Joel Goldman - The last witness

Beth's reputation as an expert in ethics had brought her to the attention of the governor. When the previous chair of the gaming commission was convicted of accepting kickbacks, the governor turned to Beth to restore credibility to the commission. The license for the Dream Casino was the first major piece of business for the commission after she took over. Mason found it hard to believe that she had stepped over the line.

Mason had learned from Harry that it was much more effective to question a witness when he showed up unexpectedly. Rachel Firestone had proven the point earlier in the day.

He doubted that the ambush interview would work with the three people on his list. He'd have to cut through a layer of muscle to get next to Ed Fiora, and a regiment of bureaucrats guarded the mayor. He doubted that Beth Harrell had a gatekeeper, but he knew better than to just drop by. Even in law school, she demanded that students make an appointment to see her outside of class.

He called Fiora's office and was told that Mr. Fiora would be unavailable until the next millennium. The mayor's scheduling secretary said that he didn't have an opening until after his term expired. He left a message for Beth Harrell. She just didn't call him back.

Mason checked on Mickey Shanahan before leaving for the night. It was past eight and Mickey was behind the bar, giving directions to Pete Kirby's trio as they set up. Pete looked at Mickey like he was a blind man directing traffic. Mason decided to take a crack at Kirby's memory.

"Hey, Pete, how you doing, man?" Mason said.

Pete Kirby was short and squat, like a fireplug. He played the piano with the enthusiasm of a man whose natural rhythm was eight to the bar.

"Everything's cool, Louie, my boy. How's my man Blues?"

Kirby was the only person who called Mason Louie, a list Mason wasn't anxious to expand.

"He's doing fine, Pete. I understand you were playing Friday night when Jack Cullan came in."

"That's right, I was. Me and the boys wouldn't have stuck around since it was such a shitty night and the joint was empty, but we figured, what the hell, we'll play a set for Blues. Then Cullan comes in with this good-looking broad and the next thing I know, the two of them are playing Frankie and Johnnie."

"Blues tells me he busted up the fight."

"That he did. Blues grabbed that old man like he was gonna pile-drive the cat right into the goddamn ground. Don't pay to tussle in Blues's joint," Pete added with a deep laugh. "No, sir, it don't."

"I hear Cullan fought like a cat too. Scratched the hell out of Blues's hands."

Kirby tugged at the corner of his beret and stroked his goatee, measuring his response in a firm meter.

"Like I told the detective, I didn't see any of that. Now, you lookin' like your woman just run off with the drummer makes me wish maybe I had, but I just didn't see none of that. Sorry, Louie."

"Don't worry about it, Pete. It's not important," Mason said and left.

The parking lot behind the bar was covered in old asphalt that had given birth to potholes big enough to swallow women and children. Blues was an easygoing landlord who believed in deferred maintenance. Mason stepped around the craters, afraid that if he fell into one, no one would find him until spring.

His car was parked at the back of the lot; the front end aimed at the alley behind the bar. Though there was a curb between the lot and the street, Mason planned to ignore it. Otherwise, what was the point of driving a Jeep?

The wind had calmed from its all-day shriek to a steady howl strong enough to rake tears from the corners of Mason's eyes. Fine crystals of sleet tattooed his face like asteroid dust. Blues's deferred-maintenance program extended to the parking lot floodlights, which had been burned out since Thanksgiving. The lights were off in the building across the alley, and the sky had been buttoned down with blackout clouds. Moonlight couldn't have found its way to Mason's dark patch even if it had a GPS.

A pair of high-beam headlights opened up on him as he reached his Jeep, the lights coming from a car parked near his, the sound of its engine muffled by the wind. Heavy boots ground sand and salt into the pavement as a man bigger than Mason's Jeep stepped from the shadows.

"Car trouble?" Mason asked, still unable to make out the man's features.

When he didn't get an answer, Mason's internal wind chill hit bottom. His new best friend stepped in front of the headlights, casting a nightmare's silhouette. He was wearing a full-length topcoat and a fedora jammed low on his brow, which covered his face but not the frozen gray breath leaking from his mouth like poison gas.

Mason reached for his car door, hoping to put some steel between him and the man, but he was too slow. In the next instant, the man grabbed Mason and spun him around, pinning his face flush to the side of the Jeep, the frozen surface burning Mason's jaw.

Mason stiffened, trying to leverage his hands against the Jeep and drive his hips and back against the man, but the side of the Jeep was too slick and the man was too huge. He leaned in hard and close to Mason's face. The wet wool of his topcoat smelled like a dog left too long in the rain, and his breath tasted of coffee, cigarettes, and licorice.

"You get one chance, you understand that?" the man said.

"Right. Sure. One chance. That's easy enough."

"Your client's gonna get an offer. Make sure he takes it."

"What kind of offer?"

The man jammed his knee into the small of Mason's back, sending a paralyzing jolt through Mason's kidneys.

"The only offer that will keep him and you alive. Got that, smart boy?"

"Got it," Mason managed through clenched teeth.

The man released his grip and Mason crumpled to the pavement gasping for air. When he looked up, the man and the car were gone.

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?"