dealers are buddies, and losers are high rollers.
But the house is not a home. Mason had represented a string of people who'd put their faith in hitting on sixteen and hit the skids instead. Some went home and beat their wives and kids. Some stole from their employers to cover their losses. Some went to liquor stores to buy something to make them forget, stealing it instead.
Mason didn't blame the casinos. They didn't round people up at gunpoint and make them empty their pockets. The casino owners, from the entrepreneurs like Ed Fiora to the shareholders of the publicly traded companies like Galaxy, knew there was a lot of money to be made in the stuff of dreams. Winning big was the American dream writ large.
The lobby of the Dream Casino was carpeted in deep red and gold, the walls papered in a soothing creamy shade, and the whole area lit by cascading floodlights. Above an arched entryway to the casino, images of demographically correct winners were plastered on the wall. Three couples-one white, one black, one Hispanic- were locked in ecstatic embraces as poker chips rained down on them. The casino's slogan made the point. 'Take a Chance! Make Your Dream Come True!'
Mason and Rachel joined the crowd of people thick with fur coats and jewels. Her eyes glittered more than her diamonds, and her red hair shimmered like woven rubies. He shook his head, mourning the loss of Rachel to heterosexual men, himself in particular.
Hidden fog machines spewed white clouds in the path of the partygoers, creating a mystical sensation as they entered the casino. They might not have been walking into a dream, but the effect was like passing into another world.
'Can you believe this?' Rachel asked Mason once they emerged from the clouds. 'It's a hundred and fifty thousand square feet; one of the biggest casino floors outside of Vegas and Atlantic City. Look at the people!'
Thousands were jammed hip to elbow as far as Mason could see. Rachel may have had an invitation, but judging from the crowd, everyone else in town had one too, except for him. The crowds around the tables were so deep that the players had disappeared from view. The only open areas were in the pits, where pit bosses patrolled under the watchful eyes of the hidden cameras that ran the length and width of the casino.
Every person who entered a casino was videotaped from the moment he or she arrived until the moment he or she left. The only places that cameras weren't allowed were the bathrooms, and security guards checked them on a regular basis.
Rachel said, 'I'm going to check my coat and wander. I'll meet you back here at midnight. Have fun.'
There was a bank of slot machines to his right, each one singing out its electronic siren call. Bells and whistles begged the players for more money. Women wearing thousand-dollar designer dresses sat on stools in front of the slots, padded gloves on their right hands to avoid calluses from pulling the handle, plastic buckets in their laps to collect their winnings, whooping and hollering as the slots paid off.
Mason plunged into the crowd. He nodded and smiled at a few familiar faces and pretended not to notice those who stared at him a little too much.
A woman planted herself in his path, her platinum hair piled as high as her dress was cut low. The breasts of a well-endowed twenty-year-old poured out of her gown, the rest of the woman a good thirty years older. He tried to look away, but the press of other bodies around them made it impossible.
'Got 'em for Christmas, so might as well unwrap 'em,' the woman told Mason as she cupped her hands under her breasts. Her speech was slurred and her stride was unsteady, her breasts the only things keeping her anchored.
'Deck the halls.'
'Deck this, sweetie,' she told him as she grasped his groin, laughed, and moved on to find her next grope.
Mason wedged himself into a blackjack table long enough to win two hundred dollars, giving up the chair before it turned cold. He sliced his way through the crowd until he reached a wall of private poker rooms. Tony Manzerio, wearing the largest tuxedo ever made, stepped out of the room to Mason's left, forcing the crowd to go around him and trapping Mason against the wall.
Mason's shirt collar lost a size when Tony flashed the gun tucked in the shoulder harness under his tux jacket and motioned Mason into the poker room.
'Need a fourth for bridge?' Mason asked.
'Move your ass, wise guy. Mr. Fiora wants to talk to you.'
'Lucky me. I didn't even have an appointment.'
Mason walked past Tony, straightening his jacket with a studied nonchalance. Tony shoved Mason between the shoulder blades. Mason spun around, ready to shove back.
'Hey,' Tony said with a shrug. 'Your collar was messed up. I was just straightening it.'
'Perfect. A hood with a sense of humor. Your mother must be so proud.'
Mason stepped inside the poker room as Tony closed the door behind him, staying outside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The room was six sided. A poker table in the same shape stood in the center, covered in green felt. Stacks of hundred-dollar chips surrounded a dealer's shoe filled with four decks of cards.
Ed Fiora was standing at the bar on the back wall. He was in his fifties, slicked-back hair, square chin, and a nose that had been broken more than once. He was skinny, not one intimidating muscle on his body. All his power and all his menace were in the two dead pools that passed for his eyes.
'So Tony found you.'
'Not easy in a crowd like that.'
'Not hard either. Video cameras picked you up when you came in with that bitch from the newspaper. What's her name? Rachel something?'
'Firestone. Rachel Firestone.'
'Yeah, Firestone. You banging that broad? I hear she don't dig guys.'
'If you're such a big fan of hers, why did you send her an invitation?'
'You think I made up the list? My PR people did that. They invited everyone with a pulse but you. You, I didn't invite.'
'I'd hire new PR people.'
Fiora measured him. 'You're a smart guy, aren't you? Tony says you're always wising off. Offended him. Made
