him think you weren't listening.'
'Is that why he's standing guard outside the door? To make sure I listen?'
Fiora poured himself a drink and took a sip, waving one hand at the door. 'And to make sure nobody bothers us.'
'He's a multitasking marvel.'
'You don't give up, do you?'
'I don't respond well to structure. What do you want?'
'I thought you were the one who wanted to ask me questions.'
'You'll just lie to me. I'll wait until you're under oath. Then I'll let you commit perjury.'
'Perjury! Bullshit! I got nothing to lie about.'
'Then why are you trying so hard to make my client plead guilty to something he didn't do?'
'Who says he didn't do it? Him? You? So what? He should take the deal the DA offered him. Everybody will be better off. Including you. Did you explain that to your client?'
'He wasn't moved. He figures if you kill me, he won't have to pay my bill.'
'You keep up the jokes, Mason. Just remember all the laughs when it's over.'
'What makes you think Jack Cullan's files will stay hidden just because my client pleads guilty? If those files are so valuable, someone will find them. Then what will you do?'
Fiora set his drink on the bar and walked slowly around the table until he was nearly on top of Mason. Fiora gave up more than half a foot and thirty pounds to Mason, but standing in front of him, eyes blazing, Fiora couldn't have cared less. He knew, as did Blues, that violence leveled all kinds of playing fields.
'Any motherfucker digs up dirt on me, I'll bury him with it. You got that?'
Mason was tired of being pushed and pulled by cops, politicians, and thugs.
'Sure. Now I've got news for you. Any motherfucker who threatens me, my client, or my dog better have more than an ape guarding his door. You got that?'
Fiora ran his tongue over his lips, pushed it around the inside of his mouth, and reached his hand inside his tux jacket. He pulled out a gun and rested the end of the barrel on Mason's chest.
'You got more balls than sense.'
'Helps in my line of work.' Mason pushed the gun away. 'Happy New Year.'
He opened the door and tapped Tony on the shoulder. Tony turned sideways so he could see his boss. Fiora nodded and Tony stepped aside for Mason.
'Hey, Mason. You find those files, come see me. We'll do some business.'
'I don't think so.'
'Don't be stupid. You'll live longer.'
'Doing business with you? Not likely,' Mason said, and headed back into the crowd.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Mason retreated to one of the many bars that ringed the gaming tables, ordered a beer, and watched the crowd from his stool. He added Fiora's name to the list of people who wanted him to find Cullan's files for them. He could live with the deals he'd made with Rachel Firestone and Amy White but wasn't willing to bet his life on a deal with Fiora.
A band of cheerleaders surrounding a craps table screeched as someone ran a hot streak even hotter. The shooter was the celebrity of the moment, mistaking a statistical anomaly for good looks, charm, and wit. Anything was possible while the dice were hot. A collective moan rose from the hangers-on and side betters when the shooter shot craps. His last reward was a few claps on the back as people shifted their loyalties and hopes to the next shooter, welcoming him with a joy and rapture usually reserved for tent meetings.
Mason caught a glimpse of Rachel now and then. Once she was taking her turn at rolling the dice, basking in the instant adoration of her own good luck. Not long after, he saw her huddled with another woman, a lanky brunette in a black pantsuit and open tuxedo shirt, sharing full-throated laughs and long looks. Mason had assumed that she was on the prowl for a story, not companionship. Instead, he realized, she was using the night to lose herself in the anonymity of the crowd and give free rein to impulse. Tomorrow, no one would remember.
Just after eleven thirty, Billy Sunshine arrived and began working the crowd. Amy White hung at his side, whispering the names of contributors who sought him out. She scanned the crowd, looking for opportunities or trouble. Her eyes caught Mason's for a moment, and her calculus was quick as she steered the mayor in the opposite direction. Mason tipped his bottle toward her in a small salute, acknowledging her good call. If she saw his gesture, she ignored it.
Thousands of balloons were gathered in nets suspended from the cavernous ceiling. Confetti cannons were aimed in a crossfire pattern to blanket the crowd. Scoreboard-sized digital clocks were mounted throughout the casino, counting the final minutes until midnight down to the tenth of a second.
Two of the clocks were visible from the bar. A drunken duo sitting next to Mason were arguing whether one clock was faster, settling the argument with a twenty-dollar bet on which would strike twelve first.
Mason set his bottle on the bar and turned to the two gamblers, who were studying the competing clocks with watery-eyed concentration.
'Hey. I saw a clock on the other side of the casino next to the roulette wheels that was a minute ahead of those two.'
'No shit?' they asked in unison.
'No shit. There's a guy standing under it giving five-to-one odds that it hits midnight first.'
'Damn,' they said, and left their unfinished drinks to cash in on Mason's tip.
The bar was near the back of the casino. Mason decided to make his way to the front to be certain he was there at midnight to meet Rachel. He stood and waited a moment, trying to get his bearings. The casino was designed to obliterate all points of reference except for the tables and slots. There were no windows and, except on New Year's Eve, no clocks.
The noise level was rising to near deafening. Slot machines trumpeted new winners with bleating air horns. Piped-in music throbbed overhead with an orgasmic Latin beat. The craps tables erupted in roars as one good throw followed another. Even the blackjack players, notorious for their semicomatose poker faces, were high-fiving one another. The joint was jumping.
A sliver of the crowd parted in front of Mason as a woman cut through their ranks. People peeled away from her path as if she pushed them aside, or so it seemed to Mason, when he recognized her.
Beth Harrell, clad in a shimmering silver gown cut halfway to her waist, her head thrown back, was walking toward him. She was holding a mink coat over her shoulder, a string of lustrous pearls roped around her neck, a sly smile creeping across her face. He didn't move.
'Happy New Year, Lou,' she said.
'I'm counting on that.'
They stood for a moment, inches apart. She was probing. He was wondering. In a room of stunning women, she could have stopped the clocks with a single look. She handed him her coat, turned her back, and pressed herself against him as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. The sensation of the fur and her body against his was electric.
Beth faced him again, closer than before. Her perfume was heady. 'Walk with me.'
He followed her through an exit onto the outer deck. Heaters mounted along the wall glowed red, cutting the night's chill as they made their way along the dimly lit deck.
'Some riverboat,' Mason said.
Beth laughed. 'It's a barge permanently docked in a moat filled with water from the Missouri River. If the state legislature says it's a riverboat, that's good enough for me.'
'And me.'
She slipped her arm through his as naturally as if they'd been doing it all their lives. 'I didn't expect to see you here.'
'Into the belly of the beast. Ed Fiora wouldn't return my phone calls, so I decided to come see him.'
