Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“What qualifies for a good excuse other than the truth?”

“For you, getting killed; for me, getting laid.”

“I’ll take your lie over mine. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you about it if and when I can, but that’s not today. I need to talk to Carol as soon as possible. You name the time and place and I’ll be there.”

“I don’t know what’s going on here, Mason, but you’re going to have to tell me. Frankly, I didn’t mind that you didn’t show up since I had an appointment with my personal trainer, but Carol went nuts. She wants to talk to you and I mean now.”

“I’m ready. Where? Your office?”

“No, and not at your office either. She wants to meet you at the Galaxy.”

“The casino? Why?”

“Not the casino. The hotel next to the casino. Room 1201. She’s waiting for you.”

“Are you going to be there?”

“Are you kidding? I’d have to get killed and laid before I’d let you talk to her alone,” Bongiovanni said.

Gambling in Missouri was one of the all-time great public relations coups. Promoters promised quaint two-hour riverboat cruises with five-hundred-dollar loss limits. The voters said bring it on and the gaming companies did, transforming riverboats into permanently anchored barges of a hundred thousand square feet or more accommodating casinos rivaling those on any river or reservation in America. Time and loss limits gave way to billboards bragging about which casino had the loosest slots, each ad including a toll-free number for a gambling addiction hotline, written in microscopic print not meant to be read.

The slots were tight enough to finance hotels next door on dry land, the casinos improving on the Field of Dreams prophecy with their own-if you build it, they will come, even if you take their money. Mason had been to the casino when it was owned by Ed Fiori and called the Dream. He hadn’t been back since Galaxy Gaming took it over and he’d never been to the hotel that adjoined the casino. It continued the Galaxy theme, splashing glitter-covered stars and other celestial bodies throughout, tempting customers to blast off.

When Mason arrived, the lobby was packed with a senior citizen group checking out after a weekend extravaganza. Mason couldn’t tell the blue-haired winners from the gray-haired losers. He wound his way through them, finding the elevator and taking it to the twelfth floor.

He assumed that Johnny Keegan’s murder had hit Carol Hill harder than Charles Rockley’s, especially after his warning to Bongiovanni that Mark Hill was a prime suspect and Carol a potential target. His warning must have prompted her to move out of the house and into the hotel.

Mason wondered whether Carol knew why Keegan had Mason’s name in the palm of his hand when he died, but the timing of Keegan’s death made that doubtful. Mason and Blues had braced her husband at the bar in Fairfax just after six o’clock on Friday evening. Dennis Brewer, the FBI agent, and his buddies were working Hill over when Mason and Blues left the parking lot of the bar. Bongiovanni got his tip that Rockley was the dead man in Fish’s trunk at around seven. He was waiting for Mason at Blues on Broadway a little over an hour later. Keegan was gunned down sometime after he got off work at eight while Bongiovanni and Mason were talking. The cops told Mason about Keegan at midnight and Mason broke the news to Bongiovanni after the cops left. Mason couldn’t find any point in that time line for Carol Hill to connect him to Johnny Keegan.

Room service trays stacked with dirty dishes and unclaimed copies of USA Today littered the hallway floor as Mason counted down room numbers, finding 1201 in an alcove at the end of the corridor. He knocked once and Bongiovanni opened the door, looked down the hall as if he was checking for anyone who might have seen Mason, then motioned him inside.

Room 1201 was a suite with a large living room, a mini-kitchen, and a bedroom separated from the rest by French doors. Carol stood at the living room window overlooking the casino and the Missouri River, dressed in a bathrobe, a towel around her head and a cigarette jammed in the corner of her mouth. A king-size bed was visible through the open French doors, the linens tossed as if Carol had slept either poorly or with a friend. It was a high roller’s hangout, the kind the casino would use to reward guests with a track record for dropping big bucks. It was too rich for a blackjack dealer on leave for emotional distress.

“Lou Mason, say hello to Carol Hill,” Bongiovanni said.

The morning sun broke against the window, the glare obscuring her features. She stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray and met him in the center of the room, her hand trembling when she shook his. Fruit-scented soap and shampoo mixed with tobacco smoke in a sweet but trashy off-balance fragrance. Just out of the shower, her skin was pale and a bit rough, the kind of complexion that did better with makeup. Her mouth was small, and he thought her upper lip had been shot full of collagen until he realized it was swollen and that the dark yellow ring round her left eye was man-made. She was wearing a bulky white terry cloth robe that blunted her figure, though she moved enough beneath it that he could tell it was the only thing she was wearing. Stripped, scrubbed, and beat up, she was barely holding herself together. Mason was ready to award her damages for emotional distress, though he wasn’t certain who was liable.

“I’m sorry about standing you up twice on Saturday,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she said in a whisper, clearing her throat. “Gotta quit smoking,” she said, coughing again.

“Get dressed, honey,” Bongiovanni said. “I’ll keep Mason company.”

Carol nodded and closed the French doors behind her. Bongiovanni sat on an overstuffed couch, put his feet up on the coffee table, and gestured Mason to a chair.

“Nice digs,” Mason said. “If this is a Galaxy employee benefit, tell me where to apply.”

“Try inheritance. Ed Fiori was my uncle. Carol’s too. We’re first cousins. Our mothers were Ed’s sisters. He owned the casino and the hotel, but you knew that.”

Mason did know that. What he didn’t know was whether Fiori had been close enough to Bongiovanni to have shared the story about Mason and Judge Carter. Fiori had been a little bent but not enough that he couldn’t get a gaming license. Mason had never known who Fiori’s lawyers were, but it made sense that he’d consult his nephew the lawyer even about things that were outside Bongiovanni’s practice. Keeping things in the family was another way of keeping things quiet.

“I did know that.”

“You were there when he was killed, if I remember right.”

“I was,” Mason said, not interested in talking about the details. “I’m sorry.”

Bongiovanni waved his hand at Mason. “Hey, don’t be sorry. You didn’t kill him and the bastard that did is dead. Shit happens. But, I’ll tell you what. There was a hell of a mess after he died. Soon as I heard, I raced down to the boat to secure his office before the cops showed up. I didn’t know everything Ed was into, but I didn’t want the cops to find out first. Found lots of interesting stuff. He even had one of those secret tape-recording setups, just like every president since Kennedy.”

Mason studied Bongiovanni, trying to decide if Bongiovanni was playing with him, dangling a baited hook. If Bongiovanni had the tape, he wouldn’t use it to blackmail Judge Carter to rule against his own client, especially since Carol was his cousin. Still, Mason thought he detected a glint in Bongiovanni’s eyes and a curl at the corners of his mouth like he knew what he was doing and was enjoying it. Mason refused to bite, changing the subject instead.